The Parsonage

I'd seen many pictures of it, so I wasn't surprised by how very ordinary a building it is. The stone buildings on the main street of Haworth look more like what you'd expect the birthplace of Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre to resemble, instead of this staid, square 18th century Georgian.

More of the churchyard

I'm not usually creeped out by graveyards, but I admit that knowing the history makes this cemetery seem very creepy indeed.

And the wind didn't help, blasting through the trees and around the gravestones, freezing my hands like Cathy's ghost in Wuthering Heights, even though it was rather warm the days I was in Haworth.

The churchyard

This is very different from the one the Brontës knew, and that's a good thing. Patrick Brontë had fought for many years to improve sanitation in Haworth; in 1838 the average age of death was 19 years, as bad as the worst slums in London. The local property owners fought him for years because they didn't want to pay higher taxes for improvements, but in 1850 the national Board of Health finally sent an inspector, Benjamin Herschel Babbage. His report found that in addition to a shocking shortage of toilets—69 for 2500 people—and the resulting overflow of sewage, the village's water was also being polluted by the graveyard. It sat uphill from the village, and material from decomposing bodies ran directly into the water supply. There were annual outbreaks of typhoid, as well as cholera and dysentery. (Ironically, this wasn't an issue at the parsonage; it was on the other side of the churchyard from the village, and had its own well. Unfortunately, clean water didn't protect them from tuberculosis.)

After the Babbage report, headstones which had previously been laid flat on the ground, preventing natural decomposition from taking place, were pulled upright. Trees were also planted then—there were no trees when the Brontës lived there—so their roots could help purify the contaminated soil.

Landscape minus wind farm

This landscape is actually still inside Haworth, so wouldn't be affected by the proposed energy park. It's another view from the footpath behind the parsonage, and the field beyond.

I limped very slowly across the first part of that field, which probably amused the sheep—if they bothered to notice that I was there.

Wuthering Wind Farm

I can attest that the winds around Haworth are indeed wuthering, and I'm sure they're even more enthusiastic out on the moors. But although I'm a big supporter of green energy, I can understand the opposition to this project, which would create an energy park with 34 wind turbines on the moors outside Haworth, visible from the traditional hikes to Top Withens, possibly an inspiration for the house in Wuthering Heights.

The supporters say that the tourists will still come, they'll just see a few wind turbines along with the landscape. And the opponents say, Do you even hear yourself?

Away from Main Street

My lack of mobility meant that I couldn't really see the countryside away from the village—I would have loved to do the hike to the Brontë falls—but in such a small village I didn't have to walk very far to feel I was officially on the outskirts of town.

More Main Street

I loved this steep stony street, with the old buildings and the view of the moors beyond. But looking at these pictures does give me an awful sense-memory of standing awkwardly on the cobblestones trying to balance myself with my cane before hobbling on down the street. I'm focusing instead on a different memory, of sitting in a cafe across from the Black Bull eating a really delicious scone with some coffee.

Main Street today

One thing I really appreciated about Haworth was that although busloads of tourists descend there every day to visit the parsonage museum, it isn't at all kitschy. The main street has cafes and pubs and guest houses but no souvenir shops. You can't buy a Brontë sisters t-shirt or a Heathcliff refrigerator magnet or a mug that says, Reader, I married him. There's a bookstore, but it mostly sells—books.

The museum gift shop does have some souvenirs, but they're all very tasteful; the only refrigerator magnet just says Brontë Parsonage Museum. (I did buy a button that said Team Anne but sadly it was stolen with my purse.)

The village at night

I took this picture of Main Street at night from my room. Swap those electric lights for lanterns, and it probably looked much the same in the nineteenth century.

The Old White Lion

And yet one more inn at the top of the main street, which has also been there since the 18th century—Haworth was clearly busier on a Saturday night in the 1800's than I would have expected.

I stayed in this inn, in the room on the second floor looking down over Main Street.

