Constructed in the late 17th century on the site of an earlier coastal fortification, this star shaped fortress, with its five bastions and two surviving brick sentry boxes, straddles a sea swept rocky trajectory. Not long after the completion of the fort Colonel Warrender became its commanding officer. He was a strict authoritarian who believed in a rigorous regime of discipline and had little sympathy for any man who stinted or faltered at his duties. His daughter, Wilful, a vivacious and beautiful girl, fell in love with Sir Trevor Ashurst, who was an officer at the fort, and the two were duly married. At sunset on the day of their wedding, the newly married couple were strolling along the battlements when the bride noticed some flowers growing on the rock beneath and commented on their beauty. A sentry agreed to climb down and pick them for her on the condition that her husband would take his place on duty. Sir Trevor agreed, donned the soldier's greatcoat, took his musket and entered the sentry box, whilst its original occupant began the perilous descent to the rocks below. It had been a long day, and no sooner had Ashurst sat down than he fell fast asleep. Just then, Colonel Warrender began his routine inspection of the fort's sentry boxes. He was furious to find a guardsman asleep on duty and, drawing his pistol, shot the man through the heart. As the sentry fell to the ground dead, his coat came open and the Colonel saw that he had killed his own son-in-law. When Wilful learnt of her husband's death she was inconsolable and, letting out a howl of despair, raced to the battlements, from which she threw herself to her death. The sight of her body proved too much for Colonel Warrender and, placing his pistol against his head, he pulled the trigger and blew out his brains. Three tragic deaths on a day that should have been a celebration have, inevitably, left their mark upon the ether of this casemated, windswept monument. It is the ghost of Wilful Warrender who haunts the garrison. Wearing a flowing white dress, she drifts in mournful despair, either around the ramparts or up and down the stairs of the stronghold. Those who encounter her silent wraith describe her as very beautiful but very pale. She passes by them, her dark eyes fixed on some distant objective. She pays them no heed, and soldiers used to speak of their alarm at seeing her pass straight through locked doors, whilst others complained of being pushed down the stairs by an unseen hand, presumably hers.


Love Angel!!!