It was junior year that was to add depth to my experience. I chose to study abroad in probably the best country for anyone as obsessed with medieval history and lore as myself: Scotland. My three months there were filled with castles and craig, and core moments to consider my profession. I’ll never forget the trip that made the real difference. It was October, and rain was falling.

The term ‘Avalon’ refers to the land where King Arthur is said to have encountered the Lady of the Lake. A mysterious water-nymph sort of spirit, she gave the young king ‘Excalibur,’ the mighty sword whose possessor would rule all of England. In some Arthurian legends, the sword is said to have magical powers such as to heal or to expel darkness with its own internal light. With it, King Arthur fulfilled his destiny, and with the legends, my imagination fulfilled its fancy.

Ever since I was tall enough to reach the height of the stretches of my imagination, I secretly wished I could be transplanted to the ancient Caledonia. I wanted to ride a powerful steed, my armor shining in the sun, and my arm completed with the extension of a mighty sword to the sky. My bearded face worn from battle and years, I could speak and would captivate, and could instruct others to cultivate their lives like mine. Of course, this fantasy never really made it past the pages of my journals, but now deep in the land itself I could for once let my imagination run my actions.

A likely location for Avalon, according to some scholars, was Newark Castle. Just located a few miles from Glasgow where I studied, I made my way there with a camera and notebook in my hand. I went alone, for I didn’t know what awaited me there. If you say I was being silly and immature, and that all that awaited me was an old fort and a gift shop, then I’d need to let you know…you were wrong. As I stepped out of the cab. I craned my neck to see it all. Dripping from the gentle drizzle, the stone walls were a color mixture of grey muddy sand and the red of worn out brick. Two turrets stood menacingly to my right, the breach in the wall to my left. Its raised gate was black, studded steel, and its points hung above my head as I slowly entered the structure.

On my person was a backpack with the following contents: flashlight, Worst Case Scenario handbook, pocket knife (multi-tool), notebook, pen, small umbrella, and a digital camera powered by two AA batteries. Over-prepared for a typical tourist? You bet. Over-prepared to meet the ghost of King Arthur himself and find the legendary sword of Excalibur and possibly the Holy Grail? Nope.

As I entered the first hallway, I glanced down to the right to observe a source of light. A gift shop sat right off the hallway, with big glass windows to peer through and browse. Figures. Rolling my eyes, I turned to look down the hallway to my initial left and felt more intrigued. I set off to explore.

The building wasn’t gigantic by any standards. Three stories with perhaps 5 rooms on each story, the castle contained all the necessary pieces: the kitchen, bedrooms, dining room, and so forth. It was all very interesting, but not at all surprising or eventful. I seemed to be the only tourist there on that rainy day, which I met with pure delight, as that was how I’d imagined it. I joyfully took in the ancient wooden chandelier and the weathered tapestries. I ate them up with my camera; I spit it all back out in my notebook.

It was as I descended the spiral stairs back to the gift shop hall to go when I got stuck. All of my senses functioned, I just couldn’t move. I was stuck. Stuck.

Stuck.

And without warning, my reality altered before my eyes. The stone walls grew lighter in shade. The torch nearest me burned brighter. The rope I held onto for balance, formerly bolted to the walls like a banister, fell away into dust. Though frozen, I held onto nothing. I heard loud crashes like thunder above. It sounded close.