Bronte World, I mean, Haworth.

7th August, 2010
Our time in Chester was well spent, and quickly. Wednesday was the park and tiny train, with lots of very cute squirrels to be fed, and Thursday was a long and rewarding day at the Zoo. Chester Zoo’s reputation is well earned, as being very good. You can’t be fundamentally opposed to the keeping of animals in cages, when you see just how many species have been rescued from extinction by the existence of Zoos – Chester being no exception. To be honest, the delights of Chester, were secondary to the delights of being with the Ormistons. It probably wouldn’t have mattered where we were –it was good. On our last morning I commented to Stuart how true friendship was when one person looked at something, made a face and pointed, and the other friend nodded their head and said emphatically, “I know.” He pondered that for a moment and then added that another true sign was when you could spend time apart, and then catch up as though not a minute was lost. I guess that sums up Chester. The pick-up from where we left off, seven years ago…and it really is almost to the day, as their wedding anniversary is tomorrow (the eighth,) and it was for their wedding that we were last time over.
I guess that a few things happened emotionally when we arrived in Chester. There was a major gear shift in the momentum. We shifted down a gear from exploring mode, to catching-up mode, whilst still trying to see all that we could. Then there was the joy at the reunion. Then there was the knowledge somewhere in the back of one’s mind that this was somehow the pivotal point in the trip, and that we were now on the downhill side of the slope, and our trip now had less ahead of it than behind it. Finally there was the thought that keeps wanting to make itself heard (but I keep shoving it down, as it will only ruin the present), that in a few weeks time I will have to say goodbye to these dear friends again. It isn’t as hard saying good-bye to our precious rellies, because seeing them again is a given…. But friends in Scotland?!? There are no givens – just hopes and plans to see one another again, but we can be certain that it won’t be while our children are still this little..see….now I am misting up….time to squash it again.
Yesterday we left Chester around lunch time and drove to Lyme Park. This is the house that was used as Pemberley, in the BBC adaption of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Oooh. And it was lovely. We managed to get through the house itself in two shifts, broken up by the kids making flowers in an activity centre that was soon to close. Unfortunately that took us to closing time, and we didn’t get to wander the grounds, which, by all glimpses and vistas we saw, were magnificent. We drove away with hopes of returning here on our way back through at some stage. After all, I didn’t get to photograph the spot where Mr. Darcy comes upon Miss Bennett, surprising them both. It is hard to weigh out who was more shocked, him, at finding Miss Bennett in his garden, or her, at Mr Darcy being dripping wet. (yes – all you loyalists, I know that that bit wasn’t in the books, but the BBC wanted viewers to swoon…and by all accounts they did…putting Colin Firth on the radar of women everywhere)
Sam cracked up the two National Trust workers that were in the entrance shop, when he pointed to a poster on the wall, depicting three grinning kids, on the lawn in front of the house, and asked, “Is that Mr.Darcy’s children?” It took some explaining to get the kids to understand that Mr.Darcy had NEVER lived there. It was not his house. That in fact Mr.Darcy had never lived anywhere, because Mr Darcy was not real!! I couldn’t tell in the end if they just didn’t get it, or whether they just wanted to pretend it was his house, because he meant more to them than the Legh family did.
Each time we visit a place like this, be it National Trust (of which we are now members) or English Heritage, I am impressed at the child friendliness. They always have activities for the children to do in some manner or another. And each time, I think that this may have been the best, and then we go to the next, and it seems to compete. I guess it comes from the recognition that whether a place is child friendly or not, makes no difference to the fact that parents will bring their kids along….therefore, best to keep them busy. Today, we visited the Parsonage where the Bronte family lived, and it was no exception, with a children’s play area in the room where the most reading was required, complete with Victorian toys and bonnets for dress-ups.
The Bronte family lived in the town of Haworth (where we stayed last night, in the YHA). The town seems like nothing particularly special, until you make your way into the old town, where the streets are still cobbled, and closed neatly in by stone buildings and flower baskets. Shops and pubs that have been there for a couple of hundred years or more. You walk up these streets, past the old, er, actually new church, as it has only been there since after 1879! past the cemetery and you are at the parsonage that was once home to Patrick Bronte and his brood.
