You may be reading this as a result of the very kind article in the latest edition of Writers’ News (Blogging Joy for Robert, Vol 17, No 6 June 2006), for which I am grateful to Mr Jonathan Telfer. Either way, I thought I would add to what has already been said.
Up until January this year I had not heard of blogging. Although I like to think of myself as being reasonably computer literate, this particular modern publishing phenomenon was completely unknown to me.
All that changed one rainy weekend afternoon in the middle of January as I sat browsing the latest editions of various writing magazines. It was then that I came across an article in the February 2006 copy of Writers’ News, written by Jonathan Telfer and entitled Blog Show Case Opportunity. It was about to send me off on a project which has since become an addiction.
One weekend later, I had set up my first blog and, with great trepidation, posted article number one. Just over three months later, I have posted ninety eight articles and logged almost nine hundred visits to my site (from as far away as the USA, Korea and Australia).
Why do I do it? The answer is simple. It is an exciting way to place articles, which wouldn’t easily find a home elsewhere, into the public domain. The fact that people are interested enough to read them is both rewarding and encouraging. Blogging also helps to develop one’s writing skills and, who knows, there might be a book out of it one day!
Last month I decided to start a second blog dedicated to my attempts at poetry. This was undertaken with a considerable degree of apprehension, as I acknowledge my obvious shortcomings in that particular area. However, at some stage a writer needs to be bold, crawl from under the bushel and expose himself to possible criticism. The risk is that the writer also exposes his inner self to public scrutiny. However, is that not what poets have always done?
A third blog is in the planning stages. This one will be a window for all those short stories which have either served their purpose or fallen by the wayside. It seems such a shame to leave them languishing in a filing draw.
In a short space of time, blogging has become an invaluable addition to my spectrum of writing and I would recommend it to any writer who is trying to develop their craft. In the meantime, my only regret is that visitors rarely feel encouraged to leave comments. It would be pleasing to receive constructive feedback or to spark off some thoughtful debate from time to time.
You may also be interested in following the link below to an earlier article where I explain why I write (Writer's Itch, January 2006), and possibly another article Success by Osmosis (January 2006) which explains why I have chosen this particular pseudonym.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Thought for the Day
Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind.
George Orwell
Why I Write (1946)
George Orwell
Why I Write (1946)
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Laughter through Adversity
The ability of people to be humorous when faced with enormous dangers is one of the most endearing characteristics of mankind.
For the past fourteen days, two miners have been trapped deep within the Beaconsfield Gold Mine in Tasmania following a rock fall on the 25th April, which killed one of their colleagues. Messers Russell and Webb, both in their thirties, have survived through the protection of a small steel cage.
Once rescuers had managed to bore a pipe through to their location, the men were asked what they would most appreciate being provided with. As quick as a flash, the reply came back from one: ‘a copy of the day’s newspaper so I can apply for a new job.’
Later on, one was heard to remark that he intended to claim a “living away from home allowance” for the time spent trapped underground.
Finally freed today, they were asked by reporters as to what was the first thing they were going to do. The reply: ‘put in an overtime claim.’
Who couldn’t but rejoice on hearing that they had been freed, after having shown such great fortitude and courage? They deserve every penny of the estimated £800,000 their story is going to bring them from newspaper, book and film rights.
For the past fourteen days, two miners have been trapped deep within the Beaconsfield Gold Mine in Tasmania following a rock fall on the 25th April, which killed one of their colleagues. Messers Russell and Webb, both in their thirties, have survived through the protection of a small steel cage.
Once rescuers had managed to bore a pipe through to their location, the men were asked what they would most appreciate being provided with. As quick as a flash, the reply came back from one: ‘a copy of the day’s newspaper so I can apply for a new job.’
Later on, one was heard to remark that he intended to claim a “living away from home allowance” for the time spent trapped underground.
Finally freed today, they were asked by reporters as to what was the first thing they were going to do. The reply: ‘put in an overtime claim.’
Who couldn’t but rejoice on hearing that they had been freed, after having shown such great fortitude and courage? They deserve every penny of the estimated £800,000 their story is going to bring them from newspaper, book and film rights.
