The Old Castle Beyond the River

mister-omortson


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The Old Castle Beyond the River




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The river glistened under the late afternoon sun, its gentle ripples reflecting the rich blue of the July sky. On the opposite shore, tucked behind a wall of dense green forest, rose the silhouette of an old castle—its pointed tower slicing through the clouds like a memory of something noble and lost.

We had heard stories about the place before we ever saw it with our own eyes. Locals said it was once the residence of a powerful family, wealthy merchants turned aristocrats, who built the castle in the late 19th century. The bricks, pale and warm, stood like weathered bones against the sky. Though time had gnawed at its edges, the structure remained proud and poetic.

Earlier that day, we had arrived at the lake formed in a former sand quarry. The water, cool and clear, was rumored to have appeared overnight when a bulldozer accidentally punctured an underground spring decades ago. The machine, according to legend, sank into the flooding pit and was never retrieved. But what it left behind was more valuable than any engine—an oasis in the middle of the Kostroma forests. Even now, the lake remains remarkably clean, free of any stagnant taste or smell, a rarity in these parts.

As the sun dipped lower and the heat of Saturday gave way to the long-awaited coolness of a Sunday evening, we packed a small bag and set off toward the castle. The trail meandered through reeds and overgrown grasses, eventually crossing an old wooden bridge that creaked with every step, as if whispering secrets from a bygone era.

The castle loomed closer with every step. Its tower, capped with dark slate, watched silently over the water, its tall windows like unblinking eyes. On one side, the stone walls stood proudly preserved; on the other, the structure showed signs of ruin—peeling paint, rusted fixtures, and broken arches revealing skeletal brickwork beneath the plaster.

Inside, we discovered something unexpected: life.

Though partially abandoned, parts of the castle had been preserved or repurposed. In one grand room, a ceiling adorned with Egyptian motifs arched over us, flaking but still majestic. Carved birds and winged figures stretched across the beams—echoes of a time when the exotic was the ultimate symbol of taste and wealth.

The hallway beyond revealed a different kind of fascination: taxidermy mounts of wild animals stared silently from the walls. A moose with grand antlers loomed in one corner; across from him, a wild sheep, a ram with curling horns, stood as if still challenging some unseen rival. They were strange companions to the rotting walls and cracked tile, reminders of an era when adventure and conquest were measured by trophies.

Through the large arched window, we saw the lake again. The same peaceful water, now tinged golden with the last rays of sun, shimmered just beyond the trees. Families laughed and swam below, and children rode inflatable boats past patches of floating lilies. The contrast between this joyful present and the silent, dignified past encapsulated the strange, beautiful mystery of the place.

We lingered a little longer before heading back. The wind picked up, rattling the reeds along the bank and swaying the lily pads. The castle behind us faded into the encroaching twilight, its tower a silhouette once more.

But as we looked back one final time, it no longer felt like a ruin. The old castle beyond the river wasn’t just a relic—it was a witness. A guardian of stories both old and new, standing between the water and the woods, waiting patiently for someone else to come and listen.

Stand by