The Florida Fortress: Why the Sunshine State is Secretly a Land of Castles
stone castle turret rising above Florida palmettos and Spanish moss
If you’ve spent any time driving the backroads of Florida, you’ve probably noticed something strange.
Somewhere between a roadside boiled peanut stand and a field full of indifferent cows, you’ll see it: a turret.
A battlement. A drawbridge spanning a ditch that looks suspiciously like it’s home to a twelve-foot alligator named Gary.
Florida doesn’t have a royal family (unless you count the folks who get crowned at the Strawberry Festival), and we aren’t exactly known for our medieval history.
Yet, this state is arguably the castle capital of the South.
Why?
Because Florida has always been the land of the "second act." It’s a place where people come to build their own reality,
whether that reality is a theme park, a retirement dream, or a limestone fortress built by a heartbroken man who weighed 100 pounds soaking wet.
Slow down. There’s a story here.
Quick Facts: Florida’s Stony Side
The Oldest: Castillo de San Marcos (Completed 1695).
The Weirdest: Solomon’s Castle (Built from recycled printing plates).
The Most Romantic (In a Sad Way): Coral Castle (Built by one man for a lost love).
The Construction Material: Usually coquina, limestone, or—in true Florida fashion—whatever was lying around in the garage.
1. The Fortress That Wouldn’t Break: St. Augustine’s Coquina King
You can’t talk about Florida castles without starting at the Castillo de San Marcos. It’s the granddaddy of them all. But here’s the thing: it’s not made of granite or marble. It’s made of coquina.
If you aren’t familiar with coquina, it’s essentially a rock made of compressed seashells. It’s basically nature’s version of a granola bar,
and back in the 1600s, the British thought it looked pretty flimsy. They showed up with their big ships and their heavy cannons and started firing away.
But instead of shattering, the coquina walls just... swallowed the cannonballs. It was like shooting a BB gun into a giant sponge.
The British would fire, the ball would go thwack into the wall,
And the Spanish soldiers would just wave from the ramparts.
The Lesson: Florida’s first castle taught us that if you’re going to survive in this state, you have to be flexible.
Also, never underestimate the power of a bunch of old seashells.
2. The Heartbreak in Homestead: Coral Castle
If St. Augustine is about war, Coral Castle is about love—or more specifically, getting your heart absolutely pulverized.
Edward Leedskalnin was a tiny man from Latvia who was supposed to marry his "Sweet Sixteen," Agnes.
She canceled the wedding the day before it was supposed to happen.
Most of us would buy a tub of ice cream and listen to sad songs, but Ed decided to move to Homestead and build a 1,100-ton castle out of Oolite limestone. Alone.
Ed worked at night by the light of a lantern. He moved stones that weighed thirty tons. He didn't have heavy machinery.
To this day, people claim he used "magnetic secrets" or "ancient levitation."
I personally think it was just the sheer power of being incredibly world-class levels of "jilted."
Walking through Coral Castle today feels like reading someone’s diary written in rock.
It’s weird, it’s beautiful, and it’s a reminder that Florida is the ultimate destination for people who want to be left alone with their obsessions.
3. The Alchemist of Ona: Solomon’s Castle
Deep in the woods of Hardee County, down a road that feels like it’s leading you straight into 1954, sits Solomon’s Castle.
Howard Solomon was a man who saw a pile of trash and saw a kingdom.
He built a three-story, 12,000-square-foot castle in the middle of a swamp using discarded aluminum printing plates from the local newspaper.
It shines in the Florida sun as a discarded soda can in the grass, and I mean that as the highest possible compliment.
Howard was the king of puns.
He called his home the "Boat-in-the-Moat." He filled it with "found-object" art.
He’s the patron saint of Florida eccentrics—the guy who decided that if the world didn't give him a castle,
he’d just make one out of the things the world threw away.
Observational Humor Break: If you’ve never been lost on a Florida backroad looking for an aluminum castle, you haven’t lived—or you have a much better GPS than me.
An old hand-painted that says "CASTLE AHEAD
4. Why We Build Them: The Florida Psychology
Why do we have so many of these things? I reckon it’s because Florida is a blank canvas with very few rules and a lot of humidity.
In the Northeast, you build a house that looks like your neighbor’s house because you don’t want to get a strongly worded letter from the HOA.
In Florida, historically, if you wanted to build a castle out of bowling balls or coral,
The only thing that was going to stop you was the mosquitoes.
We are a state of "self-made" everything.
From the entrepreneurs who built the first roadside attractions to the retirees who spend twenty years carving Tiki gods in their backyards,
Florida has always rewarded the dreamer. The castle is the ultimate expression of that. It says,
"This is my patch of sand, and I am the king of it."
5. The Modern Castles: A Different Kind of Weird
Of course, you can’t ignore the modern Florida castles.
I’m talking about the ones that look like a Mediterranean villa had an argument with a Medieval Times and nobody won.
Drive through Orlando or certain parts of the Panhandle, and you’ll see "castles" that are actually just giant houses with too many turrets.
They don't have the soul of Solomon’s or the mystery of Coral Castle,
but they represent the same Florida urge: the desire to stand out in a mostly flat place.
When your landscape is a horizontal line of pines and palms, you naturally want to build something that goes up.
How to Find Your Own Florida Castle
If you want to go exploring, here’s my advice:
Get off the interstate. Castles don’t live near exits with three different Starbucks.
Look for the hand-painted signs. If a sign looks like it was painted by a guy named "Bubba," you’re on the right track.
Bring cash and an open mind. Most of these places are run by families or non-profits that appreciate a five-dollar bill and a genuine compliment on their stonework.
Closing Thoughts: A State of Mind
Florida’s castles aren't about royalty.
They aren't about lineage or knights in shining armor (though you might find a suit of armor made of beer cans if you look hard enough).
They’re about the human spirit’s refusal to be boring.
They are monuments to the weird, the lonely, the creative, and the stubborn.
They are "Florida Unwritten"—the stories that aren't in the brochures but are etched into the very limestone and aluminum of the state.
Next time you see a turret poking up over the sawgrass, don't just drive by.
Pull over. Pay the admission.
Ask the person behind the counter how many years it took to move the rocks.
Florida’s weird, wild, and wonderful—and we’re writing it all down, one stone at a time.
“Florida Unwritten runs on stories, sunburn, and caffeine.
If you enjoyed this, you can buy me a coffee. No pressure.”
Earl Lee
