Castles, Banquets, and Pottos

One of my biggest regrets in life is not applying for Oxford or Cambridge University. I'm now fully convinced I would have found my people there, instead of the hardships I encountered at Essex. Perhaps it's a bit pathetic to still be dwelling on this at the ripe age of 40, but the soul wants what the soul wants! We can't change the past, we can only dream. 

In my dreams, I was having a second chance at higher education, at an all boy's university somewhere between the aforementioned heavy hitters. The campus was based in a castle in the woods, accommodating both classes and dormatories. Hogwarts style. Every morning and evening, a horse drawn carriage took students from the chateaux to a lavish outdoor banqueting area where a fully staffed catering team cooked up a delicious feast. No more instant noodles scraped together from a filthy kitchen filled with unwashed crockery, no more food poisoning from dodgy campus eateries. This was luxury wining and dining every day beneath a twinkling canopy of fairylights.

After eating and drinking to our hearts' content, we were free to roam the grounds and socialise before being carted back to the castle. Those who missed the last carriage back were only slightly inconvenienced by a ten minute stroll through the forest as the sun set. I was able to jump onto the last transport, which for some reason became a motorbike driven by a porter. As we whizzed through the trees, I caught sight of glowing eyes amongst the foliage, and glimpsed the stocky bodies of pottos ambling about their business. The porter told us they lived in the castle grounds, but were shy and kept out of sight. I resolved to organise a nature watching expedition at some point.

Back at the castle, I was conducted to my room on one of the upper levels. The castle was splendidly furnished, with plush rugs covering the flagstone floors. There were huge arcane looking spellbooks lying around, as well as gargoyle statues and ornate foundations. In my chamber, I was irked to discover that I would be sharing it with someone who is a bit of a waste of space. Never mind, one couldn't have it all, and one unpleasant room-mate was always going to be better than sixteen! I claimed my bed and began unpacking my things, excited to begin exploring my new digs for the upcoming year. Unfortunately my memory grows hazy at this point, as the dream was several nights ago.

Bird House

I was living with my family and my parents and sisters in a big house in the mountains, surrounded on all sides by spectacular views. The best view of all was in my parent’s bedroom, with huge double windows that opened out onto a mountain vista. You could see sharp blue sky, a snow-peaked mountain, and all kinds of birds. I watched with my parents as peregrine falcons swooped onto alpine marmots. The marmots twisted and struggled in their talons. Other birds appeared on the scene, excited by the commotion. There were gannets, vultures, herons, and even a spoonbill.

All of a sudden, many of the birds decided to fly into the bedroom through the open window, including a large Ruppell’s griffon vulture which crashed onto the floor. I helped my parents usher most of them back outside, but the vulture refused to budge. It began speaking in a woman’s voice, asking if it could stay for a while until its broken wing healed. I shouted to my daughter to make a nesting box for it. Nobody seemed particularly shocked that the bird could speak.

Then there were great rolling waves from the lake lapping at the window, and water sloshed inside. I told my father to close the window but it was too late, and now we had fish coming into the room. A pufferfish lay deflated on the bed, and I stopped my mother from picking it up just before it inflated and pricked her hand. She wore a thick gardening glove, but I insisted it wouldn’t be enough to protect her from its poison spines. I called my wife and daughter up several times to see what was happening. Neither of them were interested.

Return to the Ghost House

Another year, another dream about returning to live at No. 29 in Looseleigh. I'm going to start running out of ideas for blog post titles if this keeps up. 

My family and I had made the monumental decision to sell our house in Cooksbridge and move to my childhood home in Plymouth. Yes, the haunted one. It was a big move for us all, our daughter especially who would be leaving her friends and starting a new school. I hadn't even told my work that I was leaving. There was some strange plot about a foster child and another man on the scene, but it's too muddled in my memory to write down, so I'll exclude that.

Back we were in the old house, our boxes around us, the old rooms unfamiliar yet reminiscent of the past life. Before we moved in properly, we met a gang of very friendly teenagers in the street and lamented the loss of the gorge, an area of trees on the estate where I used to play hide and seek, or create dens as a child. We visited the local town with the teenagers and hit up the restaurants, seeing everything that had changed during the intervening years. It was a nice evening, mooching around bakeries and bars.

Then it was home to begin unpacking, and deciding how the rooms would be used. The house was much smaller than we were used to, with no space for a designated study. I was dismayed to discover that much of the wallpaper in the master bedroom was peeling off, great baggy chunks unfurling from the walls and hanging loose. The entire top half of the walls had been completely scoured of it. It would be difficult to begin a fresh start with the house in such disarray. There was also the matter of the ghost to consider, and to find out if it still haunted the premises or had moved on. I thought I heard a small child's cry coming from the bedroom, but it might have been my imagination. 

Downstairs in the living room, I looked out of the bay window to see that the street had flooded and water had lapped all the way up to our house. From the woods, I saw the rangy form of a brown bear loping into the flood stream. It was joined by another, and they began fighting in the water, very close to our front door, seemingly oblivious to the human habitations around them. I called my family over to look, amazed to see bears in a UK town, and feeling that perhaps this move wasn't such a bad idea after all.