Chapter 1
Hell Hound on My Trail
The certified letter that had appeared in my mail box had a return address that was in London, England.
It was from a law firm whose name meant nothing to me although it did have a lot of letters after it and the comment "Legal counsel to the crown since Anno Domini 1415"
Opening it I read: "RE: Newton Farm, Brecon, Wales.
Dear Mr. Blank,
We are pleased to inform you that after an exhaustive search, we have determined that you are the sole male heir to the Blank family. Therefore you will inherit the Newton Farm and its Estate located in Brecon, Wales.
Please contact us at your earliest convenience and we can proceed with the transfer of lands and titles to yourself.
Warmest regards,
Nigel Smithers, legal counsel."
Included with the letter was a couple of photos of this large house with a group of buildings attached to it at one end.
It looked very old.
There was an awful lot of blah, blah, blah type writing after that and I was tempted to toss it in the trash as it sounded too good to be true, like one of those "Nigerian Prince" scams of a few years ago.
The fact that there wasn't any requests for funds or my bank account number made me think it just might be legit.
I set it aside for later.
The next day at work, a couple of the guys were laughing about an email one of them had gotten from a "Nigerian Diplomat" who wanted to transfer money to his account to get it out of the country.
When I told them about the letter I had gotten yesterday, the one who had gotten the email said, "That's weird, they don't usually send a certified letter, and it's from England? It could be legit, check it out and see how far they'll take it."
Stopping at the library on the way home, I googled "Newton Farm, Brecon, Wales." and to my surprise, there really was such a place!
I printed out everything I found about the place, including the pictures of this rambling structure alongside the river Uys, in Wales.
Holy Crap! The place was real, maybe the letter was legit after all.
What did all this mean?
Was I going to become wealthy or would I get saddled with a shit ton of old debts I had nothing to do with?
I didn't sleep very well that night and I couldn't ask my girlfriend to come over and spend the night with me.
She had dumped me two weeks before and had recently posted pictures of herself with her new lover, so I blocked the bitch.
Good Riddance!
Two days later, I replied to the letter.
It had come with a self addressed, stamped envelope so it didn't cost me anything to respond.
I wrote a brief letter saying that I had received their letter and I would need more information on what I could be getting into.
Dropping my response at the post office, I basically went about my business and tried not to think to much about my situation.
The house had quite the history, it was the second one at that location.
The first one had been utterly destroyed during an invasion from England.
The 'new house' was built in the late sixteenth century, around 1580 or so.
During the latter part of the eighteenth century, it was pretty much abandoned and has remained largely unoccupied ever since.
The extensive farmlands around it had become a large golf course and there it sat, empty and silent, but for the sound of an occasional stray golf ball bouncing off one of its high walls.
In addition to the house, there were several other buildings, barns, sheds and workshops mostly and a caretaker's cottage.
The cottage seemed to be where any occupants of the house would be living rather than inside the massive fort-manor once occupied by my ancestors.
If everything worked in my favor, that was where I would be living while my motorcycles would go inside the least leaky outbuilding.
I continued showing up for work and went about my duties working for a small city in Los Angeles county as a general fixit guy keeping things in order.
I didn't really mention the house as I didn't feel like drawing attention to myself, at least not the kind of attention I'd seen some guys get when they got too big for their britches.
It was simply easier to keep mum about it.
Almost two weeks to the day I received the original letter, I received a reply to my reply.
Included with the letter was a round trip airline ticket, which meant I had to deal with the state department or whoever it was that handled these things...Shit!
Getting my passport turned out to be easier than I thought it would be.
Having been in the Army meant that I had a profile somewhere in the state department and it said I was a good guy, apparently.
My supervisor looked over my vacation request and remarked, "Wales? What's in Wales for you to see?"
I simply replied, "My ancestors came from there and I want to see the place."
He shrugged and signed his approval before saying, "Have a nice trip!"
I thanked him and began preparing.
I packed lightly, bringing little more than my camera and some old shirts, under wear and socks.
I figured I'd toss them as I wore them and buy new stuff once I got back home again.
The flight was long and very boring, none of the in flight movies appealed to me and the food was the usual airline fare, not fit for human consumption.
I managed to get in a nap at some point and woke up as we were coming in for a landing at Cardiff International Airport about 38 miles from Brecon by way of driving.
Retrieving my scanty luggage, I made my way through the Welsh version of customs and out into the airport proper.
