Travel Writing

Hi, I really struggled to write some 'traditional' travel writing. Therefore, I have opted for the Gulliver's Travels approach: making it all up. Yes, it is fictitious, no, my life isn't this cool.

The old boat creaked in agony as we pushed it from the rocky shore. I was the last to leave the icy waters and jump in. My nose burnt as I breathed in and my mouth produced small clouds of condensation as I breathed out. Our whispers pierced the air as our oars sliced through the water. I looked up at the castle, it glew like a candle atop a cake of rock. One or two fairies fluttered about the small lantern that led our ship forward, tiny spurts of fire shooting from their mouths as they danced entrancingly. I pulled my cloak tighter around me as droplets began to fall from the sky, spattering our clothes. I looked to shore and watched as each leaf glew a deep red as a raindrop hit it. The woodland we had left behind us began to light up as if a wildfire had suddenly taken hold of the trees. I looked back to the castle, imagining the great feast which awaited us inside. My stomach moaned thinking of the juicy fruit, the roasted meats and the steaming vegetables.
I heard a light laughter out on the water and saw a water-nymph boat, fashioned from leaves and petals, floating past. The females lighting the way with their petals. Every three years this party took place, every year it surprised me. last year it ended three days later with Duke Gornstone spreading his great, emerald wings, taking to the sky and creating a huge fireworks display for us. Swallowing different potions before he left to make his fyre-stomachs produce the dazzling colours.
The waters moved thickly around us and our self-conscious mutterings became songs and shouts, led by the mountain Brownie who sat, paws crossed, at the head of the boat. The moon was huge that night, it cast a strong, white light on the far side of the lake, contrasting the red trees behind it. Suddenly the castle was above us. The one hundred steps up drawing nearer. I pulled my bag closer to me, hearing bottles clink and packages rustle. When we reached the bottom of the steps an elderly woman sprinkled a handful of dirt and motioned for us to walk up.

The party awaits.

Oliver Pilcher. Any feedback would be lovely.