Retreating from the Real World
Last week my wife and I went to the cinema to see The White Countess. For those who are yet to see it, then I strongly recommend the film. Indeed, I would quite happily sit through it again to catch some of the deeper nuances, which I may well have missed the first time around.
The White Countess was written as an original screenplay by the writer, Kazuo Ishiguro, whose previous film success was from the novel, Remains of the Day.
The story is about an American called Jackson, living in Shanghai during the late 1930s. He is an ex-diplomat who was blinded during a terrorist explosion in which he also lost his daughter. He builds a nightclub (called The White Countess) in which he hides away from the world outside. Various components of the nightclub make it a tightly controlled miniature of the world at large, all carefully managed by Jackson. The club revolves around his main hostess, the Countess Sofia, one of a family of impecunious Russian aristocrats who have fled their home country. The tension within the club is reflected by the inevitable, yet restrained and almost denied, romance that grows between Jackson and the Countess Sofia. Various other facets make the story an interesting cameo on the plight of refugees, both Russian and Jewish, as well as the tense relationship between the Chinese and the Japanese prior to the second Sino-Japanese War in 1937.
What intrigued me the most was the concept of building a world (in this case the nightclub) in which the architect hides away from reality, whilst the very world he has built continues to occupy its own place within reality. It struck me that many of us have similar defensive mechanisms by which we retreat from the real world. For me it is our home in the Yorkshire Dales. Some of our friends run away to the North York Moors, others to their boat. In each case, we carry with us only those elements we wish to be a part of our alternative lives. We leave behind all that causes us unrest, work or displeasure. No longer are we troubled by time, the imposition of deadlines, the need to make a living or to pay bills etc. We live a fantasy life albeit within a real world and on terms that do not make demands upon us. It is as though we take off the mantle of responsibility and concern when we step through our own version of C J Lewis’s wardrobe.
The White Countess is a splendid reflection of the need many of us feel in respect to controlling our environment and hiding from reality. By doing so, we remain sane and more capable of coping with the stresses of the real world. Perhaps it is true that, from time to time, we all need, in individualistic ways, our own personal Narnia.
The White Countess was written as an original screenplay by the writer, Kazuo Ishiguro, whose previous film success was from the novel, Remains of the Day.
The story is about an American called Jackson, living in Shanghai during the late 1930s. He is an ex-diplomat who was blinded during a terrorist explosion in which he also lost his daughter. He builds a nightclub (called The White Countess) in which he hides away from the world outside. Various components of the nightclub make it a tightly controlled miniature of the world at large, all carefully managed by Jackson. The club revolves around his main hostess, the Countess Sofia, one of a family of impecunious Russian aristocrats who have fled their home country. The tension within the club is reflected by the inevitable, yet restrained and almost denied, romance that grows between Jackson and the Countess Sofia. Various other facets make the story an interesting cameo on the plight of refugees, both Russian and Jewish, as well as the tense relationship between the Chinese and the Japanese prior to the second Sino-Japanese War in 1937.
What intrigued me the most was the concept of building a world (in this case the nightclub) in which the architect hides away from reality, whilst the very world he has built continues to occupy its own place within reality. It struck me that many of us have similar defensive mechanisms by which we retreat from the real world. For me it is our home in the Yorkshire Dales. Some of our friends run away to the North York Moors, others to their boat. In each case, we carry with us only those elements we wish to be a part of our alternative lives. We leave behind all that causes us unrest, work or displeasure. No longer are we troubled by time, the imposition of deadlines, the need to make a living or to pay bills etc. We live a fantasy life albeit within a real world and on terms that do not make demands upon us. It is as though we take off the mantle of responsibility and concern when we step through our own version of C J Lewis’s wardrobe.
The White Countess is a splendid reflection of the need many of us feel in respect to controlling our environment and hiding from reality. By doing so, we remain sane and more capable of coping with the stresses of the real world. Perhaps it is true that, from time to time, we all need, in individualistic ways, our own personal Narnia.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Word of the Week – Solipsistic
Nothing gives me greater delight, when reading a book or article, than to come across a word that I not only do not know the meaning of, but also have never heard of before that moment. It is a momentous occasion. The discovery of a new treasure!