Like all airports, it was semi organized chaos with the swirling crowds and the PA continually blaring arrival times and boarding times in several languages, most of which I did not speak.
I finally spotted a suit clad gentleman standing with a card board sign that had my name on it.
Approaching him, I introduced myself and after a brief moment of hand shaking, we left the airport and were soon driving through the incredibly green landscape of Wales.
Here and there, a pile of broken stones marked the site of a former manor house or a castle and my camera was kept busy snapping photos of the sights I was seeing.
My guide remarked, "First time in Wales? Absolutely lovely country I must say."
I told him I was California born and raised, and Wales was all new to me.
He chuckled and replied, "Well, I say, I think you'll fancy it here, once you get settled in. The Welsh are a friendly people and jolly welcoming to strangers."
I didn't ask what he meant by his remark "Once you get settled in", and sat back to enjoy the scenery rolling past.
It was late afternoon as we approached Brecon proper, my driver pointed out what he called "The Beacons" and said, "In the old days, there were watch towers atop those mountains, and if invaders were approaching, bonfires would be lit to warn the rest of Wales."
I chuckled and remarked, "Kinda like the ones in the movie?"
He grinned at me and retorted, "Yes, but these were real and it did happen!"
He looked at me and asked, "I say, didn't your family tell you, anything about your family's history?"
"Only that I had an ancestor who died in a famous battle in France."
He frowned slightly and muttered, "Then you, have a lot to learn."
We were driving near a river when he pointed out a forbidding looking structure about four stories tall with a pyramidal roof and several large chimneys sticking up from it.
Nearby was a rambling assortment of smaller buildings and sheds.
"Well, that's the house!" He said cheerfully.
At my bemused look he smiled and said, "Not to worry, we shan't be staying there, I have made other arrangements. There's a rather charming B&B nearby and I've made reservations. I think you'll fancy it."
I must've visibly relaxed and he remarked, "We'll look the old place over tomorrow, after our brekky."
I continued looking at the old house until we rounded a bend and it went out of sight.
It would need a whole lot more than a coat of paint and some new windows, the place was freaking huge!
I shuddered at the thought of what the inside was like, not having been lived in or cleaned for some two hundred years.
It dawned on me that being so old, it would not have any kind of indoor plumbing and installing it would be a major undertaking, way beyond my skills...
What had I gotten myself into here? I asked myself for the umpteenth time.
Nigel, my driver and the fellow who had sent me the letter originally, turned into a parking area behind an older building.
"Here we are! The Old Castle Farm house bed and brekky. We'll be staying here while you are looking the house and lands over."
He said a little too cheerfully for my tastes.
Having finally seen the house, even at a distance.
It looked kinda scary.
I soon found myself sitting on a comfy bed in a room furnished with antiques.
The room was pretty reasonable and I couldn't complain as Nigel was paying for it.
I took a quick shower and changed into a button up shirt instead of my usual tee shirt.
Meeting up with Nigel, we settled in at a table and soon were sipping at our first pints of ale.
I looked the menu over.
Several of the dishes were Welsh traditional recipes I couldn't pronounce so I just pointed my finger at one and said to the waitress, "I'll have this one please."
I had finished off one pint of ale and was part way through my second one, when the food arrived.
Having grown up primarily on Mexican food, it was a little bland to me, but it was tasty and it was filling.
Two very important factors when eating, as far as I was concerned.
After finishing a third pint of ale, my jet lag was really getting to me and I said my good nights to Nigel, and left the tap room to make my way back to my room.
Taking off my clothes and laying them aside, I slipped under the covers and turned out the light.
I lay there staring up at the ceiling.
Last night I had slept in Los Angeles, CA. Tonight, I was lying in a bed in Brecon, Wales.
Far off in the distance, I thought I heard a faint howling, like that of a wolf.
It was only a brief howl and then it stopped.
Did they still have wolves in Wales anymore?
The next morning my head was still a bit fuzzy feeling from the ale I'd had the night before.
Apparently English ale was a lot stronger than the fizzy yellow stuff we call beer back home.
I jumped in the shower partly to clear my head and partly to wash up.
I had just about finished dressing when Nigel knocked on my door, I let him in mostly to keep him from making any more noise.
His cheery,"Spiffing morning old chum!"
Was a bit much before I'd had my first cup of coffee.
For a man who'd drank even more ale than I did and had stayed in the tap room after I had called it a night, he seemed awfully chipper, chipper should be illegal before noon.
I guess when one is raised on English ales, drinking them becomes second nature.