Welcome Dogs & Muddy Boots

This inn is on the other side of the church steps from the Black Bull. I loved the sign on the back of the building promising that dogs and muddy boots are welcome.

The Black Bull

In a village of only a few thousand people in the 1840's (and fewer than 7000 today) all of the landmarks will of course be close together. But I was still surprised that the Black Bull pub, a frequent hangout for Branwell Brontë, was so close to the church. As in, those are the steps to the church on the right in this picture. The parsonage is maybe a five to ten-minute walk, depending on how drunk you are.

From Haworth Parsonage to the church

Okay, the path to the church did lead past the graveyard, so there was always that Victorian memento mori going on (not that anyone was likely to forget that in Haworth, which had a shockingly low life expectancy compared to similar villages in Yorkshire) but I did think the sign marking where the gate had been was unnecessarily morbid. It could have just stopped with noting that it was the site of the gate used by the Brontë family, and left off the “through which they were carried to their final resting place in the church.”

Inside the church

St Michael and All Angels

The church in Haworth was rebuilt in the late 1800's; only the tower remains from the original medieval church. Patrick Brontë was the minister here for more than 40 years, until his own death in 1861. He outlived all six of his children.

Anne Brontë

Branwell Brontë died in September 1848 and Emily Brontë died less than three months later, both of tuberculosis, aggravated in Branwell's case by alcoholism and opiate addiction. By the following spring, their sister Anne was also dying of tuberculosis.

In one of the episodes that make it difficult to like Charlotte Brontë, she found numerous excuses why Anne's wish for a change of air and a trip to the sea should not happen. She kept saying she wanted to wait until Anne was stronger—In short I wish we could gain time and see how she gets on—while Anne was well aware that time was the one thing she didn't have. Charlotte even instructed her best friend, Ellen Nussey, how to respond when Anne wrote to her asking for her support.

When both Anne's doctor and their father, Patrick Brontë, said that they thought the trip was a good idea, Charlotte was forced to give in. Charlotte and Anne traveled to York with Ellen Nussey on Thursday, May 24, and spent the night there. Before leaving for Scarborough the following day, they stopped in York Minster, which Anne very much wanted to see again. Ellen Nussey wrote that as Anne looked up at the stonework, she said, “If finite power can do this what is the ...” before becoming too emotional to continue.

They arrived in Scarborough on Friday; Anne died on Monday. She's buried in a churchyard there instead of in the family vault in Haworth. I would have liked to visit her grave in Scarborough, but I couldn't face another train ride from York, or the steep climb up to the church on a cliff over the sea, but I did think about her when I was sitting in the Minster on that stifling hot day in York. I was glad that she got to experience that beauty again before she died. I was glad she got to go back to Scarborough, which she had visited many times when she was working as a governess, and had one more donkey cart ride on the beach.

This is the letter Anne wrote to Ellen Nussey on April 5. (Besides being a wonderful example of cross writing, a Victorian method of saving paper, I am amazed by her beautiful handwriting when she was so ill.)

But I have a more serious reason than this for my impatience of delay: the doctors say that change of air or removal to a better climate would hardly ever fail of success in consumptive cases if the remedy were taken in time, but the reason why there are so many disappointments is, that it is generally deferred till it is too late. . . . I have no horror of death: if I thought it inevitable I think I could quietly resign myself to the prospect, in the hope that you, dear Miss Nussy, would give as much of your company as you possibly could to Charlotte and be a sister to her in my stead. But I wish it would please God to spare me not only for Papa’s and Charlotte’s sakes, but because I long to do some good in the world before I leave it. I have many schemes in my head for future practise – humble and limited indeed – but still I should not like them all to come to nothing, and myself to have lived to so little purpose.

She was twenty-nine years old.

