The Castle

On Monday, keen to see bats hibernating in the rafters, I sought out the ruin of Elibank castle. Following Scrogbank burn, I veered left up and past the caravan until, as before, I reached the elbow in the woods where the siskins sang in the sunshine. This time though they were somewhere else.
The sun was setting so I slipped down left, following landrover tracks through the brush and marshy ground. Eventually, down through terraces of conifers, a static grey shape emerged, unmoving between the flitting tree trunks as I jogged closer.

I climbed into its field and, coming closer, peered in at its black, gaping window holes. This mass of stone looked and felt like three dank, square-stacked caves. There was no speaking to it. A torch might have revealed the water bats or the naterers hanging inside, but I found that my head was reluctant to poke far into the heavy threshold, never mind look up. 

Dusk was quickly gathering and I ran off, leaving the sleeping bats undisturbed.