At Nigel's insistence,we left the B&B and walked to a nearby cafe that served breakfast.
I silently chuckled at some of the street name signs I saw, did the Welsh have a problem with using vowels?
The place had a few touristy types in it and seemed to be popular, I took it as a good sign that the food would be decent.
After taking our seats and ordering coffee from the waitress, I looked over the menu and ordered what they called an 'American Breakfast'.
I slowly sipped at my surprisingly good coffee and waited for my order to arrive.
When the food arrived along with Nigel's order, we dug in and quickly made the food disappear.
In all it wasn't too bad, it certainly had the local cafe back home's food beat.
I couldn't help checking out the waitress, as she was definitely a cutie and she had a nice smile as she replenished my coffee for me.
I like girls...What can I say?
Nigel settled up the bill and we walked back to the B&B to get his car.
Brecon, Wales was pretty nice to see, the town had a lot of history behind it, like most places in the British Isles and many of the older buildings had a bronze plaque on it somewhere, that had a brief summary of its history.
I would've liked to linger a bit more and look around, but Nigel was being insistent on getting out to see the old house.
We pulled up in front of the house and parked.
Nigel shut off the his Volvo Estate Wagon AKA SUV and we simply looked at the huge, old house, my ancestral home.
For a long moment neither of us spoke.
For me, it was the reality of it all.
Nigel sat quietly until he unclicked his seat belt and opened his door, the sudden chiming of the door alarm brought me back to the present and I followed his example.
We walked around outside just looking the place over and taking a lot of photos. Some of the outbuildings looked serviceable and I mentally pictured laying down a smooth concrete floor in a couple of them for a workshop.
The caretaker's cottage was in the best condition as according to Nigel, it had been lived in until fairly recently.
I contented myself with peering through the lacy curtains and trying to make out details inside.
The house itself was this massive roughly cubic shaped block of a house with a pyramidal roof on top.
An enormous sort of a chimney came up through the center of the house and added to its height and apparent bulk.
The walls were quite thick and looked stout enough to resist an invasion.
Given the history of the region, it was not surprising it was more of a fortress manor house than an elaborate country estate, having been built with defense in mind.
Some of the smallish windows appeared to have been added at a later date when times were less violent.
Nigel held up a large, wrought iron key and said cheerfully, "I say, shall we have a look inside?"
I waved him on and wanted to laugh when I saw the front door, it was nearly as large as a one car garage door and had a smaller door set into it.
Nigel's key went into the smaller door, not the big door.
Even the smaller door was crazy strong, it was solid oak about four inches thick and hung on these really big, hand forged hinges that groaned like those hinges in the old black and white monster movies, I saw when I was a kid.
The interior was in better shape than I had expected, it was mostly dusty and cob webby up in the corners where the walls met the high ceilings.
I took a lot of pictures of the carved mantel piece over the giant fireplace, it had the dates of when the house was built carved into it and a bunch of latin, I guess.
The stained glass window dedicated to my famous ancestor was pretty cool and I took a few pictures of that too.
Nigel remarked,"Well I say, there he is, the fair haired Welshman who died at Agincourt and founded the family name. You, old bean, are his heir."
I muttered, "He even rated mention in a Shakespearean play...He must've been quite the character."
Nigel chuckled and remarked, "That he was, that he was."
I marveled at the kitchen, if you could call it that.
The stove was more like an outdoor barbecue with iron hooks to hang pots from and pokers to control the flames.
I couldn't imagine trying to prepare a feast for a lot of guests with such primitive equipment.
For the late sixteenth century, it was probably pretty 'posh' as the Brits would put it.
I could see where repairs had been carried out over the years, but none appeared to be recent.
Apparently money, being in short supply, was the issue.
Nigel commented,"Who knows what they would have done to the old place if they could have kept up with the latest architectural fads. It is one of the few surviving original fortress manor houses that is still fairly original."
"And lucky me gets to inherit it." I muttered.
"Yes, lucky you, old bean!" Agreed Nigel a little too eagerly.
Nigel locked the door behind us as we left the old house.
Turning towards his car, we saw an elderly woman dressed largely in widow's black hobbling towards us, her snow white hair somewhat confined by a faded blue scarf.
She hobbled up to me and peered at me with her watery blue eyes.
Her nearly toothless mouth opened and she said in a quavering voice."What business d'ya have with this 'owse?"
Nigel smiled tolerantly at her and replied,"He is here to see his inheritance, he is the sole heir. Don't you know?"