Today’s word is enunciated in a flowing manner, which, by itself, gives it an immediate appeal. Said slowly, it just rolls around the tongue, lips and mouth rather as an echo bounces off the walls of a valley. It could perhaps even be thought of a sensuous word.
I came across the word whilst reading an article in The Daily Telegraph on blogging (See the world though our bloggers’ eyes, April 28, 2006). The sentence ran thus: ‘They do not do so in solipsistic isolation’.
Cue the New Oxford Dictionary of English (NODE). According to this knowledgeable tome, in the form of a noun, solipsism is ‘the view or theory that the self is all that can be known to exist,’ or ‘the quality of being self-centred or selfish’. Solipsistic is the adjective, solipsistically the adverb. The word originates from the late 19th century, from the Latin solus (alone) and ipse (self).
Returning to the article, blogging is an isolated activity at source. However, the blogger knows that his work is to be potentially exposed to the entire world through the medium of the Internet. Thus, he does not blog in ‘solipsistic isolation’. Nicely put. I am very glad I read the article as the attainment of a new piece of knowledge tunes my psyche to a level of contentment for the rest of the day.
Today’s word is enunciated in a flowing manner, which, by itself, gives it an immediate appeal. Said slowly, it just rolls around the tongue, lips and mouth rather as an echo bounces off the walls of a valley. It could perhaps even be thought of a sensuous word.
I came across the word whilst reading an article in The Daily Telegraph on blogging (See the world though our bloggers’ eyes, April 28, 2006). The sentence ran thus: ‘They do not do so in solipsistic isolation’.
Cue the New Oxford Dictionary of English (NODE). According to this knowledgeable tome, in the form of a noun, solipsism is ‘the view or theory that the self is all that can be known to exist,’ or ‘the quality of being self-centred or selfish’. Solipsistic is the adjective, solipsistically the adverb. The word originates from the late 19th century, from the Latin solus (alone) and ipse (self).
Returning to the article, blogging is an isolated activity at source. However, the blogger knows that his work is to be potentially exposed to the entire world through the medium of the Internet. Thus, he does not blog in ‘solipsistic isolation’. Nicely put. I am very glad I read the article as the attainment of a new piece of knowledge tunes my psyche to a level of contentment for the rest of the day.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Initiating Change
Whilst speaking at a conference this weekend, I tried to paraphrase from memory a quotation from Machiavelli's work, The Prince. For the benefit of those who may have been at the same conference, the original quotation is given below. For those who were not present, you may still find it thought provoking and perhaps useful should you ever be tasked with initiating change:
‘…there is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct , or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things. Because the innovator has for enemies all those who have done well under the old conditions, and lukewarm defenders in those who may do well under the new.’
‘…there is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct , or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things. Because the innovator has for enemies all those who have done well under the old conditions, and lukewarm defenders in those who may do well under the new.’
Friday, May 05, 2006
The Driving Force Behind James Patterson
According to an article in The Daily Telegraph (Friday 28th April 2006) James Patterson is “the author of more new No 1 bestselling titles in the past five years than Dan Brown, J K Rowling, Tom Clancy and John Grisham put together”. His books allegedly earn him $40 million a year.
When the reporter, Cassandra Jardine, asked what drives him now, his reply was “a desire to provide for his family”.
All I can say is that, with $40 million per year, his family must be very demanding!
When the reporter, Cassandra Jardine, asked what drives him now, his reply was “a desire to provide for his family”.
All I can say is that, with $40 million per year, his family must be very demanding!
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Postcard from Cumbria (1)
Sunday, 30th April 2006
I am standing on a path behind the northeast corner of the church of St Mary in Kirkby Lonsdale. In the mid 19th century, when the view before me was immortalised in words and watercolour, this part of the country was known as Westmorland, only much later to be amalgamated with Cumberland to form the county of Cumbria.
The scene I am visually and mentally absorbing was once described by John Ruskin, the artist, writer and thinker who lived from 1819 to 1900, as ‘one of the loveliest scenes in England and therefore, the world’.
