I’m back home after a few days in Bronte country. On embarking on this morning’s return sojourn, my whiff of a Wuthering Heights experience became enhanced further by the sinister gothic mist enveloping West Yorkshire moors of higher terrain.

This predominantly grey canvas bequeathing visions similar to the menacing sights of moor side scenery ominously spewed forth in John Landis’ 1981 movie An American Werewolf in London (AAWIL).

What I witnessed was akin to the malevolent domain in which main characters, New York City backpackers David Kessler and Jack Goodman, strode petrified at a mysterious howling accompaniment. The Americans also unsettled by exposure to the even more frightening dimwit locals frequenting the Slaughtered Lamb pub.


I neither heard a werewolf this morning, or witnessed any inbred looking imbeciles. No not even in the mirror, before you ask!

During his three nights in Bronte country, GJ Strachan saw no individuals with the menacing simpleton look portrayed so convincingly by actors such as Rik Mayall and Brian Glover in AAWIL. Unsettling gazes afforded to strangers with only one chin who’d the audacity to enter their remote watering hole.

To be honest, as they’ve been dead for many years, if I’d have spotted Rik Mayall and Brian Glover in the local pub beside my lodgings, I’d have s**t myself more than if a werewolf had’ve confronted me with designs on making yours truly breakfast.

Hopefully I’ve not breached any equality edicts by calling the werewolf a he in the previous paragraph. Ordinarily, I’m reticent to use gender references when unsure of the subjects sex within these monologues. In this case, though, I reckoned the fairer sex would deem a werewolf as such an odious, confrontational beast they’d not want tarring with that particular brush.

I’m no expert on horror movies however, other than Yes, I’m A Female Werewolf! and Hairy Woman On The Loose!, I’ve not heard of many female led efforts within this cinematic genre. This another driver in my choice of stating the werewolf alluded to above had a widgy.

Once I’d driven nearer to sea level, on roads as narrow as my hearts arteries before I had stents fitted, my trusty old Vauxhall Astra became illuminated with sunlight. Solar rays which if I’d have been a vampire would’ve sent me hastily searching for redemption by coffin.

My drivers seat sun visor becoming the only thing protecting me from, blinded by this light, hurtling through farmer Atkinson’s barred gate and head first into his farmyard cesspit!

Eventually, I reached the Lancashire/Yorkshire border town of Colne. A metropolis where roads became wide enough to navigate without touching cloth!…… To celebrate reaching these widening roads upon Colne’s main highway I pulled over to trough a McDonald’s breakfast, potentially re-narrowing my arteries.

Subsequent to my return to east West Yorkshire (Bronte country is in west West Yorkshire; come on keep up!), I’ve written this prose and undertaken a spot of food shopping.

Thinking back to this morning’s scene’s akin to misty moors witnessed in An American Werewolf in London, I’ve concluded that perhaps I’m over-dramatising how traumatic encountering a werewolf in real life would be.

After all, with my overly active bodily hair follicles rendering me equally as hirsute as the beast, if this confrontation did come to pass he’d probably be more f***ing frightened of me.