Walking in the Brontë’s Footsteps

By Millie Smith-Clare.

7am. I sit outside in solace. I blow gently on the mug of tea firmly cupped in my hands and watch the morning scene unfurl before my eyes.

My home away from home is a cottage with a roaring log fire, nestled in between copious fields of sheep – my idea of heaven.

I hear a distant whistle of a shepherdess in the neighbouring field. A cloud floats along through the grazing Herdwicks. It silently tiptoes its way through the rolling hills drowned in heather.

I feel as if I’m sat at the highest peak of the world, a juxtaposition of claustrophobia and freedom. Sitting in this moment, I understand how The Moors could be a constant source of inspiration the Brontë sisters – they’re breathtaking. I sip on my cup of tea and relish the serenity.

Later that day, I drive past a enticing sign – Brontë Waterfall – I, an English Literature graduate who loves a good walk in nature, suddenly feel pretty twitchy. My mum, a lecturer of English and also fond of a stomp, doesn’t take too much convincing. We indicate right.

Wriggling into our walking boots that were luckily in the boot of the car, we begin our spontaneous hike to the waterfall.

From the minute we cross the first cattle grid, we are met with an abundance of free-roaming sheep. They lazily bob their heads as they make their way through the patches of grass beside the path. As we make our way up the steady incline, we pass by a few fellow hikers all in the proper gear.

My mum and I laugh as we look down at our long floaty skirts. She later remarks that at least we’re being historically accurate for what the Brontë sisters would have worn.

The setting sun casts a golden glow over the farms below as we climb higher. The dirt path narrows into a single file. In front of us is a brigade of sheep following the single file rule. Upon noticing the pair of us, they cross over into the field of heather. They size us up from the safety of the heather blanket as we pass by.

In front of me I imagine Charlotte Brontë marching with purpose, conjuring up images of Jane Eyre lost in The Moors. We reach some steps made out of stone, and the gentle sound of running water confirms we have made it.

The beauty of the Brontë Waterfall is almost beyond comprehension. Tucked in between a valley of hills coated in a patchwork of heather, ferns and all assortments of shrubbery, we dreamily walk beside the winding base of the waterfall.

I stand on the bridge that connects both of the banks and take in my surroundings. I don’t think I’ve ever felt peace quite like it.

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