I should mention that my favourite romance novel is Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. I read it when I was a teenager, and twice more since. Charlotte was one of three sisters who published novels, the other two being Anne and Emily. There were also two older sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, but they sadly died aged 11 and 12. This tragedy occurred after they had spent some time at a charity boarding school for children of the clergy. Charlotte was there with them for a short while before they were sent home in ill health, and it is widely assumed that when one reads of the horrid, awful school in Jane Eyre, that Jane was exiled to, it is painting a picture of life at the Charity school. The sisters died just months apart. Sadly for the family, the one son died when thirty, and then Emily and Anne followed, in their early thirties also, again, only months apart. Their mother had died also in her thirties, while all her children were young, Anne being only a few months old.
Charlotte married when 38, and died when 39. It is believed that she was in the early stages of pregnancy; one of the heart ripping displays was a baby’s cap which a friend had made and gifted to Charlotte before her death. It seemed to me (although it was not clearly said anywhere,) that it was the pregnancy which killed her. I can’t remember the name of it, but some women get so sick in pregnancy that they quite literally can not keep anything down (which Charlotte seemed to be expressing to a friend, in an excerpt from a letter on display). Basically the mother starves to death and dies of exhaustion and malnutrition. Meanwhile, poor old Patrick, the reverend who had taught himself to read, educated himself, written poetry books and constantly encouraged his children’s academic and creative pursuits, outlived them all. The poor, poor fellow. To bury your wife and all six children seems a burden too heavy to bear. But there it is. He did.
At first the women published their novels under pseudonyms, as brothers, in fact. There was so much to learn about this fascinating family, like the fact that originally, Patick’s surname was Brunty. A decent Irish name that he changed whilst at college. I could go on and on….but I have no idea if it is of any interest to you … then again,….I don’t usually let that bother me, do I?
One thing that I will mention, as it hit me like a ton of bricks, is the death that was so much a part of life in bygone eras. As I mentioned, one must go past the cemetery to get to Bronte Parsonage. We actually went in and read a few tombstones. The first one had a sleeping infant statue on it, and within its mound contained three four babies, lost at one year, two years, six weeks and another early age as well. Then the mother and father were buried there as well. There was no mention of other siblings, so I don’t know whether they ever had any that lived. Another grave housed the remains of a man’s seventeen week old baby, then about three months later, his wife. He remarried, and had to bury another two infants, and then his second wife. (there being a gap of several months between the last baby and the mother’s death). It is a very strong surge of grief that grips you when you stand there, reading these bare facts. No details, just the ability to imagine how you would feel…how you would cope… It was therefore of some interest to us that we read in the Parsonage museum that Rev Bronte was part of a committee that put together a report condemning the sanitary conditions of Haworth Village. Factories abounded, and toilets were sparse, with one account saying that there was an average of about one loo to service about twenty two households. You can imagine what the streets were running with… Maybe this is why tombstones like the ones we encountered exist. People didn’t know about germs (in a biological sense), and if my memory serves me correctly, this was an era where breast feeding was often replaced early, with the feeding of mash. My spirit groans at the thought of all of the grief that people endured, through circumstances which were avoidable. I hope that the reunions in heaven wipe away all trace of the deep loss people have felt.
Having written all of this, I feel rather melancholy. Kind of like the feelings at the cemetery have resurfaced in all of their sadness, but I really want to leave you with the fact that the day was wonderful. Haworth delightful. The museum fascinating. All well worth a visit if you are ever around.
Now we are in our house for the next week, in Windemere. Bowness-on-Windemere, to be exact. It isn’t a flash place. The owner had warned us about this. In fact, we let ourselves in at the verandah, and then proceeded to let ourselves into the wrong flat. It was quite funny as Shane stopped us all, told us to shush and backed us all quietly out of the doorway, having spied a pair of slippers in front of a chair. We then took the door to the left and presto. We are in someone’s grandma’s house. At least, that is how it feels. In a very real way, it reminds me of my Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Dergholm. I am sure they must have been decorated in a very similar era. I can’t wait for the morning when I will have porridge for brekky in the kitchen……..Ironically, I will be joined by cousins from that side of the family, this very week, in this very house…I wonder if they will feel it too….