Two views of a castle
The purpose of the exercise is broadly to describe a place or setting and alter that description according to the mood/circumstances of characters.
The suggestion is to describe a visit to a place where the protagonists feel unwell . The second attempt suggests it as a new home.
I'm not a big one for long descriptions so wrapped it up in a broadly parallel narrative.
The Castle - Version 1
At the end of a torturous journey through bleak grey hills lies an old castle. It stands in the cleft of two spurs of land, looming over the sea loch it commands. The dim light of the afternoon sun casts an insipid pink pall over the grubby white washed walls.
The kids tumble out of the car. Tim drags his toy sword out and tries to whack Samantha .The air is thick and heavy with the scent of flowers from the garden. Tim’s sword-strokes waft the overpowering smells into my face. My stomach lurches.
‘Let’s get inside’, I mutter through my hankie.
My husband stands gawping for a moment and the kids start to squabble.
‘Come on’ I say.
The great hall is full of dust and old junk. The famous ‘fairy flag’ is a tattered rag pressed behind yellowing glass.
My husband tugs my sleeve and drags me to the sick heart of this awful place. A guide is telling the ghastly history of the bottle dungeon. My son listens, rapt, and my daughter clutches my husband’s thigh. The walls of the room above it lurch and wriggle in the corners of my eyes. My already churning bowels threaten to expel. I trot and clench my way over worn carpets, past threadbare tapestries, until I find what I am looking for.
‘All these rooms’ I mutter, ‘but there’s never a toilet when you need one’.
The Castle - Version 2
At the North end of the beautiful, misty, island of Skye, nestled in a sheltered bay, lies the fairytale castle of Dunvegan.
Its white walls have turned a pretty pink in the fading light of the afternoon sun.
Tim steps out of the car carrying his new toy claymore while his sister Samantha dances beside him. As he swishes his sword through the air, it sends me the scent of spring flowers from the fabulous gardens.
'Let’s get inside’, I say.
My husband stands, entranced, for a moment and the children chatter excitedly.
‘Come on’, I say.
The great hall is worthy of its name. Half filled with the bric-a-brac from eight centuries of occupation, it seems homey and lived in. My husband touches my arm and beckons me into the private drawing room.
‘The seat of my ancestors’ he says, leaning on a large leather chair.
He smiles at me, willing me to laugh at his daft joke, but all I can feel is pride. From the other room I hear our children laughing together. They’ve found the fairy flag, framed on the wall to preserve its delicate silks. Its blend of mystery, romance and adventure draws them together in their play.
I think I’m going to like this place.
The suggestion is to describe a visit to a place where the protagonists feel unwell . The second attempt suggests it as a new home.
I'm not a big one for long descriptions so wrapped it up in a broadly parallel narrative.
The Castle - Version 1
At the end of a torturous journey through bleak grey hills lies an old castle. It stands in the cleft of two spurs of land, looming over the sea loch it commands. The dim light of the afternoon sun casts an insipid pink pall over the grubby white washed walls.
The kids tumble out of the car. Tim drags his toy sword out and tries to whack Samantha .The air is thick and heavy with the scent of flowers from the garden. Tim’s sword-strokes waft the overpowering smells into my face. My stomach lurches.
‘Let’s get inside’, I mutter through my hankie.
My husband stands gawping for a moment and the kids start to squabble.
‘Come on’ I say.
The great hall is full of dust and old junk. The famous ‘fairy flag’ is a tattered rag pressed behind yellowing glass.
My husband tugs my sleeve and drags me to the sick heart of this awful place. A guide is telling the ghastly history of the bottle dungeon. My son listens, rapt, and my daughter clutches my husband’s thigh. The walls of the room above it lurch and wriggle in the corners of my eyes. My already churning bowels threaten to expel. I trot and clench my way over worn carpets, past threadbare tapestries, until I find what I am looking for.
‘All these rooms’ I mutter, ‘but there’s never a toilet when you need one’.
The Castle - Version 2
At the North end of the beautiful, misty, island of Skye, nestled in a sheltered bay, lies the fairytale castle of Dunvegan.
Its white walls have turned a pretty pink in the fading light of the afternoon sun.
Tim steps out of the car carrying his new toy claymore while his sister Samantha dances beside him. As he swishes his sword through the air, it sends me the scent of spring flowers from the fabulous gardens.
'Let’s get inside’, I say.
My husband stands, entranced, for a moment and the children chatter excitedly.
‘Come on’, I say.
The great hall is worthy of its name. Half filled with the bric-a-brac from eight centuries of occupation, it seems homey and lived in. My husband touches my arm and beckons me into the private drawing room.
‘The seat of my ancestors’ he says, leaning on a large leather chair.
He smiles at me, willing me to laugh at his daft joke, but all I can feel is pride. From the other room I hear our children laughing together. They’ve found the fairy flag, framed on the wall to preserve its delicate silks. Its blend of mystery, romance and adventure draws them together in their play.
I think I’m going to like this place.
posted by John Davidson at 4:23 AM
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