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azziriaWhile we were in Cornwall (on my birthday, in fact) we visited Tintagel, where legend tells that King Arthur was born.
Tintagel village. A mixture of trozzle shops selling faux-Celtic and Arthurian memorabilia, and cafes and pubs ('King Arthur's Tea Shoppe') offering Cornish pasties and cream teas. In summer, a tourist-infested honey pot - coach party heaven. Out of season, a typical British seaside picture of faded glory and boarded up shops, its bare bones exposed by the lack of tourists. It has a certain charm, nonetheless, a certain something about its windswept spareness.
Tintagel beach. A rough sea, the jagged green-gray Atlantic, crested with the white of scattering spray and rolling foam, breakers shattering and streaming down over dark rocks veined with quartz. And the noise: the crash and roar of the waves, the hiss of the spray, the suck and rumble as the undertow drags back down over the pebbles.
The beach at Tintagel (the castle is on top of the cliffs on the left of the picture, which also contain sea caves that run right through to the next bay).
Tintagel castle. Ruined now, but the perfect setting perched high on the cliffs. The perfect setting for the romance of the legend: King Uther Pendragon and the Lady Ygraine, so caught up in the fever of unrequited lust and passion that they'll promise Merlin anything. Merlin, setting the sequence in motion, using sorcerous means to disguise Uther as Ygraine's husband, Gorlois, the Duke of Cornwall, so that Uther can sneak into the castle and spend the night with Ygraine. Then, nine months later, Merlin, on a night of rain and gales, spiriting the infant Arthur away to grow up with a foster family, blissfully innocent of his heritage and untainted by the knowledge of his destiny.
Tintagel village. A mixture of trozzle shops selling faux-Celtic and Arthurian memorabilia, and cafes and pubs ('King Arthur's Tea Shoppe') offering Cornish pasties and cream teas. In summer, a tourist-infested honey pot - coach party heaven. Out of season, a typical British seaside picture of faded glory and boarded up shops, its bare bones exposed by the lack of tourists. It has a certain charm, nonetheless, a certain something about its windswept spareness.
Tintagel beach. A rough sea, the jagged green-gray Atlantic, crested with the white of scattering spray and rolling foam, breakers shattering and streaming down over dark rocks veined with quartz. And the noise: the crash and roar of the waves, the hiss of the spray, the suck and rumble as the undertow drags back down over the pebbles.
The beach at Tintagel (the castle is on top of the cliffs on the left of the picture, which also contain sea caves that run right through to the next bay).
Tintagel castle. Ruined now, but the perfect setting perched high on the cliffs. The perfect setting for the romance of the legend: King Uther Pendragon and the Lady Ygraine, so caught up in the fever of unrequited lust and passion that they'll promise Merlin anything. Merlin, setting the sequence in motion, using sorcerous means to disguise Uther as Ygraine's husband, Gorlois, the Duke of Cornwall, so that Uther can sneak into the castle and spend the night with Ygraine. Then, nine months later, Merlin, on a night of rain and gales, spiriting the infant Arthur away to grow up with a foster family, blissfully innocent of his heritage and untainted by the knowledge of his destiny.
