A small Scottish castle stands empty atop a high ridge just north of the border with England. It’s been there for centuries, quietly keeping its hidden joys and secret sorrows to itself.
On a clear day, it can be seen from miles away, as though luring visitors to come and admire its powerful presence and imposing rectangular stone walls.
Sometimes those visitors enter and climb the spiral staircase to wander the ramparts, and speculate what dramas they might have witnessed had they been a fly on the wall in its heyday in the sixteenth century.
They marvel at the thickness of those walls, and exclaim, ‘If only they could speak’ as they stand within the empty shell hoping to solicit a confession.
A small number of those visitors - the ones who are namesakes of the family who lived, thrived, and died within those walls, and who come to celebrate the memory of their unknown ancestors…Have no idea what they missed.
Why should they?