The old woman looked at him and muttered, "I thought they were all gone to their graves, I thought th' cuss was ended. This explains th' wolf howlen I heard last night."
I interjected, "You heard it too? Then I wasn't imagining things..."
The old woman's eyes widened briefly, then narrowed as she said in barely more than a whisper, "Leave, leave now while you still can...Before th' Hellhound catches up ter you!"
She looked so deadly serious that any sarcastic retort on my part was silenced.
Nigel broke the tension by chuckling, then saying, "A Hellhound is it now? This isn't a Conan Doyle story, this is the twenty first century, we know better now. Now leg it along, old woman, haven't you got something in the oven? Shoo!"
He waved his hand at her dismissively which kinda pissed me off.
I like little old ladies, they were always nice to me when I was a kid.
She glared at him and all but spat her words, "You fancy types with yer fancy things. You think you have all th' answers with yer compooters an' them celly phones. This ain't London, this is Brecon, where some of us still respect th' old ways."
She straightened up as much as she could and stormed off, her infirmity for the moment, forgotten.
"I'm terribly sorry about this, ignore that old crone, she's clearly off her nut. There is no hell hound and you, old bean, are not Henry Baskerville!"
Declared Nigel with his British self confidence.
"Maybe not" I replied, "But she certainly believes the story and I did hear something like a wolf howling last night, and she heard it too. Are both of us crazy?"
Nigel grinned back and replied,"Well, ancestry aside, you old bean, are an American, and aren't all Yanks, a little balmy?"
I grinned back and retorted, "Well, my American ancestry is mostly old southern families, the one's that fought in the revolution, 1812 and the civil war, on the losing side. 'Yank' is not a term that would be used to describe me. More like Johnny Reb."
Nigel laughed and gleefully retorted, "One of my illustrious ancestors was at Yorktown, sent to teach you rebels a lesson. To us, all of you were Yanks!"
"As I recall my American history" I replied slowly, "Isn't Yorktown where you Brits surrendered?"
Nigel smiled and said gamely,"Well I say, touche!"
I smiled at him and said, "Now that we have settled that. What exactly, are my options on this place? I'm sure it's listed on some sort of 'historical places' register, which means I'm very limited on what I can and cannot do. Obviously, I can't just tear out all the insides and remodel the place with things like indoor plumbing and the like."
Nigel shrugged ever so slightly and replied,"There isn't much you, can do except to keep and preserve it. We've no shortage of highly skilled craftsmen who specialise in this sort of work. The government does have programs for homeowners in your position."
"You mean land rich and cash poor?" I asked.
Nigel smiled and replied,"Well I say, I wouldn't have put it so indelicately, but yes."
"I kinda thought so" I replied then said, "You don't mind if I walk back to the B&B from here do you? I have some thinking to do."
Nigel smiled and said cheerfully,"Actually, no I don't mind a bit. It will give me a chance to catch up with some of my other clients."
We shook hands good bye and soon, his Volvo Estate Wagon was leaving the scene.
I stood in front of the centuries old house looking up at it, trying to remember every single detail of its bulk.
It sure wasn't a fairy tale castle, it was a manor house built to be defended.
The axe marks I had seen on the carved mantelpiece, had told a tale of violence in the past.
I slowly walked around the place some more, my camera at the ready to capture any detail I wanted to retain.
I briefly had the feeling someone was watching me, but saw no one looking at me. So, I kept poking around the out buildings, wondering if I would be allowed to upgrade any of them.
As I walked by the caretaker's cottage, I noticed a light was on inside the small house.
I hadn't noticed it before, who had turned it on I wondered.
Out of curiosity, I knocked on the stout front door.
A voice cried out, "Just a minute!" and moments later, the old woman who had confronted us earlier was standing in the doorway blinking at me.
She sighed heavily and said glumly,"Are you here ta evict me? Now that yer th' missin' lord an' gaffer of this 'owse."
Taken slightly aback, I spluttered,"Evict you? I'm not here for that, I just wondered about the light in the window."
Now it was her turn to stammer,"Y, yoo're not here ter evict me?"
I smiled at her and said cheerfully, "Nope! It never crossed my mind."
She smiled slightly and asked, "Would you loike ter come in fer a spot of tea?"
I nodded yes and she stepped aside as I entered the small cottage.
Once inside, the first thing I noticed was that how low the ceiling was, people in the old days were a lot shorter than we are now and the cottage showed that with its low ceiling.
