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Out On The Wiley, Windy Moors


I’m jotting down this particular life chronicle close to Haworth, West Yorkshire. My aesthetic companions the same moors which, in the 19th century, inspired the Bronte sisters literary classics. Charlotte, Emily and Anne’s father Patrick the Anglican rector of the nearby village.

It’s unlikely my writing in this unspoilt area of the Pennine Hills will reside on book shelves globally for two hundred years, as achieved by Paddy’s daughter’s. However, sitting at my laptop with views of the barren moors which influenced the Bronte girls adds a poetry to this penmanship experience.

Novels not being my preferred genre of prose, yours truly shan’t write the rich gothic fiction of Wuthering Heights, or the oppression/abuse of Agnes Grey and Jane Eyre. Additionally, within my rambling locutions I shan’t include an oppressed anti-hero like Heathcliff.

I may, though, write of Cliff Heath. An acquaintance from Keswick who holds the British record for nose balancing bacon sandwiches. His accolade achieved when counterbalancing twenty six butties on his snout during the 2018 Pork Snack Stabilising Championships, in Redditch…… You never got literary gold like that from my fellow Yorkshire born writers back in the mid-1900’s.

The scenery around my cottage is almost as desolate as when Charlotte, Emily and Anne trod these same moors and fields. A dark, almost satanic scene of which poet William Blake wrote in his sonnet ‘And did those feet in ancient times’; which later became the lyrics to the rousing anthem ‘Jerusalem’.

One thing for sure is the phone network coverage in my cottage is the same as what the Bronte girls experienced; ie non-existent! Not that I’m complaining; the resultant peace, quiet and solitude providing the catharsis and serenity I sought from this break.

With internet connection not swift enough to allow video streaming, the apps on my Apple TV box have been rendered impotent. I’ve also forgot my bluetooth speaker charger, consequently I reckon I’ve about twenty three minutes left before I’m rendered bereft of audiobook and music companionship.

I’m not overly bothered, though; the lack of those distractions in the 1900’s didn’t harm Charlotte, Emily and Anne Bronte. If anything, when they looked out at the same hills which are currently my prime visuelle, lack of distractions more than likely concentrated the siblings minds towards the literary job in hand.

They certainly didn’t miss out from not having over a hundred Freeview channels, predominantly broadcasting vacuous tat, as would be my entertainment quota should I choose not to write…… Less is more, as they say!

Having a place at this writing desk in an area of such historical literary importance hasn’t inspired yours truly anymore than any other domain I’ve plied my penmanship. After all, I’d ordinarily back myself to manifest a creative epiphany on most subjects, and in most places.

However, as I gaze out on those dark moors circumventing the parsonage where Patrick Bronte preached to his flock of West Yorkshire Anglicans, through the early spring mist I sense the shadows of three girl’s dressed in 19th century threads. As these bonneted youngsters wander towards me hand in hand they give me a wry smile, before the eldest shouts “Get the kettle and telly on, Gaz!…… We’ve come to watch Homes Under Hammer!”

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