[Illustration: RESTORMEL CASTLE.]
It was therefore with some such thoughts as these that we walked along
the lonely road leading up to the old castle, and rambled amongst the
venerable ruins. The last of the summer visitors had long since
departed, and the only sound we could hear was that made by the wind, as
it whistled and moaned among the ivy-covered ruins, and in the trees
which partly surrounded them, reminding us that the harvest was past and
the summer was ended, while indications of approaching winter were not
wanting.
The castle was circular in form, and we walked round the outside of it
on the border of the moat which had formerly been filled with water, but
now was quite dry and covered with luxuriant grass. It was 60 feet wide
and 30 feet deep, being formerly crossed by a drawbridge, not now
required. The ruins have thus been described by a modern poet:
And now I reach the moat's broad marge,
And at each pace more fair and large
The antique pile grows on my sight,
Though sullen Time's resistless might,
Stronger than storms or bolts of heaven,
Through wall and buttress rents have riven;
And wider gaps had there been seen
But for the ivy's buckler green,
With stems like stalwart arms sustained;
Here else had little now remained
But heaps of stones, or mounds o'ergrown
With nettles, or with hemlock sown.
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