In 1994, my husband and I - with our then 16, 13, and 11 year-old children - braved an overseas trip. Australian born I may be, and very proud of it too, still my ties to Great Britain cannot be denied, especially with a 'Cockney' father and a husband originally from Essex.

After a short time visiting relatives, we began explorations of England. A lot of these explorations - of course - were dictated by my love of history.

We went to Colchester because of its associations with Boadicea, the Iceni Queen who led a revolt against the Romans, and then Nottingham because I thought the kids would like to see the supposed 'forest' of 'Robin Hood.' Barely on the second day in Nottingham I got a massive bruise on my upper arm after failing archery at the Tales of Robin Hood Exhibition- the arrow didn't shoot out, only- slipping from my uncertain fingers- the bow. Twang- right on my arm! One of my brood yelled, "Good one, Mum- do it again!"

Seeing some other tourists glancing our way, I blinked away tears of pain and made a hasty retreat, swearing to myself the next time I time I tried anything like that - well, I don't think there'll ever be a next time.

York, oozing with its multi-layered histories, was also on the list of 'must sees' and, of course, we got lost trying to find Hadrian's wall.

On the freeway up to Scotland there's a sign all history-seeking tourists should be aware of. Hadrian Wall, it proclaims, that way. All right- we went that way, and continued to go that way for a long, long time. Every since reading Rosemary Sutcliff's The Eagle of the Ninth as a twelve-year old, visiting Hadrian's Wall was something I just had to do. I'm afraid I became rather excited every time I saw a crop of stones suggestive of a wall. 'Stop- that's it!' I would yell. By the time we did this at least three times my husband and I had two young mutineers in the back seat. James and Elisabeth (named for a certain Queen!) got rather annoyed with their mother, especially as - on all the earlier stops - we discovered just another farm's wall along the way.

Even so, one of these stops proved very interesting indeed. A tiny temple of Mithras smack right bang in the middle of farm pasture full of nonchalant sheep - all of them too used to seeing tourists trespassing over their home to even lift their heads from grazing. The farmer- who showed us the temple- gave us the right directions to Hadrian's Wall, but the patience of two of our mob had run bone dry. After finally arriving, the blighters stayed in the car, listening to their selection of taped music,

while our second son, Tim, my husband and I climbed the hill to the remains of a long ago Roman fortress. Standing in those Roman Ruins, looking down from the crest of that hill, I took in a deep breath, gazing at the view all around. It gave me goose bumps. But that wasn't the only thing to give me goose - bumps on this trip.

We continued on our way to Scotland, the first stop being Edinburgh, and the second day in Scotland we spent up at 'the Castle.' There are a lot of words I could use to describe Edinburgh Castle. Perched like a protective eagle over the nest of the city, it cries out its majestic grandness and invincibility. The castle is so ancient that it appears almost a natural outgrowth of the very rocks forming its foundations.

There's a great deal to see and hear at the Castle- the various exhibitions, the cannon blast fired every day except Sunday at one p.m. - yet another one off my travel frights- the tiny but beautiful Saint Margaret's Chapel. I found it all so very exciting and interesting. But not as interesting as what happened while on the Castle's organised tour, passing under the portcullis and through the gateway of the Castle.

Have you ever felt like you've stepped into another dimension- as if a veil has been lifted, and you experience something beyond your day to day existence? That's how I felt when the woman's voice began singing right next to me. I spent the first moments in disbelief. Someone must be very brave, I thought, singing their heart out in a group of least twenty people. And rather rude too- because the guide was busily telling us his spiel about the Castle. But the voice was lovely, the words foreign - French it suddenly came to me- and the song a haunting ballad. Tears came to my eyes, and I turned to see the person who had moved me so. As I turned my head to look at the blonde, oblivious woman beside me, the voice just petered away. Pulled back to the time it belonged. Yes - I really believe this to be a ghostly experience. Straight after the event, my first thought was it must somehow be connected to Mary, Queen of Scots- though not her- more likely one of her French female attendants. And I still believe that. Whether you believe me or not is up to you, but - I swear faithfully- it did happen, exactly as I've told you here.