Ludlow Castle

I last month caught the train from Shrewsbury to Ludlow in order to see its great fortress. The ticket price was reasonable, considering (or perhaps because) it is owned by the local lord, the Earl of Powis, rather than one of the bloated heritage organisations our country is pleased to spawn. And for travelling by train, I warranted a ninety pence discount (my train cost seventeen, I hasten to add). The day was sunny but a little nippy, yet I was delighted to be there. 

To visit Ludlow Castle is to visit a thousand years of British history. This sounds like one of the naff cliches reeled off by local tourist boards, but this time, it might be true. Roger Mortimer, Bloody Mary, Stephen and Matilda, Royalist and Parliamentarian: all procured this castle at some stage, using foul means or fair. Furthermore, it was here that a young Prince Arthur, first husband of Catherine of Aragon and eldest son of King Henry VII, died at a young age in April, 1502. For that reason, his younger brother, Harry, inherited the throne in 1509. I sometimes wonder if Arthur, not Henry VIII had been king, would we have had a better Reformation, one that was whole-hearted and sincere? Or might we never have had one at all? We shall never know; what happened, happened.

Ludlow Castle seems to be a microcosm of our wider history, something to which its current attractive, though ruinous state, lends support. Our wider history is also full of ‘what ifs’. Come to think of it, so is hell, among its denizens who ponder the lost and squandered opportunities to seek refuge in Jesus Christ.