Ruskin’s View, as it is now known, was captured in watercolour by the artist Turner early in the 19th century. The scene has changed very little since then. What we can now behold is that which first entranced both Turner and Ruskin. (As I stand here, I am amused by the passing thought that Freemasons would perhaps share with me a quiet satisfaction that something so perfect should be viewed from a vantage point looking towards the northeast.)
Below is a wide valley of meadowland through which a broad river, the River Lune, wends its way in a U-shaped curve. Above the pasture is a deep band of woodland, behind which, dry-stone walls climb the heather-clad slopes of the fells of Barbon. Cattle and sheep graze the hedged grasslands, flocks of birds feed at the water’s edge, and small farmsteads and old Halls dot the landscape. The various components of meadow, river, woodland and fell form a composition of perfect harmony, topped today, by sunshine, a blue sky and the occasional white cumulus cloud.
Simply standing there, with nothing but the sound of bird song and the chiming of the church bell to disturb the silence, I am left with an intense feeling of inner peace and contentment. It is impossible for me to imagine being more relaxed. Ruskin was correct; it is a scene of perfection.
* * *
Descending a long flight of steps enables the riverbank to be reached. From there, the most pleasant of riverside walks stretches to the Devil’s Bridge at the road junction to Kirkby Lonsdale. Large rocks allow one to sit and gaze in contemplative mood at the waterside scene, made even more pleasing by the presence, at this time of year, of Orange Tip butterflies.
I am aware that, beyond the Devil’s Bridge, a car boot sale is in progress, with hoards of cars and people. There they can stay. The real attraction is here amidst the solitude and beauty of nature. For me, this is the true value of being alive.
I am standing on a path behind the northeast corner of the church of St Mary in Kirkby Lonsdale. In the mid 19th century, when the view before me was immortalised in words and watercolour, this part of the country was known as Westmorland, only much later to be amalgamated with Cumberland to form the county of Cumbria.
The scene I am visually and mentally absorbing was once described by John Ruskin, the artist, writer and thinker who lived from 1819 to 1900, as ‘one of the loveliest scenes in England and therefore, the world’.
Ruskin’s View, as it is now known, was captured in watercolour by the artist Turner early in the 19th century. The scene has changed very little since then. What we can now behold is that which first entranced both Turner and Ruskin. (As I stand here, I am amused by the passing thought that Freemasons would perhaps share with me a quiet satisfaction that something so perfect should be viewed from a vantage point looking towards the northeast.)
Below is a wide valley of meadowland through which a broad river, the River Lune, wends its way in a U-shaped curve. Above the pasture is a deep band of woodland, behind which, dry-stone walls climb the heather-clad slopes of the fells of Barbon. Cattle and sheep graze the hedged grasslands, flocks of birds feed at the water’s edge, and small farmsteads and old Halls dot the landscape. The various components of meadow, river, woodland and fell form a composition of perfect harmony, topped today, by sunshine, a blue sky and the occasional white cumulus cloud.
Simply standing there, with nothing but the sound of bird song and the chiming of the church bell to disturb the silence, I am left with an intense feeling of inner peace and contentment. It is impossible for me to imagine being more relaxed. Ruskin was correct; it is a scene of perfection.
* * *
Descending a long flight of steps enables the riverbank to be reached. From there, the most pleasant of riverside walks stretches to the Devil’s Bridge at the road junction to Kirkby Lonsdale. Large rocks allow one to sit and gaze in contemplative mood at the waterside scene, made even more pleasing by the presence, at this time of year, of Orange Tip butterflies.
I am aware that, beyond the Devil’s Bridge, a car boot sale is in progress, with hoards of cars and people. There they can stay. The real attraction is here amidst the solitude and beauty of nature. For me, this is the true value of being alive.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Lexicographic Seduction
Thou strong seducer, opportunity!
John Dryden
The Conquest of Granada (1670) pt. 2, act 4, sc. 3
I have, this very evening, been seduced. Not only that, the event has taken place in the presence of my wife and with her wholehearted assent.
