Across the waves, through storm and foam, Erik sails; forever to roam. Cursed by gods, no home, no rest, A ghostly helm, a fate unblessed.
The wind howled through the tattered sail, driving Erik’s ship ever northward. The sea was restless beneath him, dark and endless, as if it sensed the weight of his fate. He stood at the prow, gripping the worn wood, his fingers as calloused as his heart.
They called him Erik the Cursed. Once, he had been a great warrior, a jarl with men who followed him to glory. But he had angered the gods. Some said he had broken an oath to Odin; others whispered of a blood debt unpaid. He had slain his own brother in a rage, and from that day, his luck had soured. Storms found his ships, sickness claimed his crew, and even the strongest shields split under enemy blades.
Now he sailed alone. His men were gone—lost to battle, disease, or the waves. He no longer prayed for their souls. The gods had turned their backs on him, and he had done the same to them. Only the sea remained, cold and merciless.
The mist thickened around him, and the water turned black as night. He knew these waters. They were the border between the world of men and the realm of the dead. A shadow loomed in the fog—a great ship with a sail of tattered souls. Naglfar, the doom-ship of Hel, come to claim him.
Erik laughed, a harsh sound swallowed by the wind. He had fought all his life, and he would not cower now. He drew his sword, though there was no enemy to cut. The ship groaned, the waves rose higher, and the cold seeped into his bones.
Some say his ship was found days later, drifting empty on a still sea. Others claim he still sails, a ghost on the waves, searching for a shore that will never welcome him.
But the old skalds sing of Erik the Cursed, the man who defied his fate—and vanished into legend.
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Behind falls I stand, curtain of light, rushing sound, moment lost in time.
Henrhyd Waterfall, the tallest waterfall in South Wales, is a stunning hidden gem in the Brecon Beacons. Tucked away in a lush wooded valley, it takes a short but steep walk to reach—but the effort is well worth it. The 90-foot cascade is especially impressive after heavy rain, creating a powerful curtain of water that you can even walk behind. The surrounding area, part of the National Trust’s Nant Llech nature reserve, adds to the secluded and peaceful feel. Whether you’re visiting for photography, a scenic walk, or just to enjoy the natural beauty, Henrhyd Waterfall is a must-see spot.
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Among the roses, breathing deep and slow, I found a peace I never thought to know. Each crimson bloom a lesson to impart: That beauty heals a once broken heart.
Sarah clutched the wilted bouquet, her fingers trembling against the cellophane wrapper that had seemed so perfect just hours ago. The thorns pressed against her palm, but she barely noticed the sting. It felt fitting somehow, this small pain, after David’s words had torn through her heart: “I just don’t feel the same way anymore.”
The botanical garden’s iron gates stood before her, a refuge she hadn’t planned to visit today. She had walked aimlessly after leaving his apartment, and now here she was, standing before the entrance where she and David had shared their first kiss last spring. The irony wasn’t lost on her.
Inside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the winding paths. She walked without purpose until she found herself in the rose garden, surrounded by hundreds of blooming red roses. Their perfume hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Every flower seemed to mock her, echoing the dozen roses she had presented to David earlier that day, along with her heart.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?”
Sarah turned to find an elderly woman in a wide-brimmed hat, pruning shears in hand. Her name tag read “Eleanor – Garden Volunteer.”
“I used to hate them,” Eleanor continued, snipping away at dead heads with practiced ease. “My husband proposed to me with red roses. When he passed away three months later, I couldn’t stand to look at them. But here I am, forty years later, tending to them every Tuesday and Thursday.”
Something in Eleanor’s voice made Sarah stay. She found herself returning the next week, and the week after that. Eleanor taught her how to deadhead the spent blooms, how to identify the different varieties: ‘Mr. Lincoln,’ ‘Chrysler Imperial,’ ‘Veterans’ Honor.’ Sarah learned that each rose had its own character, its own story.
Seasons passed. She watched the roses go dormant in winter, helped Eleanor bed them with mulch against the frost. In spring, she witnessed their resurrection, the first tender shoots appearing, the soil still cold with winter’s memory. Summer brought their glory, and autumn their final, fierce blooming.
The garden became her sanctuary, then her classroom, and finally her joy. She learned that love, like gardening, required patience and care. That beauty could emerge from decay. That endings were also beginnings.