The Quire Screen

This is just a section of the screen separating the Nave from the Quire at York Minster. There are statues of fifteen kings of England, from William the Conqueror to Henry VI, on either side of the arch separating the two parts of the church. The statues were carved in the late 1400's by William Hyndeley, except for the statue of Henry VI, which was seen as Lancastrian propaganda during the Wars of the Roses, and was defaced, removed, and untimately replaced in the 19th century.

The statues in this picture depict Henry III, Edwards I, II, and III, Richard II, and Henry IV and V.

The spectrum of decorative art

A few more pictures from York Minster, then it's back where I began, in Haworth.

I like the style contrast between these two features I saw in the Minster. The stained glass window is called the Five Sisters; it was completed in the mid-1200's and is the largest example of medieval grisaille glass in the world. It's impossible to capture the detail in a window like this with a small camera, but rather than the brightly colored saints and religious figures you see in most medieval stained glass, grisaille glass is all grays and greens and features geometric and botanical patterns. It's quite beautiful.

The colorful patterns on the pipes on the right are nineteenth century. These case pipes were silent for more than a hundred years, and just kept for effect—and they are quite effective!—but since the last restoration in 2021, they're playing music again.

Bolton Castle

Here's a look at the castle itself. I keep getting the name wrong—it's Bolton Castle, but the nearby village is called Castle Bolton, which just sounds more impressive to me.

It's still owned by the descendants of the 1st Baron Scrope, who built the castle in the late 1300's. (Bolton comes from the name of the surrounding area; the village that is now called Castle Bolton was originally just Bolton.)

More green Yorkshire

Views from Bolton Castle, in the Yorkshire Dales.

A view in the Dales

I'd overlooked this picture—taken at the highest point in the Yorkshire Dales, looking over the landscape.

What shocks me now looking at it is how green Yorkshire was. So very different from the sere, drought-ridden south.

York streets

Two other street scenes near the Minster. Less touristed, but the medieval is always a presence.

The non-Potter Shambles

There are actually only a few Harry Potter-oriented businesses on the street, and it is authentically medieval, with some of the buildings dating from the 14th century. It was once known as the Great Flesh Shambles (shambles meaning stall or bench) because it was where all the butchers had their businesses. The jettied floors overhanging the street kept it cool and shady, better for keeping the meat fresh.

The Society of Alchemists

I avoided The Shop That Must Not Be Named and The Potions Cauldron, but did go into this shop, thinking I might find a suitably New Age-y gift for a friend of mine. It seemed more Halloween than New Age, with skull candles and jars of sweets with ghoulish names, but I did like the giant dragon guarding the door.

More Shambles reflections

Just because there isn't any real connection between the Shambles and Diagon Alley is no reason not to sell all the Harry Potter merchandise you can. There are at least two Harry Potter stores in Oxford and tourists can't even visit most of the locations where scenes were filmed.

Saturday reflections

A shop window in the Shambles, a medieval street in York that was reportedly the inspiration for Diagon Alley in Harry Potter, although J.K. Rowling said she'd never been there.

Anyway, it looks like it could have been.

Stonehenge in black and white, plus clouds

Last year's sky with all those clouds works much better in black and white than this year's cloudless blue skies.

Stonehenge in black and white

The Heel Stone

Most of the pictures I took at Stonehenge are unsurprisingly very similar to the pictures I took last year, but I didn't get close enough to the Heel Stone last year to get a good picture. This one is much, much better.

Avebury sheep

More Avebury

The UK is having their fifth heat wave of the summer, and I wish this kind of summer day for all of them, with cool breezes and maybe some much-needed rain. (It was actually quite warm the day I took this picture but it looks more like a classically English summer day than it actually was.)

I love Oxford but I am happy to be back in the land of strong coffee and air-conditioning any time I want it.

Back to Avebury

I was having a bad knee day and walking on the uneven ground was difficult, though I stuck it out for as long as I could. I was just happy to see these remarkable stones again, and this time on a bright sunny (though uncomfortably warm) day.