Just as we were resigning ourselves to the fact that we would not lay eyes on our destination before nightfall, The Castle Ignormarte swelled up from the sea, back lit by what was left of the days light.
Our guide, Igor, dampened our enthusiasm almost immediately. “Despite the grandeur of her architecture, Ignormarte doesn’t offer the finest in modern sleeping accommodations. A good nights sleep here in the relative comforts of the ship will serve us better than any make shift sleeping arraignments we could throw together inside her walls in the dark of night with only a few flashlights between us.”
His advise, although sound, met up with much rebuttal. The most adamant of which was supplied by Lawrence Ferguson, Esquire. An attorney at law from New York City who’s long winded argument in favor of going ashore tonight served as all the enticement I needed to sneak away to my quarters in search of silence.
The gentle lapping of the waters against the side of the vessel must have lulled me to sleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow because before I knew it, I could hear the familiar din of tin pots and plates, from the galley, alerting me to breakfast being prepared.
I dressed quickly, filled with anticipation for what the day held out before me, and by-passed the dimly lit galley in favor of stepping out onto the ships deck to have a first look at The Castle Ignormarte, even before I had my coffee.
With the sun not yet peaking over the horizon, and the ship enveloped in a thick English fog, Ignormarte was no where to be seen. Somewhat deflated, I retreated to the galley in hopes that I was not the only one awake at this hour so we could get breakfast underway, and start out soon on the final watery leg of our journey to The Castle Ignormarte, despite the fog.
As if to further thwart my desire to get the day underway, I found myself alone in the ships galley, save the cooks cat meandering betwixt and between the empty pots that sat cold upon the top of the cook stove, the din of a tin lid slapped by the swish of her tail being what I had had heard earlier and mistakenly thought was breakfast being prepared.
“What time is it?” I queried aloud, causing the cooks cat to look at me expectantly as if for an answer, while I surveyed the galley for a clock. Finding none, I went back to my quarters, and switching on the light was promptly met by my own unwound travel clock, stopped dead at 11:57.
Overwhelmed by the climbing number of obstacles I seemed to have been faced with already this morning, if it was indeed morning at all, I decided to slip back under the covers until I was sure of anything at all.
I must have drifted off to sleep again, as I was awakened by a deep throaty purr and the distinctly familiar feeling of a cat kneading the blanket with which I covered myself.
Fleetingly wondering if I had left the door open or if the cooks cat had followed me into my sleeping quarters unseen, I opened my eyes only to find myself at home, on the chase in my own room- a copy of ‘The Castle Ignormarte’ written by none other than Lawrence Ferguson, Esquire, laid open to a photo of the fabled Castle Ignormarte, back lit by what was left of the days light.
This was written for Sue Vincent’s #writephoto Thursday photo prompt using the nonsensical word ‘Ignormarte’ as supplied by Michael on Mindlovesmisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver series.