Five years after that first day, Sarah stood in the rose garden again, this time in a white dress. Her bouquet was a cascade of red roses, each one grown and tended by her own hands. Beside her stood Michael, the landscape architect she had met while taking a botanical illustration class at the garden. Eleanor sat in the front row, beaming beneath her signature wide-brimmed hat.
As Sarah exchanged her vows, the roses nodded in the gentle breeze, their fragrance no longer a reminder of loss but a celebration of growth. She had learned what Eleanor knew: that sometimes the things that break our hearts can also heal them, if we’re brave enough to let them.
Years later, as the setting sun painted the garden in shades of amber and gold, Sarah, now the bearer of knowledge at the garden, found a quiet moment to walk among the roses. She touched a velvet petal, remembering the broken-hearted girl who had stumbled into this garden years ago. The roses had taught her that love, like their blooms, was cyclical – that each ending carried within it the seeds of a new beginning.
She plucked a single perfect bloom and placed it on Eleanor’s empty chair, a thank you for the wisdom shared between the thorny stems. Above her, the first stars appeared in the darkening sky, and somewhere in the garden, a nightingale began to sing.
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The blue boat sits alone, Quiet on the glassy sea, No ripples, just the tone Of stillness setting free.
Taken at Fishguard quay
In the city, Isabelle’s palette was dictated by quarterly reports. Her canvases were billboards, her medium, marketing slogans. She painted desires, not dreams. Once, art had been her sanctuary, a place where she could lose herself in colour and form, but now it was a transaction—each brushstroke carefully calculated for maximum impact. The aggressive red of SALE, the sterile blue of TRUST, the shimmering gold of LUXURY—they weren’t colours, they were commands.
Her studio, a pristine white cube perched above a canyon of concrete and steel, was as lifeless as the work she produced. Outside, the city pulsed with a restless urgency, but inside, she sat staring at her latest commission, feeling nothing. Had it always been like this? Had she always felt this hollow? She couldn’t remember the last time she painted something just because she wanted to.
When she first saw the cottage in the online listing, it was nothing more than a blurry thumbnail, yet something about it stopped her scrolling. It wasn’t charming in the way holiday rentals usually were. The walls leaned slightly, weather-beaten and unapologetic. The loch behind it stretched out into the mist, quiet, infinite. It was not picturesque, but it was still. And suddenly, stillness was all she wanted.
The journey there felt like shedding a second skin. As the train rattled away from the city, the skyline fading into the distance, something inside her loosened, though she wasn’t sure what. At first, she kept reaching for her phone—out of habit more than anything—but the further she got from mobile towers, the quieter her mind became. It wasn’t just the absence of notifications, emails, deadlines. It was a deeper silence, like a pond settling after a stone has been thrown in.
The cottage smelled of damp wood and time. It creaked when she walked through it, like an old thing waking up. There was no WiFi, no signal. Just the steady lap of the loch against the shore, the whispering reeds, the occasional call of a distant bird. At first, the quiet unnerved her. She found herself pacing, feeling the itch of a life spent in perpetual motion. Her mind kept trying to measure productivity, to assign value to this pause. What are you doing? Wasting time? What if they forget you? What if you come back and there’s nothing left?
On the third day, restless and aimless, she wandered down to the shore, her boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. The loch stretched out before her, a perfect mirror of the grey sky. And there, in the shallow water, rocked a small blue boat. Faded, chipped at the edges, the kind of blue that had been softened by years of wind and rain. Something about it pulled at her. It wasn’t just a boat. It was a contrast—a quiet rebellion against the greyness of everything around it.
She crouched by the water’s edge, picking up a smooth grey stone and rolling it between her fingers. She thought of the screens she used to touch every day, the digital world she had lived in. The cool weight of the stone was real, solid in a way the city never was.
The next morning, she woke to the sound of rain, soft and insistent against the slate roof. She stood by the window, watching the loch blur and ripple under the downpour. The blue boat rocked gently, unfazed. It was such a small thing, and yet she couldn’t look away. The colours before her weren’t the ones she used in the city—no neon, no artificial sheen. Just deep, shifting greys, softened greens, the quiet persistence of the blue.
She picked up a brush without thinking. Not the sleek, expensive sable she used for client work, but a worn-out one she found in a drawer. There was no canvas, so she used a piece of driftwood. She didn’t try to replicate the scene exactly. Instead, she let the colours guide her, pulling from something deeper than observation—something she had ignored for too long. The grey of the sky bled into the grey of her exhaustion. The green of the hills became a longing for something real. The blue of the boat—steady, resilient—was a hope she hadn’t known she still carried.
