Walking the Invisible

by Michael Stewart

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

  Copyright © Michael Stewart 2021

  Michael Stewart asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © June 2021 ISBN: 9780008430207

  Version 2021-05-07

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  Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008430184

  For Kate

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction – Brontë Fever

  1‘My Happiest Days’ – Patrick’s Thornton

  2‘Are You a Pagan?’ – On the Trail of the Brontë Stones

  3Law Hill and the Origins of Wuthering Heights

  4Emily’s Boots – Walking Emily’s Moors

  5Mr Earnshaw’s Walk to Liverpool

  6Branwell’s Bastard and Black Combe

  7Luddenden Foot

  8‘And Here’s to You, Mrs Robinson’

  9Looking for the Slaves’ Graveyard

  10The Devilish Face – Hathersage and North Lees Hall

  11Boiled Milk – Anne’s Final Journey

  12Patrick’s Pistols – Walking Home

  Maps

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  About the Publisher

  ‘I’ll walk where my own nature would be

  leading: it vexes me to choose another guide.’

  EMILY BRONTË

  Introduction

  Brontë Fever

  I wasn’t born with a Brontë obsession. As far as I know, it is not a congenital condition. But these past few years I’ve been struck with Brontë Fever. I’m not the only one. Over the course of my fanaticism, I’ve met others. Some of them appear quite normal. There are no flags or bells. They walk amongst us.

  I was born and brought up in Salford, a city within a city, and went to a failing comprehensive that also ‘educated’ most of The Happy Mondays. It was a school built on a marsh and made of plasterboard. There were head- and boot-shaped holes in the walls, where the pupils had found an outlet for their ardour. It was sinking. Actually sinking. The science labs were on the same level as the all-weather pitch. I was in the bottom class for English and was not allowed to study the ‘classics’. Instead, we were given books that were written in a simple style, avoiding big words and grammatical complexity. They often had a glossary at the back. So, I never encountered the work of the Brontës. We were told we weren’t bright enough.

  Shortly after I left school, the building was demolished and the site flattened. At sixteen, I started work in a factory in an area of Manchester called Newton Heath. Thousands of people worked there, mostly men, though few of them lived to see retirement. I used to visit my local library every Saturday morning and take out three books: two fiction and one non-fiction. During the bus journey to and from work, I’d read them. One of those books was Wuthering Heights. I already knew some of the story. I’d watched the 1939 MGM adaptation with my mother when I was a kid, and I’d come across the characters of Cathy and Heathcliff even earlier, in Kate Bush’s debut single. But the novel was very different. At first, I wasn’t even sure if I liked it. I found it a bit of a slog to begin with, but I persisted. Slowly the story and characters drew me in. Somehow, they took hold of me and wouldn’t let go.

  Gradually, over the years, my obsession grew. I learnt that Emily was part of a family that had published some of the best-known works in Victorian literature. After reading Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, her only published novel, I then went on to read the work of her sisters. Charlotte’s first published novel Jane Eyre, then her second Shirley and then her final book Villette. I read Anne’s Agnes Grey and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I read their poems and their letters, everything they had written, including the things that weren’t published in their own lifetimes. I read the work of their brother Branwell and their father Patrick. I moved to Thornton, a village in West Yorkshire and the birthplace of the Brontës. My interest in their literary work began to extend to their lives. I wanted to discover them for myself. I started to hunt them down. Beginning in Thornton, I imagined Patrick Brontë pacing the same streets as me. A curate in his late thirties, he moved here with his family from Hartshead in 1815. He would have walked right past my door every day. I wondered what life was like for him and his family then. I read the stories he wrote during his time in the village.

  I read what others had written about them. I was curious to find out myself to what extent Emily was the wild one, Branwell the drunk, Anne overlooked and Charlotte the ambitious one, driving the rest of them on. I soon found that these myths, although based on some truth, were far from the reality, which was just as compelling to me. I joined the Brontë Society and started to pore over the essays in their journal, Brontë Studies. But the one book I returned to again and again was Wuthering Heights. I became fixated on the two gaping holes in the narrative: where had Heathcliff come from? And where did he go during the missing years? And I started to write a novel that would fill in the gaps. That novel became Ill Will: The Untold Story of Heathcliff, and during my research I recreated the walk that Cathy’s father, Mr Earnshaw, takes on foot, from Yorkshire to Liverpool. I also spent many hours walking the moors around Haworth, writing the book as I tromped across the landscape, talking into a Dictaphone that I always carried in my pocket.

