The view from it is magnificent: before you the open sea; on both sides, extending in graceful curves, the coast, amethyst-hued; far on the left the white houses of Trieste, and rather nearer, the Imperial Castle of Miramar; on the right, just on the horizon, the tower of Aquileia, famous in Roman times; and in the dim distance the snow-clad Alps.
From the land side the castle looks perhaps even more stern and severe, and like the fortress it was in old days. Not a window is to be seen, only the bare fortifications and the old walls clad with ivy, almost as old to all appearance as the walls themselves.
What appeals to one most is the restfulness and quiet of the place. The old castle, with its towers and battlements, its cloisters and courtyard, stands just as it has stood for centuries. You are out of the world here, the bustling, hurrying, work-a-day world of to-day, and back again in a world of two or three hundred years ago.
It is a nice, sad sort of feeling that comes over one: you think of your debts, of the friends of your youth that are dead and gone, of your elderly relation from whom you have expectations, and who will not die, and other melancholy things of a like nature; but your troubles seem far away, and are quite pleasant—"grateful and comforting."
DOOR-KNOCKER
The place seems peopled with ghosts—ghosts of a bygone age. There is a legend that on certain nights of the year a troop of phantom horsemen ride into the courtyard, and even in daylight you almost expect something of the sort to happen—you listen for the clank of arms and the ring of the horses' hoofs. Modern dress seems out of place, you feel you ought to be in armour yourself. Every nook and corner, every stone, seems to have a story to tell. What a pity they cannot speak and tell all they have seen!
The castle must have been well-nigh impregnable in the old days, and probably extended to the ruin one sees on the right, on entering it.
Between the two—the ruin and the inhabited part—there is a sort of half garden, half wilderness, known as the "Riviera"—a delightful spot. Ilex, cypresses, laurels, and olive-trees grow in luxuriant profusion. Little winding paths tempt you to explore them. There is a long, old, steep flight of steps with the trees meeting over them in a roof of green leaves, leading down to the sea. Old-fashioned flowers abound, and grow almost wild—purple irises, great blue periwinkles, honey-scented "dragons' mouths," and roses of every kind. Butterflies that are rare in England are common enough here—huge yellow swallow-tails, the graceful "White Admiral," glorious "Camberwell Beauties" flit from flower to flower. There are swarms of nightingales; and pigeons and starlings have formed a perfect colony in the cliff under the ruin; a pair of kestrels have their nest here too. There are snakes in the long grass, and bright-coloured lizards bask in the sunshine.
Notice the big doors as you enter the castle—there is "Salve!" on one of them. It is pleasant to know one is "welcome," but one always is in Austria—it is the land of hospitality.