It was a matter of lust at first sight. No other word can describe the shear, unadulterated desire that surged, like an electrifying pulse, through my entire being the very moment I gazed upon the countenance before me. Oh, how I longed to hold this most beautiful of creations in my hands; to caress the layers that clothed the delights within; to inhale the heady perfume that is common to all of this nature. As soon as I held the photograph in my hands, I knew this beautiful thing had to be made mine.
Thus, I ordered a copy of the Folio Society’s exact facsimile of the first edition of Johnson’s Dictionary and now await its arrival with eager anticipation.
Readers of the past postings on this blog will know the power that such books hold over me (see The Noble Sport of Book Hunting, February 2006). This one is an absolute treasure. If you have not been fortunate enough to be offered the chance to buy one of the limited edition of 1,000 copies, then let me take a few moments to describe it to you:
Containing the definitions of 40,000 words, along with examples (amounting to 120,000 quotations) of their usage, the Dictionary is in two volumes, measuring 16¼" x 10¼" with 1,164 pages to each. One third bound in calf leather, the spine has raised leather bands and gold-blocked titles on separate leather labels. An exquisite marbling adorns the paper edges and front and back boards. With the addition of two ribbon markers per volume, the completed works are encased in a buckram-bound box with scalloped edges and a volume divider. What a feast! Those who share the passions of the noble sport of book hunting will immediately know why I have been so readily seduced.
Dr Samuel Johnson wrote his Dictionary over a period of nine years, with the first edition being published in 1775. Even today, the Oxford English Dictionary contains definitions that were first suggested by Johnson. Some of his original work gives an insight to his personal beliefs and politics, as well as the attitudes of the day. Examples such as those that follow are particularly memorable:
Oats. A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland, supports the people.
Pension. An allowance made to any one without an equivalent. In England, it is generally understood to mean pay given to a state hireling for treason to his country.
Curtain-lecture. A reproof given by a wife to her husband in bed.
Nappiness. The quality of having a nap.
Tory. A cant term, derived, I suppose, from an Irish word signifying a savage.
At just under £600, the dictionary is not cheap. However, great works of art never are. Besides, someone must patronise such endeavours for the edification of future generations (making the assumption that these books will long outlive me). As I said to my wife, I feel I have a duty to my country to add this great work to our library!
The postman cannot arrive too soon.
John Dryden
The Conquest of Granada (1670) pt. 2, act 4, sc. 3
I have, this very evening, been seduced. Not only that, the event has taken place in the presence of my wife and with her wholehearted assent.
It was a matter of lust at first sight. No other word can describe the shear, unadulterated desire that surged, like an electrifying pulse, through my entire being the very moment I gazed upon the countenance before me. Oh, how I longed to hold this most beautiful of creations in my hands; to caress the layers that clothed the delights within; to inhale the heady perfume that is common to all of this nature. As soon as I held the photograph in my hands, I knew this beautiful thing had to be made mine.
Thus, I ordered a copy of the Folio Society’s exact facsimile of the first edition of Johnson’s Dictionary and now await its arrival with eager anticipation.
Readers of the past postings on this blog will know the power that such books hold over me (see The Noble Sport of Book Hunting, February 2006). This one is an absolute treasure. If you have not been fortunate enough to be offered the chance to buy one of the limited edition of 1,000 copies, then let me take a few moments to describe it to you:
Containing the definitions of 40,000 words, along with examples (amounting to 120,000 quotations) of their usage, the Dictionary is in two volumes, measuring 16¼" x 10¼" with 1,164 pages to each. One third bound in calf leather, the spine has raised leather bands and gold-blocked titles on separate leather labels. An exquisite marbling adorns the paper edges and front and back boards. With the addition of two ribbon markers per volume, the completed works are encased in a buckram-bound box with scalloped edges and a volume divider. What a feast! Those who share the passions of the noble sport of book hunting will immediately know why I have been so readily seduced.
Dr Samuel Johnson wrote his Dictionary over a period of nine years, with the first edition being published in 1775. Even today, the Oxford English Dictionary contains definitions that were first suggested by Johnson. Some of his original work gives an insight to his personal beliefs and politics, as well as the attitudes of the day. Examples such as those that follow are particularly memorable:
Oats. A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland, supports the people.
