Tintagel.
Where the Atlantic's finest attempts at erosion meet architectural optimism.
Where those who live within dare the elements to do their worst, while quietly acknowledging that they probably will.
Where history hangs as heavily as the fog, and the line between legend and reality is as blurry as the view on a typical Cornish day.
The fortress itself is perched atop a cliff that seems to sulk into the ocean and is a testament to what humans can achieve if they take in the weather, transport links, and essential comfort, then just go, 'fuck it, we're here now. Start building.'
Even by the mid-fifth century, Tintatgel's stone walls were already heavily streaked with the residue of countless salty onslaughts, looking like they'd been doused in giant tears.
That's pathetic fallacy, that is.
As the Saxons became the most recent invaders to discover, the only way to reach the castle's entrance is a masterclass in the traditionally warm, friendly British welcome: a narrow, dangerous path above the sea that dares any visitor to slip and add their bones to the surf below. Then, at the end of this cheerful route stands the main gate, an intimidating mix of iron and oak that suggests a greeting more akin to “get the fuck out of here” than “please come on in, weary traveller. Would you like a cup of mead?”
Tintagel's towers rise above the walls, their tops shrouded in mist, of which Merlin's tower gives the best impression of disappearing off into another dimension—a dimension where upkeep isn't a priority.
Meanwhile, ravens, those cheerful symbols of impending doom, nest in the eaves, their caws blending with the wind’s lament to create a soundtrack of perpetual melancholy.
Seriously, is it any wonder Uther was feeling a touch down about things?
Beyond the walls, the landscape continues with the theme. Windswept moors stretch out in all directions, dotted with shrubs that look like they've seen better days and trees that have lost the will to stand straight. And that ignored the destruction wrought by the Saxon army that had so recently squatted out there, like a malevolent toad, 'living off the land' as the popular euphemism for rape and pillage would have it.
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So had it been, and so, for just a little longer would it have been.
For, just off the edge of the coast on which Tintagel stood, there was a ripple on the still surface of the ocean.
An observer may have thought a seal was just about to pop up for air, but only briefly as a mass of blonde hair breached the surface.
It was a woman, and she was strangely beautiful. As in, she had all the features that popular consciousness would recognise as attractive - giant, blue eyes, generous lips, a perfectly proportioned nose - but there was something ethereally odd about how they all sat together on her face.
Whilst she may have, superficially, looked human, the overall impression was more like she'd killed and skinned the most perfect woman in the world and was now wearing her like a slightly ill-fitting costume.
Let that description settle in for a moment.
Treading water, the woman looked around in confusion and the rising and falling surf for a few minutes, before blowing strands of hair from her face.
"Fucking hell. How many times? I told them that any old body of water won't do. This is the middle of the bloody ocean.”
With a reasonably spectacular show of petulance, she started skulling towards the shore, hampered somewhat by only having one hand available to swim. In the other, she trailed a long, black blade behind her, which left sparks in the water its wake.
Before long - she swam with the speed of a cresting shark (a simile that has an awful lot more that is accurate about it, rather than just being a clever arrangement of words) - she reached a depth where she could walk and lifted the sword out of the water.
It was then that an interested observer would realise that the strange bubbling sound that had accompanied this woman's appearance was, in fact, the sound of the sword talking. Now free of the sea, it was possible to make out what it was saying.
Shambles. That's what this is—a shambles. I'm surprised they didn't just plop me in the middle of a massive rock and get done with it. Seriously, I don't know why I bother.
The woman reached the shore and shook herself, the water evaporating off her clothes. She was tall and dressed in glowing blue robes. Her entire look was so fragile that the massive, black iron broadsword she was carrying was somewhat incongruous. However, it was as if it were nothing but a feather in her grip.
She paused, looking up at Tintagel's looming, boxy shape for a moment, then pressed on up the beach and towards the woods, following the mouth of the river.
There had to be a decent body of water she could find somewhere nearby.
And from there, she could finally be rid of this damned prima donna of a sword and get back home.
For the Lady in the ….to be confirmed span of water had arrived in the world of Tintagel.
And she was bearing Excalibur.