The Mists of Avalon

This is a book to be read slowly, to savor it, and to remember the crags of Tintagel, to remember standing at the top of the rise and seeing the remains of the castle covering acres and acres, with the grass spreading green all between and around. The grass stopped at the lip of the precipice, and the stones went down the cliff to an impossible landing-place in the Celtic Sea.

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When I read this book before, I was calling the castle Tin' ta gel, with a hard g, a beautiful name to me. Imagine my disappointment to find that it was really Tin ta' jel, an unimaginative, unpoetic pronunciation, which took away the magic and left only ruins. I had to get to Old Sarum, to Salisbury, to find any abiding magic, and to Stonehenge for a whiff of horror.

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These are the bests pictures I could find on the internet, and not from the perspective I remember. It's unbelievable that we didn't take any pictures of Tintagel when we were there, but I can't find any.