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.