The battlement walls have crumbled. The moat has been filled in and paved over. The flags, brightly colored and snapping in the wind, only modern reproductions. The really interesting places — the underground passages and spiral staircases and secret hidden rooms — are all barred off and closed to the public.
Stone masons have patched the crenellations with concrete, not even caring to match the ancient weathered mortar. There are cannons and pole axes and suits of armor behind glass displays in the gallery, but they are only replicas, hundreds of years out of date. The water well in the courtyard is original. The visitors center and gift shop, not so much.
I find a quiet space deep in the bowels of the fortress. A narrow stone window lets in only a sliver of late afternoon light. The air is humid, the rock walls damp and mildewed. I close my eyes and shut out the shuffling footsteps and the giggling of tourists posing for selfies. I can hear the cannons firing. I smell the powder and the sweat and the blood of battle. There is music playing above me in the reception hall, violins and flutes and harps. There is laughter and singing and dancing and feasting.
A squelch of static, and an announcer tells us the exhibits are closing. He thanks us for visiting and encourages us to move towards the exits. The vision is lost, and I’m returned again to a time that is both more modern and also more backward, more connected and still less civilized, more safe yet somehow much more dangerous.
Sounds very familiar