The invitation arrived on brittle, yellowed parchment, sealed not with wax but with a dried thistle. Lord Edwyn, the last of a forgotten line, had summoned them. His castle, Thornhold, perched on a knife-edge of black granite overlooking the North Sea, was a ruin in all but name. Yet every autumn, for one week, it became the setting for an odd tradition.

The use of towels is mandatory when sitting on any surface, particularly antique wood or porous stone, to protect the integrity of the historical materials.

While you cannot simply strip down at the Tower of London, there are specific locations where naturism and castle culture merge.

So she undressed. They all did. Clothes were left in a heap by the door, a small mountain of linen and wool and synthetic fibers that seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Without them, the guests looked strangely similar. Scars became maps. Tattoos became confessions. A faded surgical mark on Sven’s abdomen told a story he hadn’t offered. The librarian’s sun-starved limbs spoke of decades spent between shelves.

"Welcome," he said, his voice echoing off the distant, vaulted ceiling. "You’ve read my terms. No clothing. No artifice. No rank. Here, the castle doesn't care if you're a duke or a docker. And neither do I."