When she stepped back, her breath caught. It wasn’t a masterpiece. It was raw, uneven, imperfect. But it was hers. A tear slid down her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away. It wasn’t sadness. It was something closer to relief.
Not all days were easy. Some mornings she stared at a blank page for hours, frustration gnawing at her ribs. Some nights, the city’s voice whispered in her ear, reminding her of deadlines and expectations, of the career she was leaving behind. What if you never make it back? What if this is a mistake?
But then there were moments—standing by the loch, feeling the wind in her hair, watching the way light changed the water—that made it clear she was exactly where she needed to be.
Her work began to shift. She stopped thinking about what people wanted and started painting what she felt. She no longer cared about marketability. She cared about honesty. The colours on her brush became softer, more grounded, pulled from the land around her rather than the demands of a client brief. She painted the hush of the loch at dawn, the weight of the rain-heavy clouds, the steadfast blue of the little boat that never drifted too far.
She wasn’t painting products anymore. She was painting silence. She was painting solitude. She was painting her way back to herself.
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A haven of peace where the past and present converge in a timeless story of beauty and history.
J.M.W. Turner’s Brush with Ewenny Priory (1797)My Version Tried to capture the light
Boo! Greetings, dear mortals. I am Brother Eustace, the ghost of a Benedictine monk haunting the Ewenny Priory, one of the most picturesque and historically rich places in South Wales. It’s been centuries since I left my earthly body, but I still keep a watchful eye on this place, observing the comings and goings of visitors and tourists.
The Light Divine That centre window just draws me in
One thing that always tickles my ghostly bones is the story of J.M.W. Turner having painted the Ewenny Priory. I must admit, I had no idea who that man was until some of the livelier visitors started chattering about it. Apparently, he was a famous artist who had a thing for capturing landscapes and religious buildings in his paintings. And, of course, he couldn’t resist the charm of our humble priory.
Perfect – Don’t Alter A Thing I love the textures in this
I remember the day he came here vividly, as if it were yesterday. He carried a big wooden box with all sorts of brushes, colours, and canvases, muttering to himself as he looked around for the perfect spot to set up his easel. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of this man, dressed in fancy clothes and sporting a ridiculous top hat, trying to blend in with the solemn atmosphere of the priory.
He spent hours sketching and painting, dabbing his brushes in different colours and stepping back every now and then to admire his work. Seeing as it was already a ruin and being used to keep animals in 1795 when he visited, I must say, he did a decent job of capturing the essence of the priory, with its sturdy stone walls, arched windows, and overgrown gardens. It’s in a better state now, so it’s no wonder people still come here to take photos and admire the scenery.
As for me, I’m just happy to keep watching and haunting, floating through the corridors and whispering secrets to the curious souls who dare to listen. And who knows, maybe one day another famous artist will come and paint the Ewenny Priory once again, immortalising its beauty for generations to come (or maybe it’ll be you with your fancy smartphone). Until then, I’ll be here, keeping a close eye on things and enjoying the occasional chuckle at the antics of the living. Cheers!
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There’s something peculiar about shadows that I never noticed until that Tuesday afternoon in September. I was sitting at my usual coffee shop, the one where the barista always remembers to make my americano with exactly three ice cubes, when I saw it behaving strangely.
The simple shadow of a beach tree on my garage wall.
My shadow wasn’t following my movements anymore. When I lifted my cup, it kept its arms firmly planted on the table. When I turned my head to look at the clock on the wall, it continued staring straight ahead. It was subtle at first, like the way you might notice a photograph hanging slightly crooked on a wall but convince yourself it’s just your imagination.
Me pretending to be an angel
The thing about shadows is that they’re honest in a way we can never be. They don’t pretend to smile when they’re sad. They don’t hide their true shape behind carefully chosen clothes or practiced postures. They simply are.
I started watching my shadow more closely after that day. Sometimes, late at night, I’d catch it dancing when I was perfectly still, or reaching for things I’d been wanting but was too afraid to grasp. It was as if it knew all my secrets, all the desires I’d buried so deep I’d forgotten they were there.
One morning, I found a note on my desk written in a hand that looked like mine but wasn’t quite right. It said: “I am what you are when no one is watching. I am the you that exists in empty rooms and dark corners. I am the truth you hide from the world.”
The strange thing wasn’t finding the note. The strange thing was realizing that every word was true.
