A smudge of winter sun emerged this afternoon as I walked the back streets of old Worcester. Queen Elizabeth House, tatty but indefatigable, smiled to receive the few sparse rays. I stopped awhile.
They say that Elizabeth I herself addressed the crowds from the balcony in 1575. There’s scant evidence – though the Queen’s visit did take place, nearly bankrupting the city in the process.
I wonder why we attach these stories to such venerable survivors. Aren’t the centuries of stories told, shared, and played out to this backdrop a sufficient source of wonder?
What lives have you witnessed, old walls? What secrets are suffused within your dark timbers?