When I used to drive across the Tamar Bridge, my heart would jump around like a caged bird, knowing I had just entered Cornwall, the one place that always felt like home.
Tintagel pulled me back year after year. I believed I was born there in a former life. I loved to pretend that I owned the whole stretch from the parking lot to the beach and Merlin’s cave. Including Camelot Castle on top of the hill, that was mine too.
On the last one of our trips to Cornwall, the way back to London was both amusing and sad. A large falcon flew low in front of our car for some distance, escorting us away from Cornwall, and in my heart, I knew a door had been closed behind me.