Now, whenever light falls across my path and stretches my shadow long and dark against the ground, I wonder which one of us is more real – the carefully constructed person I present to the world, or that dark silhouette that moves with its own will and knows every truth I’ve ever tried to hide.
Sometimes, in the moments between sleeping and waking, I think I can feel us merging – the shadow and I – like water flowing into water. But then morning comes, and once again, we are separate: me walking through the world, and my shadow dancing just at the edge of sight, reminding me of everything I could be if I just dared to face it directly.
The barista at my coffee shop doesn’t make me americano anymore. She says I never ordered one. She says I’ve been ordering black coffee, straight and bitter, every day for years. Maybe my shadow knew this all along.
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In the simplicity of a few black lines capturing a rabbit’s form, we find the simple truth that nature speaks through balance. Every curve and angle in the natural world seems to fall precisely where it should, as if guided by an invisible hand that knows exactly when to bend and when to stretch, when to soar and when to rest.
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Consider how a rabbit’s form combines gentle curves with decisive lines – the soft arch of its back flowing into the alert angle of its ears, the delicate tuck of its feet beneath the rounded mass of its body. These elements don’t just coexist; they converse with each other in a visual harmony that feels inevitably right.
The ancient Chinese principle of feng shui recognized this natural balance centuries ago. It speaks of qi – the vital force that flows through all things – and how it moves in curves, like water finding its path downhill or wind shaping stones over millennia. Sharp angles and straight lines exist in nature too, but they’re almost always softened by organic curves, like the straight trunk of a tree dissolving into the graceful arc of its branches.
This balance appears everywhere we look: in the spiral of a nautilus shell that follows the golden ratio, in the branching patterns of lightning that mirror the veins of a leaf, in the way a falcon’s wing curves exactly as needed to catch the wind. Nature doesn’t calculate these designs; they emerge from the fundamental forces that shape our world, each finding its perfect expression through countless iterations over time.
Even in chaos, nature finds balance. A hurricane’s spiral, violent as it may be, follows the same mathematical principles as the gentle unfurling of a fern frond. The jagged line of a mountain range creates its own kind of harmony with the sky, each peak and valley notes on a stave creating a balanced tune that feels complete and right.
Perhaps this is why minimalist art, like my rabbit drawing, can capture something so profound. By reducing form to its essential elements, it reveals the underlying balance that makes natural design so compelling. In those few decisive lines, we see not just a rabbit, but a piece of fundamental harmony that runs through all things – the perfect tension between straight and curved, between movement and stillness, between complexity and simplicity.
It reminds us that true balance isn’t static – it’s a dynamic dance of opposing forces finding their perfect equilibrium, like the eternal cycle of yin and yang. In this way, every natural form becomes a lesson in harmony, teaching us that beauty often lies not in elaboration, but in finding that exquisite point where nothing needs to be added and nothing needs to be taken away.
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In the quietude of an autumn afternoon, as the sun cast a gentle, melancholic glow over the garden, I found myself standing before a humble tub, a handful of hawthorn berries cradled in my palm. The berries, vibrant and red, seemed to pulsate with a life of their own, whispering secrets of the seasons and the cycles of time.
A tub of hope
The decision to plant these berries had come to me in a dream, or perhaps it was a memory, blurred at the edges like an old photograph. I had been walking through a forest, the air crisp and cool, when I stumbled upon a hawthorn tree, its branches laden with crimson fruit. The tree seemed to beckon me, its thorns glinting in the dappled sunlight, and I knew then that I must bring a piece of this wild, untamed beauty into my own small world.
I had always been drawn to hawthorns, with their delicate white flowers in spring and their fiery berries in autumn. They seemed to embody the duality of life—beauty and pain, growth and decay, all intertwined in a dance as old as time itself. And so, with a sense of reverence, I began to plant the berries, each one a tiny promise of life to come.
The tub, a simple vessel of earth and possibility, sat before me like an altar. I knelt down, feeling the cool soil between my fingers, and began to press the berries gently into the ground. Each one seemed to sigh softly as it settled into its new home, a quiet acceptance of the journey ahead. I wondered what dreams they might hold, what stories they might tell as they grew and changed with the passing of the seasons.
As I worked, my mind wandered, as it often does, to the strange and wondrous paths that life can take. I thought of the hawthorn trees that had stood for centuries, silently watching the ebb and flow of human existence. I thought of the birds that would one day feast on the berries, their songs echoing through the garden like ancient melodies. And I thought of the quiet, unassuming beauty of growth—the slow, steady unfurling of life from the smallest of seeds.
