In the depths of the Cornish woods, down a trail known only to a few, lies the ruins of castle Penhallam. Built in the 11th century by a brutal local noble family, the De Cardinhams, Penhallam was used as a bastion of power and privilege to control the local port towns along the Cornish coast. Abandoned for unknown reasons in the fourteenth century, it quickly fell to ruin, and was gradually stripped of its once proud walls down to the foundations, stone by stone. Then it was forgotten for
seven hundred years. In 1960, workers of the forestry commission stumbled across the foundation walls while surveying the area, and archaeologists quickly excavated the castle and declared the ruins as a protected national heritage site. Now, with its moat restored and its drawbridge replaced, it lies empty and alone, untroubled by tourists in the centre of the forest, a ghostly reminder of what once was.
It was here that I walked at dusk with my faithful hound, sat by a stream, smoked a bowl of Bagpipers dream in a MM corncob artisan freehand, and pondered the futility of man's endeavours.
Just thought I'd spice my entry up a bit
Edit: The Bagpipers dream was a gift from a very kind Brother, and I was bombed with the cobb, the lighter, the tamper and the bag that I carried them all there with. This is a good place to be!