dissident

A morning visit to Bolton Castle, in the Yorkshire Dales.

The castle, nestled in Wensleydale amongst grazing sheep.


Built in the late fourteenth century by the Barons Scrope.


It is perhaps best known for housing Mary, Queen of Scots
after her abdication and flight into England, from 1568-69.


It features a magical view across the Dales.


And is mostly in a ruined, roofless state.


Inner Courtyard.


In the shadow of the castle walls...


Wherever those walls were.


Yes, it was a strain on her, watching her castles fall down.


In this land or in that land, well the castles all seem to belong to her.


The horses are coming, so you'd better run.


Drink, to all that we have lost.


{We all spend a little while going down the rabbit hole.}


"Is it true," she said, "that England is like a dream ?"


So strange and so surreal, that a ghost should be so practical.


And the only solution was to stand and fight.


Floating fireplaces and forgotten doors.


There is no fire burning.


Escape is never the safest place.


Chapel.


But then again, there was a window.


You know, it's just an illusion.


Into the intact portion of the castle, where Queen Mary was held.


The Solar.


Nursery.


Just guessing, numbers and figures.


The Great Hall.




Bedchamber/Prison of Mary, Queen of Scots.


Rock on, ancient queen. Follow those who pale in your shadows.


Lord Scrope's Bedchamber.


Up on the battlements.


The sun in the clouds and the flag of St. George.


The view over windy Wensleydale.


In this land or in that land.


Bolton Castle parish church.


Bolton Castle sheep.

And liddle lamzy divey.
xx