To my millions of readers, I most humbly beg your forgiveness. Upon returning from my glorious adventure in Bronte Country, I was most rudely bombarded with homework which sadly necessitated my immediate attention. Having conquered the beast, I may now proceed by describing, in great detail, my excellent experience.
First on the list: the train. I. LOVE. TRAINS. Unlike cars, one does not have to worry about skidding on ice or getting rear-ended by drunk drivers. Unlike planes, one does not feel the need to puzzle about the improbability of a multi-ton piece of metal staying suspended in the air. The train was so smooth and fast...I didn't feel sick. Not once I tell you! In addition to this, watching the lovely countryside whiz past provided endless hours of enjoyment and a good setting in which to daydream. Upon arrival to Keighley (pronounced Keithley), I took a taxi to Haworth that was driven by such a spastic driver that I almost puked all over him. Most fortunately, we arrived just as my face was turning from a delicate green, to a darker shade. I found myself in the middle of a cobblestone street with quaint shops and houses bordering the sides.
Inside the Apothecary Guest House, I was greeted by Russel of the David/Russel brother team. He showed me to my room which was adorable, had an attached bathroom (with hot water!) and a pot for making tea. However, in accordance with E.M. Forster, I must allow that the best element of the room was its view. I had a room with a spectacular vista that even Lucy Honeychurch could not fail to admire. My window overlooked the beautiful old church where the Brontes attended mass. Visible behind that was a Gothic and mysterious cemetery separating the church from the Bronte Parsonage. By crossing the cobblestone street and hiking through this cemetery, I came across the path leading to the moors. More about that adventure in a little while.
The first night, I hiked around the town and visited adorable antique shops, book stores, candy paradises and magnificent bakeries. After grabbing a dinner of Thai spiced pea soup and hunks of white bread, I bought a piece of sticky apple toffee cake. It was PERFECTION. Oh jeez. I'm going to just say that everything I ate that weekend (which was a lot) was amazing or I'll end up writing 5,000 words on all I consumed.
On Saturday, I woke up refreshed after getting a full 10 hours of sleep - the first good sleep I've had in quite a while. I went down to the dining room for breakfast where I met other B and B-ers including a 50-something chap named Martin (pronounced Mahtin). We got to talking as one generally does at B and Bs and he was proud to tell me he knew where Minnesota was. Well, sort of. He thought Fargo was in Minnesota. Close enough, really though. Then David, the other owner, wanted to talk about the Minnesota Twins and asked if they'd won any football matches recently. "Er, David. That would be a no. Because they aren't a football team." However, I didn't tell him that, just smiled politely and nodded and probably looked a bit daft.
Once breakfast was over, I was ready to explore. Not having seen unfiltered sun for a month now, I was caught unawares at the brilliance of the blue, cloudless sky. I had the most perfect day for a hike to Bronte Falls and Top Withins. Now, for those of you who do not know what Top Withins is, it is a skeleton of a farm house commonly thought to be the model for the Earnshaw residence in Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. Yeah, pretty cool. I know all you males especially are geeking out right now. Please restrain yourselves.
So I walked through the graveyard to the path. I finally reached Penistone Park. Straight off, I noticed the smell of the animals, the damp soil and the pure air. What a welcome relief after petrol fumes, pollution and smoke of London! Friendly locals in the park often said hi and commented on the beauty of the day saying, "Hullo, dook. It's a foin day foor a hike, ay? Isn't it graidly, loov? You stoomblin' out to Withins, ay? Loovlay, loovlay." (That roughly translates to, "Hi strange girl. Thanks for appreciating our cute village and pouring money into our tourist-based economy. Let's make passing comments about the weather.") After asking some of these locals where the path to Top Withins was located, I finally found my way out of the park, and at the start of the moors. Here I came across a sign that pointed the way towards Top Withins and proclaimed it was a public path. Dear reader, there was no path. So I kind of imagined one and started out only to come across a puddle that was more of a pond than anything. Retracing my steps, I went back to the sign, glared at it, and walked down the road a ways hoping to see another trail. I did! I saw two paths close together and right in between them a sign saying Top Withins. Now my problem became, "which path do you suppose the darn sign is pointing to?" Thus, I went from no paths to two. Picking one, I headed out only to be immediately accosted by a bridge, that was not so much a bridge as what appeared to be a log rolling training exercise. Fifteen red metal, spinning pipes were placed 6 inches apart. Looking both ways, I was surrounded by walls, and had no other way but to go over this bridge-of-sorts. After almost falling several times, I made it across unharmed. This experience taught me that I need to enroll in a log rolling competition at Lumberjack Days.
