One evening in the far north, a young couple walked along on a lonely shore. The wind was at their backs, screaming and howling like a creature in the night and somehow, they both knew they couldn’t turn back — the only way was forward. They soon passed by hollowed-out ruins, sending a congregation of rooks into a frenzy. In a darkened window up high, they caught a glimpse of a grim, wrinkled face staring out to the sea.

Shaken, they quickened their pace, stumbling through the tall beachgrass as the waves raged and crashed against the rocks. Then, just when they thought they could go no further, something appeared on the horizon. In the middle of a field stood a small, misshapen castle. Windowless and warped with four crude turrets, it was a vision from a dark fairytale.

As they drew closer, they were surprised to find a large hole in the only door. It was dark inside and the air smelled foul, but the wind howled louder at their backs, pushing them forward. Creeping in the darkness, they found a hole in the ground. The air was fouler still but they knew they had come too far to turn back now — the only way through. Down they went through the musty earth and there, in the pitch black, they lit a match.

In the warm glow of the flame, they saw, to their horror, that they were in a tomb. All around them were rotting, wooden caskets. A few had been opened and damaged — emptied of everything but the lingering smell of death — but one lay on its own, broken and half open.

When the couple inched closer, they saw bright red hair against stark white bone. Hollowed eyes and a toothy grin. The woman let loose a bloodcurdling scream and the man jumped in fear, dropping the match. Now, there was no way forward, no where to go in the darkness. The wind fell silent. The sea lay still. And all was quiet once again in Harold’s Tower.

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Growing up, my parents frequently told the spooky tale of the time they stumbled upon Harold’s Tower. Back in the mid-90s, the north of Scotland was a wild and empty place and they had decided to take a break and explore Thurso while in the Highlands. To this day, they can’t remember how they got out there, but they do remember feeling like someone, or something, was chasing them all the way back to their car.

Unbeknownst to them at the time, they had come across a famous mausoleum in the area — and one that had been broken into years before by tomb robbers. It was built in the late 1770s by Sir John Sinclair of Ulbster as a memorial to Earl Harold of Caithness who had died in battle around 1190. Today a plaque hangs above the door proclaiming it to be “The Burial Place of the Sinclairs of Ulbster.”

When my brother Dylan and my husband Patrick and I decided to do our own trip along the North Coast 500, we knew we had to see Harold’s Tower for ourselves.

Despite arriving in Thurso fairly late in the day, we decided to follow in my parents’ footsteps and walk to Harold’s Tower along the shoreline. Our journey began with a little bridge over a canal that led to the wide, open sea. Suddenly, the large dark eyes of a grey seal appeared in the inky water. He stared at us with intense curiosity and sniffed the air, before disappearing again into the deep.

At the ruins of Thurso Castle, rooks, crows and gulls of all kinds screamed and scattered angrily, as if we had trespassed on some ancient gathering. The sea to our left was icy blue and ferocious, powered by an unrelenting wind. It all made for a haunting scene and I found myself wondering how anyone could have ever lived here.

Once we reached an old farm, strange little turrets appeared on the horizon. It was just as my parents had described it. Filled with excitement, we almost sprinted through the field towards it, dodging thorns, brambles and cow dung as we went.

Seeing it up close felt like a strange fever dream. A metal door had replaced the broken one my parents saw, and all other entrances had been boarded up — but it looked exactly how I had always pictured it. It was the feeling of the place though, that struck me. Something lingered from the past, a sadness or emptiness that seemed to radiate through the stone when you touched the crude walls.

As the sea raged behind us and the daylight began to fade, I thought I heard voices in the wind. It was time to go.