From the inconspicuous motte and bailey of the Normans, through medieval fortified dwellings to the grand palaces of later centuries,
the castle has been a feature in British landscapes for the past thousand years. And in the history of literature that castle has morphed also, shrunken and expanded into a myriad dwellings, mansions, country cottages, to modernist, modest flats. But this blog concerns
the castle, that delicious, brooding, isolated edifice, anthropomorphic entrance with slitted window eyes and portcullis teeth, rising to a zillion spired turrets, useful for hanging out the pennants in times of war and the castle laundry in quieter days. However, such real estate is rather pricey, both to purchase and to maintain, which is why the
best castles live in the pages of literature, in romantic tales of brave knights and lovely maidens. Free of plumbing and glazing issues, these graceful figures are free to meet on moonlit battlements, to fall in love and out again, to escape the tyranny of despots, to drink, dance, laugh, cry and finally, marry and produce the next generation of knights and maidens. Ah, where would literature have been without the castle! I retreat to my modern, modest pad and urge you all to follow the link to my newly-published volume
Wicked Uncles and Haunted Cellars: What The Gothic Heroine Tells Us Today
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