If you read about Elfindale online, theres a great deal missing from the history. No where will you read about a ghostly young woman clad in a wedding gown that rode sidesaddle through the mist and fog near dawn, and startled some elderly German nuns en route to Chapel.
You won't read about the stone bridge that arched over the stream, or about the winding path through wood and thicket, a secret and back route into the boat house, and the pagoda. I knew the way. Old Mr Harrington had described his stealthy journey to meet his lover there, long before the land had been sold to the nuns. She would place two lights in the tower before a planned gala. If he could secret away to attend, he would ring his tower of bells the night before. You won't read that anywhere.
No one could tell you, but I could have shown you where all the squirrels and rabbits nested before the nuns sold, and moved and the bulldosers came. Mr Harrington was no doubt buried by then. He wouldn't have wanted to see it.
Elfindale was a magical, and a spiritual place. I knew the nuns, and I knew the ghosts, and I was at home with each.