A Tale of the Moors

(picture above is of me, standing on Bronte moors in Howarth

 

BRONTES

Wuthering Heights

It is impossible to imagine the impulse that made Emily write such a strange, such a powerful, such a passionate, such an unaccountable – in short such a unearthly book – impossible, that is, until you stand on the Bronte moors by Penistone Crag, and look down on that incredible expanse of wild land, with the wind stirring  the heather and moaning through the hills. Then and only then can you image how such characters as Heathcliff where invented. The moors can stir strange power in you; you might say it is they who had written Wuthering Heights, not Emily.

 

 

On the snowy moors

We went out to the moors the day before yesterday to see the snow. Only a short drive away lies a new realm, a new region, a new earth. When you look up from below at those mountains and moors, blue and beautiful in the misty distance, little do you guess what an experience it is to be up among them. Snow is here, snow is there – everywhere is snow – it glitters like millions of diamonds. The brightness is almost dazzling; hills surround you. The closest of the hills is white with snow like where you stand, the ones a little further, a little lower, are only dusted with snow and the colours of the moor shine through as from beneath a silver veil. Further away still they are blue and purple, and misty like dream mountains.

At first we walked along the track; when we came to the end of the track we decided to leave it and wander a little into the wilderness of snow. It was easy walking at first; the snow was not deep, rocks and heather peeped up above it. But as we walked on the deepness increased. We determined to go to the top of the hill we were walking up, where the view was best. But once up at the summit of hill it is not nearly as easy to get back down again to the car. And partly because we were lost; partly because the snow was far deeper here, the way back seemed to take several times as long as the way up. Several times we encountered huge deep ditches with streams at the bottom. Mum and Dad leaped across but they were to wide for me and my brother to cross. Luckily, we had another way. The ditches were all filled up with snow; in some parts so deep it would reach far above my head were I to try walking over it. But by lying down flat, spreading out arms and legs and slithering  or rolling across the surface of the snow, we got safely across. While crossing one of these ditches we encountered a strange little miniture wooden house with a hole for a door. What is was is still a mystery. We found also a beautiful little mossy cave of icicles, too gorgeous for description with words. After many adventures, and with soaked feet and legs, we reached at last the safety of the car.