The hawthorn, I knew, was a symbol of hope and protection in many cultures. It was said to guard against evil spirits, to bring good fortune, and to heal the heart. As I planted the berries, I found myself hoping for all these things and more. I hoped for the courage to face the unknown, for the strength to endure the storms of life, and for the wisdom to appreciate the beauty in the everyday.
And so, with the berries planted and the tub nestled in a sunny corner of the garden, I stepped back and took a deep breath. The air was filled with the scent of earth and the faintest hint of something more—a promise, perhaps, or a whisper of things to come. I knew that the journey of these hawthorn berries was only just beginning, and I looked forward to the days and seasons ahead with a sense of anticipation and wonder.
In the quiet moments that followed, as the sun dipped lower in the sky and the shadows lengthened, I felt a profound sense of connection—to the earth, to the cycles of life, and to the mysterious, unknowable forces that guide us all. And as I turned to walk back into the house, leaving the berries to their dreams and their destiny, I knew that I, too, was a part of this vast and wondrous tapestry, forever intertwined with the whispering hawthorns and the dance of time.
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The chieftain has spoken. A great tomb must be built—one that will stand for generations, a place where the spirits of our ancestors may rest in peace. I, Caradoc, have been chosen to oversee the task. It is an honor, but also a burden. The stones are vast, heavier than any man should be able to move. How can we, with mere hands and ropes, shape such a monument?
I wish the fair folk would aid us. The elders say the Tylwyth Teg, the fairies of the hills, move stones with ease, whispering to them in a tongue only the earth understands. If only they would come to our aid, lift these great rocks into place, and spare us the toil ahead. But the fair folk are fickle, appearing only when they choose. We must struggle on without them.
Day 5 – The Stones Resist Us
The men are weary. We have stripped the strongest oaks to make rollers, twisted the toughest hides into ropes. Yet the stones barely shift. The great capstone, the largest of them all, refuses to move. It is as if the land itself grips it, unwilling to let it rise.
The night is cold, the wind howling over the hills. I swear I hear laughter in the dark, soft voices on the wind. The fair folk are watching. Do they mock us, or do they test our resolve? If they wished, they could lift the stones as if they were feathers. Yet they remain silent, unseen, leaving the burden to us.
Day 12 – The Earth Swallows Our Efforts
The rains have come, turning our labor into a futile struggle. The earth drinks the water greedily, turning to mud, swallowing our stones and filling the pits we have dug. We lose men to exhaustion, to wounds from failing ropes and shifting rock. The tomb fights us at every step.
At dusk, I leave an offering—honey, fresh milk, and bread—on the highest stone, a gift for the Tylwyth Teg. If they have any mercy, if they still care for the deeds of men, let them aid us now.
Day 20 – A Change in Fortune
Something is different. The rains have ceased, the ground has hardened. The men move with renewed strength. Today, we raised the last of the uprights, the stones sliding into place as if the earth finally allows it. Perhaps our offerings have been accepted, or perhaps the fair folk simply tired of watching us struggle.
Tonight, as the fire crackles, I hear the faintest laughter again, carried on the wind. A whisper, almost playful. Did they push the stones when we were not looking? Or did they merely lift our spirits, lending us unseen strength? I do not know. But I feel their presence all the same.
Day 25 – The Final Stone
The capstone rests upon its pillars at last. A gateway between worlds, standing as it should. The tomb is complete. The men cheer, but I say nothing. In the silence of the evening, I sense something beyond us, something watching.
Perhaps it was never just our strength that built this place. Perhaps, when we were at our weakest, unseen hands helped us. Or perhaps the fair folk simply wished to remind us—magic is not only in the whispers of the wind, but in the determination of men who dare to move the unmovable.
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A lone traveler stands beneath the towering yew tree in the churchyard of Nevern, Pembrokeshire. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and resin, and the soft hush of wind through the branches is the only sound. A second figure stands beside them, clothed in a long woolen cloak, feet calloused from the road, eyes bright with devotion. Though centuries separate them, they see the same sacred place, feel the same weight of history pressing on their shoulders.
“Do you see?” The medieval pilgrim gestures toward the Bleeding Yew, the deep red sap weeping from its bark. “They say it bleeds for justice, and it will not stop until the world is fair.” Their voice is heavy with belief.