I looked around her place, it was filled with small mementos, a lifetime of her memories reflected in the small objects so carefully arrayed.
On one wall, hung a large rack filled with tiny silver spoons, each bearing a small cloisonne emblem representing the town it had come from.
She clattered about in her tiny kitchen preparing our tea.
"Make yourself at um, it'll be ready in a jiffy!" She called out and I sat down at her small dining table.
A few minutes later, we were seated at her small dining table, letting our tea cool just a bit before drinking it.
I spoke first, "I'm sorry about what he said to you earlier, I wasn't expecting him to be so rude."
She smiled and replied,"He's English, I'm Welsh, they still lord it over us after all this time."
She looked at me steadily and asked, "'How did you come ter be here, you a Yank ain't you?"
I chuckled and replied, "Some of my more southern relatives might object to being called yanks. But that's beside the point. I got this registered letter from England telling me 'I'm the sole heir' and so, here I am wondering what to do next?"
She smiled at my reply and said, "What's anunst is you'll become the lord an' gaffer of this 'owse an' I'll have ter move."
She sighed and looked around at what had been her home for many years.
"First of all, I haven't signed anything, so I'm nobody's lord and master. Second of all, I'm not some heartless bastard who will evict an elderly woman from her home. As far as I'm concerned, you can live here for the rest of your days."
I replied a bit testily, the idea of kicking any old person out of their home did not sit well with me and I was not about to do it my own damn self.
My comment seemed to lift a tremendous weight from her aged shoulders and she noticeably straightened up a bit.
I leaned forward and asked her directly, "Now, what is this story you were alluding to when you mentioned a Hellhound? I read the Sherlock Holmes story when I was a kid, and that was set in England, not Wales."
She finished off her tea and carefully set her antique tea cup on its matching saucer. She cleared her throat noisily and began,"Sum tewthree hundred years ago, 'un of the sons of this 'owse forced himself on a young maiden an' she became great with his baby. The wench was a daughter of a local wise woman, she was outraged by the boy's act an demanded justice be done. The lord 'ad 'er thrown out an' threatened to try 'er as a witch. The boy was sent away an' the poor wench doid given birth. Legend 'as it the baby wench was well, different, covered in black fur with great pointed ears an' eyes that glowed loike embers. The wise woman took the baby away an' she left Brecon."
She refilled hers and my cups and after adding a lump of sugar and a dollop of cream, she continued.
"Ten years later, the lord of this 'owse doid after bein' attacked by a large black wolf with eyes that glowed loike embers. After that, every wolf in the area was hunted down an' killed, but not a 'un of them was black."
"And wolves are extinct in the British Isles...What was that we both heard then?" I muttered.
She did not reply.
I sat up straight and said, "You say all this happened about two hundred years ago? Well, my ancestor from here came to Virginia Colony in 1620, nearly four hundred years ago. My portion of the family had nothing to do with any of this."
The woman looked troubled and said quietly, "Yer still blood relations, I'm sorry ter say."
She sighed and said, "Yer such a kindly young geezer, you don't deserve any of this."
"Deserve what?" I interjected, "An ancient curse involving a, what did you call it? A Hellhound? What's keeping me from saying "Eff This!" and leaving for home?"
"Because this is yer roight home, this auld 'owse, this lan' an' th Hellhound is a part of yer legacy!" She said firmly.
I wanted to laugh, but she was so earnest and sincere, I just couldn't...Stupid proper upbringing!
"What is your connection to all this? You seem to be pretty familiar with the story, how are you involved?" I asked her directly.
She looked out the window towards the massive house outside.
"Me family is involved with this because I am related ter the wise woman, through 'un of 'er daughters. We became the caretakers after the last lord of the manor was killed."
Looking back at me, she said softly, "Me own children have all left Brecon, they wanted a be'ah loife than they would have 'ad here."
I finished my second cup of tea and asked politely, "Were you watching me while I was looking through those out buildings taking pictures? I had the oddest feeling I was being watched."
Her reaction surprised me, she paled and suddenly leaned forward to grip my right arm with surprising strength for one so old.
In a low voice, she said, "Leave here, leave here while its still day. She wunt attack you durin' the day."
"She?" I asked.
"The Hellhound boy! The Hellhound is a she!" The old woman almost hissed her reply.
She let go of my arm, straightened up and with tears in her eyes, she cried, "Pleaz leave here, I'm beggen you, pleaz leave, I don't wanna see you get hurt."
She set her jaw firmly and pointed at the door.
