When researching my Turnabout Series, I stopped at the village of Ewyas Harold and asked for directions to the pre-Norman castle. A local official told me that nothing of the castle existed and that I would find nothing of interest without an archeologist.  

I drove along the road where I thought the castle had once been, planning to explore the Golden Valley and the Black Mountains. The steep, narrow, and twisted single—lane road rose above the village. Grasses brushed my car as I edged around a hill on my left while watching for the sheer drop on my right. I drove slowly, approaching each blind curve, fearful of meeting a car coming in the opposite direction. 

As I approached a series of switchbacks climbing the wooded hill, a large truck filled with sheep crept down the steep road toward me. I stopped. The truck, as wide as the road, left no room to pass. I could see no turn-off ahead and imagined trying to back down to the village. Then, I remembered passing a small driveway, so I let my car roll backward down the road and backed it up into a dirt driveway.

The driveway, a small niche, surrounded on three sides by rock walls, angled up into the hillside about two car lengths deep, just wide enough for a car. It reminded me of a small box canyon. I had no view of the road except for the swath in front of me but could hear the heavy vehicle roaring down the hill in low gear. 

While waiting for the truck to pass, I glanced into my rearview mirror and saw a sign tacked to a stake before the dirt wall. I turned and read the words printed in pencil on a piece of cardboard the size of a packing box flap. 

Just then, the truck lurched loudly down the incline passing the driveway. I pulled the car back on the paved road, turned it around, and nosing forward, I reentered the driveway. Following the arrow on that little sign, I drove slowly up a deeply rutted track and crested the hill.  

Unlike the more recent photo of the motte above, an area covered by overgrown trees and bushes hid the large earthwork mound, built almost a thousand years ago. Feeling a cool breeze, I walked over the site imagining the timber tower that once crowned the motte and searching for the defense ring ditches. I found Dulas Creek, a footpath, and dirt stairs beneath the overgrown bushes. Without the trees covering the mound, this castle would have commanded a dominating view of the surrounding land. I sat on the grass, listening to the birds flitting among the budding trees, and tried to absorb something of this place, knowing it once throbbed with the sounds of metal on anvils, soldiers, and servants.

It felt desolate, lonely, sad. 


I wondered about the simple sign. Handprinted in pencil, it was unrecognizable from the road, certainly not visible to anyone driving by, and unnecessary for local inhabitants who knew where this site rested. 

Despite the logical and rational explanations for this sign’s existence, I decided that this sign had been made for me—a guide to take me to the place I wanted to find, the essential starting place of my story—the birthplace of my male protagonist.