Keep

By Maxim Griffin.

The keep looks fabulous in the spring sun – red, bigger than you recall, redder even – a little head bobs and waves from the crenellations – everyone waves back – crossing the threshold of the property involves a sequence of transactions – Hello, hello, right there’s five of you, here’s a map – yes, just through there – a child asks if there is a dungeon and implies their intentions to recreate the scene in a Minecraft world – there’s a store room underground – this is good enough – just through the gatehouse to buy tickets – awesome, cheers, thank you – twenty pounds are exchanged for entry – the office for tickets also sells wooden swords and ice creams – the child of another parent has donned a plastic helm from the rack of knightly things and demands it for their own – an angry six-year-old chops at phantoms with a mock falchion – this way please – children roar their terrible roars and charge over gravel and grass – the rule of havoc is in play – the castle is ours.

The keep is 15th century – brick rather than stone – Tudor associations – an Edwardian do-gooder repaired and rebuilt it – it isn’t clear if what you are looking at is original or an early 20th century interpretation – it was never a fortress anyway – a manor house with aspirations – as though it were one of those big houses at the edges of towns, you know the sort – new builds with battlements owned by bookies and landlords – vulgar – that is what this castle is – vulgar – the thought that follows is one of the exploitation of the working classes by those with wealth but the thought is stopped by the increasing violence of the children – arrows are loosed, limbs flail, blood pours – today the castle is their Helm’s Deep.

Exploring
You journey below ground on worn stone steps – other people’s children ping pong from wall to wall – the man tries to explain that no, this is not a dungeon, it is a store room – today it is a dungeon – a little girl marches her prisoners to interrogation – a giddy boy plans an elaborate escape – another listens to their own voice as it echoes through the depths – no, says the father, it was used for keeping meats and cheeses as he is shoved into the foul oubliette – his children throw away the key – despite these scenes, you quietly admire the vaulted ceiling.

Ascending a spiral staircase with a horde of goblins is not easy – those descending offer either withering or sympathetic looks – a man explains about drawing one’s sword on a spiral staircase but this urban legend has since been debunked – there is a passing place with a window – light pours in – children are squeezed out of the way – look – many people have scratched their names here – Gareth P 1987 – Wm. Cullingford 1837 – Ian + Pete 93 – at some point someone has taken the time to sketch elements of human anatomy – the last man passes, huffing and puffing and the troops rush upwards – the chief goblin declares to their pack – it is a room, just a big empty room – this is true – however it is a very nice big empty room – the sun floods in through stained glass – a fireplace so large one may stick their head up it – there is an information board that children do not look at – everyone takes turns sitting in the big wooden chair, sunshine on their shoulders – the children are off before orders are issued – up, up, up again – a cold wind blows down the stairs.

On the next floor the rooms are smaller, more clandestine – goblins sneak about – you offer your castle fact – it was once the home of a retired assassin – cool – here, you gesture to an ancient wooden chest, here is where he kept his poisoned daggers – what did he keep here? The child’s voice comes from a dark passage – here is where the assassin went for a poo – there are giggles of disgust as everyone takes turns on the killer’s throne – history is brought to life with blood, guts and bodily functions – in the adjoining room is a dressing up box – dukes’ hats and pointy fascinators – no armour, much to the disappointment of the goblins – hats are dutifully worn and photographs are posed for – a family with American voices and unarmed children arrive as you marshal the next ascent – the wind that blows is colder.

Looking skywards
The chill makes your eyes water – it is a clear day – someone waves to someone below – children are warned not to lean over – the keep is tall enough to induce mild symptoms of vertigo – you point – look, Lincoln – you point again – look, Boston – the county is ours – children rush and point and look – see – they are right – beyond the moat is an RAF base – Typhoons are trundling toward the runaway – oohh, timed that right – the air is filling with a slowly rising drone – jet fuel, speed – the noise explodes at the point of takeoff – everyone cheers – you watch five go up with stomach churning velocity – this is why the castle has never been used as a filming location – noisy neighbours.

Goblins are lured downstairs with the promise of ice cream and pop – descent is unruly – people get out the way – the castle is ours after all – everyone gets down without falling and that is enough – a child climbs the wall with the sign that asks you not to climb – a child stands perilously near the edge of the moat – fighter jets are looping the loop – you give them ten minutes – they wrestle on the grass – two little goblins holler and curse from far up above – they are not your problem – you wave back and they hoot and jeer – your loudest child shouts back in the black tongue of the goblin horde – you see the chap in the gift shop rub his hands as you approach and shortly after your hard-earned wages have been converted into a selection of choc ices – at a picnic bench below a blossoming cherry tree, the goblins plot their next assault.

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