Back in 2010 (I can't believe it was that long ago) I entered a short story for a competition in my home town. It had a word limit and had to be on the theme of the town itself, and I won first prize (shared). I thought before I shared my next set of photos for the inspiration for another of my books, I'd share this story with you.
Molly loved sightseeing, but she was now content to sit on the bench in the hot sun, to rest after our lunch. I decided to explore the ruin of the Norman house; unusual because it was built of stone and one of the few remaining examples of domestic architecture, or so the tourist information leaflet said.
I walked through the entrance and immediately came to a standstill. Where was the sunshine? It was so dingy in here. My eyes adjusted, there were a couple of torches in holders on the walls, their flames giving off enough light to enable me to look round. There were barrels everywhere and a ceiling above my head. What was going on? I could hear footsteps above me. I moved cautiously to the stone staircase and started climbing; my heart racing.
I peered round the corner. The room was so bright in comparison to the one I had just left, that it was hard for me to see again. Along one wall a large fireplace held a blazing fire; the logs spitting and roaring as they burst into flames. Light filtered through a decorated window casting magical colours and patterns onto the stone walls.
I took a deep breath, mustering courage to step into the room so I could see whoever was in there. I started to shake. The trembling became worse…
“George. George. Don't you fall asleep.”
I became aware of Molly’s voice at the same time as I realised that she was shaking my arm.
“Come on. I want to see the Priory, it’s supposed to be the longest parish church in England,” she told me.
She put away her guidebook and I risked a glance at the Norman house. No roof. I laughed at myself, at the need I’d had to check. What did I expect to see?
“Come on then, love,” I said, getting up, my bones creaking from sitting on the hard bench.
We walked past the figures clad in white, preparing for an afternoon of bowls, and out onto the street; where we got swallowed up in the throng of people, some rushing anxious to get their shopping done so they could return home or back to work. Others, tourists like us, ambling along taking in the sights.
I hope you enjoyed this little slice of Christchurch history, even if told through a fictional story.
Join me next time for more photo inspiration,
Keep reading,
Marie