A Letter to Bianca Vukelic

by William Bowden

Dear V, I hardly know myself. I have awoken in the hamlet of Windsor, about 30 miles from London. After perusing the town yesterday, and due to the inclement weather, I purchased a coat and a beanie. Upon catching sight of myself in one of the shopfront windows, I realised I was now (apart from my speech) indistinguishable with the locals. Even my fair skin is a hallmark of these strange folk. I move amongst them now undetected. Perhaps on my next random encounter I will cobble together an approximation of the local accent, in order to further my disguise.

Today I thought of you most because I resolved to investigate the huge, brooding castle that dominates the town. You will no doubt have heard of it, as it has been the official residence of most of the monarchy — post William the Conq. Once securing a ticket and gaining access past the guards I entered a private vaulted kingdom the like of which I have never seen. Inside the castle was almost too much for words, and I suffered a sensory overload. Too many bejewelled chambers, sombre oil paintings, crenellated furniture, ivory thrones — the list goes on. In particular the presence of weapons of war dominated. Ancient muskets and swords adorned the walls. Suits of armour so polished as to appear ready to spring to life at a moments notice. Spears, hatchets, rapiers and all set within guilded rooms out of fairytale imaginings. The gardens are beautiful too, and girt by ancient parapets and towers.

At one point as I stood atop a cobbled rise that led down to the main gate, the sun — a pale parody of his usual jovial self — appeared momentarily above the greying stone wall. It was as if his sister — the moon — had taken reign for the day. In fact, it is as if these people do indeed live by moonlight in the winter. The sky is ever an impenetrable grey, casting a wan glow over everything. It is a stark luminescence and very beautiful. I feel as if this village is part of a time warp. Even the bricks seem to speak of ages past as they rest in their covering of luminous green moss.

I think you’d better get over to Europe before you lose yourself in the antipodean idyll. There is something here that gets to you — whether it’s looking at the bones of kings, or just a feeling in the air. I can’t really describe it in words, but looking up at the gargoyles adorning the castle, against the riveting grey of the winter sky, it is something desolate, desolate and poetic — it’s just sublime.

Well I’d better go and have a cigarette. You can smoke in the cafes here and I really appreciate that. Everyone has such amazing skin here. So unkissed by the sun, so unblemished. The look so healthy and they live without a sun. Very interesting ...

Love Will