Kenilworth is one of England's finest ruins, still majestic and breath taking. Photograph opportunities abound, and you can almost hear the echoes of the parties, the minstrel's, the gaiety mixed with the dread of disaster as your own feet touch the concave steps worn from generations of footsteps for over seven centuries leading up to the ramparts overlooking the country side, looking down in the rooms with fireplaces and doorways still in the walls. The garden is immaculate, the gate house is still in perfect shape, complete with furniture in the exquisite wood paneled rooms, a museum on the top floor accessible by the round tower stairs, shadows in every corner, and a small bright orb.

Kenilworth was my very first real castle ever, and it was nothing short of breathtaking for me. The moment it came into my view, I was mesmerized. We did get there a bit late and had to leave after just past an hour, but the entire stay was spectacular. Someone brushed by me as I stood looking out a tower window, and this would prove to be a common event in the castles to come. I sat on a garden wall where young girls sat and giggled for generations, waiting for a sweetheart to appear. My umpteenth grandfather and grandmother walked those hallways and up those steps, danced in the grand room, looked out the same windows I did. The twisty turns through dark stone corridors and circle tower steps leading to the next surprise were out of a childhood storybook. Stunning.