In a low voice she said, "Get out of me 'owse!"
I rose to leave and saw her eyes welling up with unshed tears, the emotions she must've been feeling had to be incredible.
I thanked her for her hospitality and as I opened the door to leave, she let out a wail of anguish and her tears flowed freely.
I stepped outside and as I pulled the stout door closed behind me, I heard her mutter, "Dear God, why did I hav ter bear 'er, why was I chosen? Pleaz God, spare him frum his cuss!"
She broke into a fit of sobbing and I left with the sounds of her anguish, still lingering in my ears.
The B&B was an easy brisk walk away and by the time I strode up to the front door, I had worked up a bit of a sweat.
I went to my room, stripped off my clothes and hopped in the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, I was in the tap room working on my first pint of ale for the day.
An hour later, Nigel found me there well into my fourth or fifth pint and halfway through a bag of pretzels, lightly salted...I was feeling pretty...Well I was feeling something...We'll go with snockered.
Nigel peered at me curiously and in his mildly annoying posh manner, asked,"Oh, I say, did something happen? I didn't think you, would be one for getting bladdered before supper, eh wot?"
I looked at him blearily and muttered, "I had the mosht interreshting conver...Convershation wi' th' old woamn...Woman what livesh at th' old housh..."
I blinked a few times to regain my focus...Damn, this ale was strong!
Nigel frowned and said firmly, "I say! This needs to be talked about in private, I must insist we leave here immediately!"
He pretty much strong armed me out of the tap room, leaving my change on the table. When I looked back, he said, "Hang the change old boy, consider it a generous tip!"
I managed to bellow "Keep the change!" as I was all but dragged out of the tap room.
Once back in my room, Nigel handed me a big glass of water and said, "Drink up! It'll lessen the hangover."
I obliged him by downing it in one go and belched loudly when I was finished.
When my eyes could remain focused, Nigel asked, "Now old bean, what were you blathering about? What did that daft, old gal tell you?"
He turned partly away and muttered, "I knew I should have put her in a home!"
Recovering his composure, Nigel said quietly,"Now, old bean, tell me everything!"
I recounted our conversation as best I could recall and when I finished, I said, "Now if it's all the same to you, I want to get some sleep."
Nigel nodded and said, "We will chinwag about this in the morning when you've had a chance to sober up. Drink some more water before you drop off old boy, it will help."
He turned to leave and when he reached the door, he paused and said in reflection."You know old boy, if the outcome of the revolution had been decided by a drinking contest, you yanks would still be British subjects!"
He winked at me and left before my ale addled brain could dredge up a retort...The Bastard!
I awoke in the middle of the night to nature's call.
Washing my face and hands afterwards, I downed another glass of water and headed back to bed.
Sleep eluded me for a little while and I thought I could hear a faint scratching and sniffing at my bedroom window facing the garden.
A moment later, it stopped and I finally dropped off to sleep.
It had been one hell of a day!
The next morning after breakfast, Nigel and I went over the folder of paperwork he had with him for me to sign.
While I had seen American legal documents and had a better reading comprehension level than average and understood the legalese was actually necessary to protect the client.
This 'British Law' stuff was way out of my league.
I was unprepared for the complexity of the legalese the British used and was soon hopelessly lost in a sea of verbs, adverbs and other subtleties of phrasing.
I looked at Nigel and said in exasperation, "I'm convinced you lawyers have created your own incomprehensible language to assure your continued existence! I'm glad you understand this!"
Nigel smiled at me and said, "Well, we lawyers are a predatory lot, we circle the documents looking for the poorly chosen word or phrase, the misplaced punctuation mark, then we jolly well go in for the kill!"
I nodded as I drank some more water to ease my headache and muttered, "That ale I drank last night really snuck up on me. I've had more beers at a party back home and didn't get nearly as hammered."
Grinning at him, I said, "You're right, it is a good thing the outcome of the revolution wasn't decided by a drinking contest. Our legal system would be even more confusing!"
After lunch and with no small amount of self doubt.
I signed the papers before several witnesses, and with the proverbial stroke of a pen, I became the bemused owner of a nearly four hundred forty year old fortress manor in Brecon, Wales, that came complete with its own curse!
Gawd help me!
To collect my thoughts afterwards, I took a little stroll in the garden behind the B&B and realized, I was right outside my own bedroom.
Below the windowsill of my room, I saw the freshly turned soil had some large paw prints pressed into it, wolflike paw prints and on the window sill itself, faint claw marks.