Having overcome this obstacle, I wandered down the path quite a ways taking pictures as I went, until I was accosted by none other than a male sheep. With his masculine horns pointed at me as he stood in the middle of the path staring me down, I became a bit nervous. However, knowing the percentage of human deaths due to sheep attacks to be slim, I walked onwards while giving his manliness a wide berth of space.
Having passed Sir Macho, I continued my stroll, coming across no one. I have never felt so alone before. Well, at least until a half hour later when the path stopped, I passed a lone farm house in the middle of the moors and came across a sign pointing to Top Withins. Once again, there was no indication of a trail. My conundrum - should I risk being lost forever on the moors in order to see some ruins? Or should I go back? Did I come this far to give up? The answer is no. I did not. Anastos's are not quitters, dammit! So I started out in the general direction the sign was pointing to. Eventually I thought I came across a trail. Oh my gosh! It was a trail! Hallelujah, I was not lost! Although...it was rather a small, skinny trail. No matter....and of course, it did peter off sometimes....but then it always came back....come to think of it, it was kind of strange that I hadn't seen anyone in hours even though I was told many people would be doing this walk....whatever, I was walking the moors! Surely it was just because they were so big, and besides, I started out early...but, the walk was only supposed to be 3.5 miles to get to the ruins, surely I had been walking longer than that...however, 3.5 miles would seem a lot longer on the uneven moors than it would on a concrete path...but why was the trail covered with sheep poop? Oh dear. I was following a path made by the sheep. WELL DONE LAUREN! After following said poopy path for quite a long while, it led me down to a stream, no doubt where my predecessors went to drink. There I saw a man a ways up...I simply had to cross the stream and ask him which way to go. Noting that there was one rock in the middle of the water, I leaped on top of it and then to the other bank. Feeling victorious for one second, I promptly tripped plunging my hands into an icy mud puddle. Oh adventuring! I scrambled up the hill and found the man....and he was on a path. A real path. The path it turns out. I was only a mile away from Top Withins and could see it in the distance. After a steep climb, I got there! I reached it! I may not have walked there in the most conventional or timely manner, but I got to my destination all the same.
Top Withins was absolutely gorgeous! The ruins, which are quite cool in themselves, are situated on one of the higher points of the moors, and the prospect from this point is breathtaking. Looking at the barren landscape that was both beautiful as well as extremely isolating, I started to understand the melancholic overtones of the Bronte's works. After sitting peacefully for a while, I headed back, this time on the people (not animal) path, and ran into a few people doing the same walk. The trail was gorgeous, leading me past the Bronte Waterfall, over streams, and at one point, up a ladder to get over a wall. The walk completed, I went to the bakery, bought some pastries and read bits of Jane Eyre in the book shop.
To anyone in England, I strongly recommend Haworth. The hike was absolutely magnificent, and although I walked at least 9 miles instead of the pre-charted 7, I had a fantastic time being absolutely isolated in the breathtaking countryside.
On my train ride home on Sunday, I noticed that the closer we got to London, the cloudier and darker the sky became. Hmmm...quite ominous, really. And then, of course on my way from the tube back to my flat, I passed Rupert Friend having a cigarette outside Gloucester Arms...the same pub in which we saw Henry Cavill. I then saw Rupert two evenings later as he pushed past me on his way to the theater where he's in a play. Clearly he's stalking me. Keira Knightly better watch out, her boyfriend's becoming too familiar with certain bushy-haired, glasses-wearing brunettes.
Anyhoo. I'm hungry. And as I haven't eaten for a whole 30 minutes, I better get on that.
Tomorrow is Oxford! Can't wait!
Au revoir!
Lauren
P.S. I added pictures to my Windsor post, if you want a visual.
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