Pension. An allowance made to any one without an equivalent. In England, it is generally understood to mean pay given to a state hireling for treason to his country.
Curtain-lecture. A reproof given by a wife to her husband in bed.
Nappiness. The quality of having a nap.
Tory. A cant term, derived, I suppose, from an Irish word signifying a savage.
At just under £600, the dictionary is not cheap. However, great works of art never are. Besides, someone must patronise such endeavours for the edification of future generations (making the assumption that these books will long outlive me). As I said to my wife, I feel I have a duty to my country to add this great work to our library!
The postman cannot arrive too soon.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Thought for the Day
Seen on a bookmark in a craft fair in Hawes, North Yorkshire:
Life is Short - Eat Your Pudding First.
Life is Short - Eat Your Pudding First.
Postcard from the Yorkshire Dales (7)
Saturday, 29th April 2006
Haworth, home of two of the greatest of English novels, namely Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, sits amidst the area south of the Yorkshire Dales, known as the South Pennines. Internationally famous by virtue of the three Brontë sisters who, in the mid 19th Century, lived with their father in the Parsonage, it is also home of the famous Worth Valley Steam Railway, which featured in The Railway Children.
Above the village sits the wild expanse of Haworth Moor with its brooding rocky outcrop known as Ponden Kirk (Penistone Crag in Wuthering Heights), the ruins of the remote farmhouse, Top Withins (home of the Earnshaw family in Wuthering Heights), Brontë Bridge and Brontë Falls. Once a working area of quarries, the moor is now the playground of walkers, literary tourists and, within season, grouse-shooting parties.
This was my third visit to these moors, the first two occasions being in my late teens, some twenty-nine years ago. The changes are subtle, but noticeable. The most obvious is the increased number of visitors. My first pilgrimage across the moor to Top Withins was unaccompanied and with no other soul in sight for the entire journey from Haworth Parsonage. The path beyond Brontë Bridge to Top Withins was indistinct and I can well-remember needing to orientate myself with the aid of a map and compass, picking out the landmark of a solitary tree at the ruins of Top Withins with the aid of binoculars. Now, the paths are well trodden and, at times two, three or even four people in breadth. Way markers (complete with Japanese wording – we met one Japanese lady en route) have also sprung up in a profusion, which, although helpful to the new arrival, detracts from the beauty of the area as an imagined wilderness.
Despite these ravages of modern tourism, it is still possible to enjoy the rugged beauty of the moors and envisage the scenes, wind swept and rain-lashed, which were foremost in the mind of Emily Brontë when she placed her lovers, Cathy and Heathcliff, in their encounters out here.
An indirect walk to Top Withins involves climbing up through an area known as Ponden Clough. Covered with heather, it must be a wonderful sight later in the year when the heather is in flower. Two tumbling becks divide the Clough, providing the important source of water for the Ponden Reservoir at the base of the valley. Having reached the heights of Ponden Kirk, one is rewarded on a clear day (such as today) with a panoramic view of the reservoir and of moorland and hills, which simply stretch for mile upon mile in every direction.
A mile or so further on, Top Withins is the ruined remains of a remote farmhouse. Pausing for lunch, we sat on the broken walls and took time to ponder how harsh life must have been for those who once lived here some one hundred and fifty years ago. How alien today’s visitors would seem to them, not least of all with the occasional mobile telephone making an unwelcomed intrusion. Even the sheep are tame; with only the firm pressure of a walking boot holding them off from approaching close enough to steal the sandwiches!
Literature however, such as that written by the Brontës, is not about describing reality. It is about opening windows in the minds of the readers through which they are able to see an imagined world. Despite the imposition of the modern tourist, the world the Brontës drew from and extended within their own imaginations is still out there. All one needs to do is open those windows in our own imaginations. Contemporary intrusions instantly disappear and we can be transported back to a dark, storm-lashed moor and two desperate lovers. It is the ability to make that cerebral connection with the mind of an author, living one hundred and fifty years ago, which makes today’s journey worthwhile. However many centuries pass, Top Withins will, for the literary mind, forever be the formidable Wuthering Heights.
