As part of her founding membership as one of Gilly’s Angels, this story was written by request of my adoring mother-in-law VickieO. As it happens, William and I took our mothers on a holiday to Crossbasket Castle a few years ago, on the notion that future Christmases would look different once we moved abroad.
We did not stay in the haunted suite.
This story also explains a choice that I’ve been reckoning with making over the last couple of years, and is most decidedly not what was envisioned when it was requested. I can only concede that the muse is tricky sometimes…
The arrival at the castle was long awaited. Who wouldn’t eagerly anticipate an opportunity to celebrate the festive season at an honest to goodness Scottish castle? Elegantly rising from the banks of the River Calder in High Blantyre, the weathered stone edifice would normally shine in the sun, but instead it was slick with sleet when the American’s taxi crunched its way up the drive.
Restored as a luxury hotel, Crossbasket Castle carried a storied history, now the perfect setting for his final Christmas. Warm golden light poured from the ground floor rooms as guests arrived for their three-night luxury all-inclusive holiday package. Lights twinkled among the fir garlands, the cold breeze somehow unable to penetrate the amber bubble emanating from the building.