The modern visitor runs a hand over the rough bark, watching the slow seep of crimson. “I’ve read about it—some say it’s just a natural phenomenon, something about the tree’s resin reacting to wounds. But still… standing here, it feels like more than that.” They hesitate, then add, “Maybe it does bleed for something. Maybe it always will.”
The pilgrim nods, satisfied. “Come. There is more to take in.”
Me and the great Celtic cross
Together, they walk toward the Great Celtic Cross, its weathered stone rising 13 feet defiantly into the sky. The pilgrim reaches out, tracing the loops and knots carved into its surface. “This is eternity,” they murmur. “No beginning, no end. Just faith, winding on forever.”
The visitor studies the carvings, fingers brushing lightly over the stone. “It’s amazing. To think of the hands that made this, how many people must have stood before it, just like we are now. Even after all this time, it still stands.”
“As it should,” the pilgrim replies. “A signpost for those on the road to St David’s. A beacon for the weary pilgrim.”
Just outside the church. The Vitalianus Stone, carved into a pillar in Ogham and Latin the words “VITALIANI EMERTO” suggests the resting place of an important man named Vitaliani. The two languages hint at ancient connections between pagans and Christians. Its inscriptions whispering secrets from the past that we may never understand. The pilgrim kneels before it, tracing the letters. “He was a leader once, a man of faith and strength. His name endures in stone, even as his body has long turned to dust.”
The visitor leans in, examining the Latin and Ogham script. “It’s strange. We carve our names into things, thinking it will make us last forever. But in the end, it’s the stories that survive, not the physical marks.”
The pilgrim smiles. “You understand.”
Inside the church, cool air wraps around them, thick with the scent of wax and old stone. On one of the windowsills, they see the Megalocnus Stone, where the marks of the older tongue carve deep into the rock. Megalocnus is referenced as far back as the sixth century, affirming the stone’s age. The visitor shakes their head in wonder. “This writing—Ogham—it’s like the language of the land itself, growing up from the stone.”
The pilgrim rests a hand against it. “We mark the world, and the world marks us.”
On another windowsill, they find the Pilgrim’s Cross, shallowly etched into the stone. The modern visitor touches the carving, feeling its rough edges. “So many hands must have traced this over the years.”
“I made my own mark,” the pilgrim admits, voice quiet. “And those after me, and those after them. We all do. All hoping to pass through life, to the next, peacefully.”
They pause before the Norman-era Rood Screen, its carved wood forming a delicate boundary between the sacred and the earthly. The visitor runs their hand along its surface. “It’s so intricate. So much work must have gone into this.”
“Devotion is in the small detail as well as the bigger view,” the pilgrim replies. “In all things, we find the divine.”
At the 700 year old Medieval Baptismal Font, the pilgrim dips their fingers, letting the cool water trickle over their skin. “A new beginning,” they whisper.
The visitor hesitates, then does the same. The water is cold against their fingertips, sending a shiver through them. “Some things never change,” they murmur.
Outside, the old Sundial catches the last light of the afternoon. The visitor laughs softly. “Hundreds of years ago, someone stood right here, checking the time by the same sun we’re looking at now.”
The pilgrim nods. “And after another thousand, others will do the same.”
A short walk uphill leads them to the second Pilgrim’s Cross, carved deep into the rock behind the church. The view stretches below them, the land rolling away toward the river. The pilgrim kneels, bowing their head in prayer.
The visitor stands in silence, breathing in the crisp air. “It must have been hard,” they say at last. “Walking so far, carrying all your hopes with you.”
The pilgrim exhales, voice full of quiet conviction. “Hope is never a burden. It is the reason we walk.”
As they walk toward the ruins of Nevern Castle, the shadows grow long. The stones stand witness to battles and prayers lingering in the air.
“Time is strange here,” the visitor muses. “It doesn’t feel like it’s passing. It just… is.”
The pilgrim smiles. “At Nevern, time doesn’t pass—it pools around your feet.”
The modern traveller, now seeped in the church’s history, looking down to their feet, feels a pull to join the age-old pilgrimage. Looking up, they see the ancient pilgrim is making their way–fading into the distance. “God bless!”
(not my photo)If you find my photography or my writing inspiring and uplifting, consider supporting what I do. Buy me a coffee on Ko-fi. Your support makes a difference in my life and helps me create more of what you, and I, like. Thank you!Tap to view my redbubble gallery.
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