* * *
Postscript:
The walk back from Haworth passes through a small settlement called Stanbury. It is perhaps worth noting that Stanbury was the home of Timothy Feather, or ‘Owd Timmy’ as he was locally known. With the onset of the Industrial Revolution, the development of steam-powered mills within the West Riding of Yorkshire caused the demise of the old cottage industry of handloom weaving. However, undeterred, ‘Owd Timmy’ continued at his craft until his death, at the age of 85, in 1910.
Haworth, home of two of the greatest of English novels, namely Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, sits amidst the area south of the Yorkshire Dales, known as the South Pennines. Internationally famous by virtue of the three Brontë sisters who, in the mid 19th Century, lived with their father in the Parsonage, it is also home of the famous Worth Valley Steam Railway, which featured in The Railway Children.
Above the village sits the wild expanse of Haworth Moor with its brooding rocky outcrop known as Ponden Kirk (Penistone Crag in Wuthering Heights), the ruins of the remote farmhouse, Top Withins (home of the Earnshaw family in Wuthering Heights), Brontë Bridge and Brontë Falls. Once a working area of quarries, the moor is now the playground of walkers, literary tourists and, within season, grouse-shooting parties.
This was my third visit to these moors, the first two occasions being in my late teens, some twenty-nine years ago. The changes are subtle, but noticeable. The most obvious is the increased number of visitors. My first pilgrimage across the moor to Top Withins was unaccompanied and with no other soul in sight for the entire journey from Haworth Parsonage. The path beyond Brontë Bridge to Top Withins was indistinct and I can well-remember needing to orientate myself with the aid of a map and compass, picking out the landmark of a solitary tree at the ruins of Top Withins with the aid of binoculars. Now, the paths are well trodden and, at times two, three or even four people in breadth. Way markers (complete with Japanese wording – we met one Japanese lady en route) have also sprung up in a profusion, which, although helpful to the new arrival, detracts from the beauty of the area as an imagined wilderness.
Despite these ravages of modern tourism, it is still possible to enjoy the rugged beauty of the moors and envisage the scenes, wind swept and rain-lashed, which were foremost in the mind of Emily Brontë when she placed her lovers, Cathy and Heathcliff, in their encounters out here.
An indirect walk to Top Withins involves climbing up through an area known as Ponden Clough. Covered with heather, it must be a wonderful sight later in the year when the heather is in flower. Two tumbling becks divide the Clough, providing the important source of water for the Ponden Reservoir at the base of the valley. Having reached the heights of Ponden Kirk, one is rewarded on a clear day (such as today) with a panoramic view of the reservoir and of moorland and hills, which simply stretch for mile upon mile in every direction.
A mile or so further on, Top Withins is the ruined remains of a remote farmhouse. Pausing for lunch, we sat on the broken walls and took time to ponder how harsh life must have been for those who once lived here some one hundred and fifty years ago. How alien today’s visitors would seem to them, not least of all with the occasional mobile telephone making an unwelcomed intrusion. Even the sheep are tame; with only the firm pressure of a walking boot holding them off from approaching close enough to steal the sandwiches!
Literature however, such as that written by the Brontës, is not about describing reality. It is about opening windows in the minds of the readers through which they are able to see an imagined world. Despite the imposition of the modern tourist, the world the Brontës drew from and extended within their own imaginations is still out there. All one needs to do is open those windows in our own imaginations. Contemporary intrusions instantly disappear and we can be transported back to a dark, storm-lashed moor and two desperate lovers. It is the ability to make that cerebral connection with the mind of an author, living one hundred and fifty years ago, which makes today’s journey worthwhile. However many centuries pass, Top Withins will, for the literary mind, forever be the formidable Wuthering Heights.
* * *
Postscript:
The walk back from Haworth passes through a small settlement called Stanbury. It is perhaps worth noting that Stanbury was the home of Timothy Feather, or ‘Owd Timmy’ as he was locally known. With the onset of the Industrial Revolution, the development of steam-powered mills within the West Riding of Yorkshire caused the demise of the old cottage industry of handloom weaving. However, undeterred, ‘Owd Timmy’ continued at his craft until his death, at the age of 85, in 1910.
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