The word "wuthering" in Wuthering Heights is a Yorkshire term for "blustery" or "windy." On the day that Ellen and I left the Brontes' village and went walking on the moors (Cathy! Heathcliff!), it wasn't particularly wuthering, but it wasn't a big leap to imagine it.
After our walk, we visited Haworth's strange and evocative graveyard — located right next door to the parsonage. The Brontes aren't buried here, but apparently everyone else was. It's so crowded! The tombstones fall against one another in some places. And if you check the names on the stones, you will see that a single grave can house six, seven or more people — stacked beneath the tombstone like the layers of a cake.
The tragedy of this situation was that the villagers didn't understand basic sanitation. Seepage from the overcrowded graveyard (on a hill) poisoned the local water supply, and by the early 19th century, the average life expectancy in Haworth was just 28 years. Fully 41.6% of the children died before reaching six.
That graveyard haunts me still — and it was right beside the Bronte sisters' home. Is it any wonder they wrote dark stories?
The Haworth graveyard ended up being the last stop on our pilgrimage . . . and somehow that seemed fitting. We headed back to London and two days later were on a plane home.
How did we feel? We must have had some problems, right? Some disappointments, some inconveniences? Nope! None. Every time we talked about it, we both felt the same way — enchanted, moved and utterly satisfied. This trip had far exceeded our expectations. And yet . . . and yet . . . there were places and writers we had missed, through sheer lack of time.
Another year, perhaps?
