In Which I Visit Leeds (the castle, not the city)

A bit confusing, isn't it? Leeds Castle is not, in fact, anywhere near the city of Leeds, which is half a country away, but rather near Maidstone, Kent, which is half an hour away. This is very lucky indeed, as I was in no mood for an endless bus ride on the day before classes started. 

Our first sight as the bus pulled in was that hot air balloon rising over some treetops. "Leeds Castle" the print on the side proclaimed, and it was visible from almost every point of our trip. From what we could gather, it was tethered in place and shuttled paying patrons up a few hundred feet in the air, then straight down again. 

We tried to stay casual and nonchalant as this proud fellow strolled between the tables in the cobbled café courtyard. It was difficult. We sat very still, quietly licking our soft-serve cones (complete with a Cadbury's Flake Bar planted deliciously in its soft peaks) and pretending not to be gaping at the real, live, peacock not three feet away. The ice cream selection, by the way, was wonderfully different, and included at least four products that I had to ask what they were. (Mini-milk, anyone? Or perhaps a Magnum?)

Vegetation one can get lost in

Had I visited a castle that lacked a labyrinth, I probably would have turned right around and marched back home with disdain. Luckily, Leeds possesses one, as does every English castle worth its salt. This photo was taken from our position of victory on a vantage point at the center of the maze. 

Okay, so we didn't make it completely on our own. I felt we were making progress, but were apparently confidently striding in the wrong direction. A castle official who looked exactly like Steven Spielberg spotted us from his perch in the center, took pity on our wanderings, and asked if we needed help. We accepted. 

A few moments later, we reached the center (I could say "centre" but really, that would be intensely irritating), snapped a few shots, and descended down through the grotto. There are no photos from these subterranean and mystical manmade caverns, for two reasons. One is that I'm sure they wouldn't have turned out, since the whole point is mysteriosity, a flash would have completely bleached out any of its distinct charm. The other is that I felt that taking pictures would, somehow, dissipate the mood. Let me try to convey the atmosphere instead: first off, it is damp. It is quiet, but for a recording of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner softly playing from invisible speakers. There are seashell mermaid statues standing in deep alcoves, lit from underneath in changing colors. The central pool of water is presided over by an enormous bearded face carved from the rock, and the ceiling is covered in concentric circles of shells and stone. 

So, yes, a very cool place. But it didn't hold as special a place in my heart as you might think from that long description; that was a case of artistic overkill. For a truly special place to me, I would instead pick the long, grassy lawn that rolled up away from the lake, near the maze, the bird aviary, and the dog collar museum. It was very slightly damp but we all lay down on our coats in the beautiful warming sunlight and took a nap. It was lovely.