  My quest to find the landscapes that inspired the Brontës had begun. I went to Broughton-in-Furness, where it was claimed Branwell Brontë sired an illegitimate child, and from there to Thorpe Green, where he was dismissed from his role as a tutor for having an affair with his employer’s wife. I went to Dentdale and Law Hill in search of the origin myths behind Emily Brontë’s only published novel. I visited North Lees Hall in Hathersage to discover the inspiration for Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre. I retraced Anne Brontë’s last days in Scarborough and became captivated by the story of the Luddites in Charlotte’s Shirley and how this contrasted with what the movement was like in real life. In short, I travelled all over the north of England in search of their lives and landscapes. In doing so, I realised how important it was to encourage other people to visit these places too. I wanted people to engage not just with their lives and literary works, but with the places that had inspired them.

  Up on the moors, I had a profound understanding of the texts. I started to connect with their writings in a visceral way. It was like I had discovered another layer, and I sank further in. The words and the moors were one.

  Thi
s led to my Brontë Stones project. I realised their birthplace was overlooked in contrast to the parsonage in Haworth where they moved in 1820, and I wanted to bring it to people’s attention and connect it to Haworth. I came up with the idea of a literary trail, with stones along the way, to mark the bicentenaries of the siblings’ births and encourage more people to experience the landscape that had inspired them. This was a landscape that had surrounded them and offered them a place of solace, but also at times must have felt like divine punishment, when the winds were wuthering and rain ripped through the sky like lead shot, with only shawls and hobnail boots to protect them from the relentless elements.

  But the Brontë Stones wasn’t conceived as a heritage enterprise. The project was also about celebrating female writers now. Alongside the Bradford Literature Festival, I commissioned the then Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy, the singer–songwriter Kate Bush, the Scottish Makar Jackie Kay and the award-winning novelist Jeanette Winterson to write poems that would be carved on each of the four stones. These four writers have pushed forward contemporary literature in the same ways the Brontë sisters opened up the possibilities of the Victorian novel and Victorian poetry. Bold, experimental, playful and dark, the four poems are a recognition of what is alive about our language today.

  Pip Hall, the fine letter carver I worked with on the project, emphasised the power of the poems by taking her stylistic cue from the plentiful surrounding inscriptions, dating from the Brontës’ era, in local streets and churchyards. ‘In drawing the lettering and devising layout,’ she said, ‘I wanted the poems to look as if they belonged in their settings. The letter shapes at that time were typically broad, bold and serifed, with a distinct contrast between the vertical and horizontal strokes.’ At other times, Pip responded to the encompassing landscape, drawing on curves to follow the gentle contours of meadow and moor.

  Alongside this project, I devised four walks: one from Thornton to Haworth, and three circular walks for each of the sisters. Maps of these walks are available and included in this publication. They are drawn and designed by the cartographer Christopher Goddard, who makes beautiful bespoke illustrations, very much in the Wainwright tradition.

  The ‘Brontë Stones Walk’ is a characterful nine-mile route over the hills from Thornton to Haworth that takes in all four of the Brontë Stones. It is a linear trek over the moors that also includes Ogden Kirk, Denholme Beck, Nan Scar and Oxenhope, following the Brontë Way in places but elsewhere offering interesting alternatives. The ‘Charlotte Brontë Walk’ is a simple four-mile walk around Thornton. It follows a short loop across the hills around Thornton, starting at St James’s Church, opposite the Old Bell Chapel, where Patrick Brontë worked. It also takes in Thornton Hall, Hanging Fall, Thornton Viaduct and the Brontës’ birthplace, and has some great views over the valley. The ‘Anne Brontë Walk’ is a varied seven-mile ramble around the lush valleys north of Haworth, taking in Newsholme Dean, the Worth Valley and Holden Park. It follows the ‘Railway Children Walk’ to begin with, before climbing through Oakworth and Holden Park to the charming hamlet of Newsholme and Pickles Hill, then dropping down to follow the River Worth back towards Haworth and Parson’s Field, where the Anne Stone is placed. The ‘Emily Brontë Walk’ is, as you would expect, a strenuous and remote fifteen-mile yomp across the moors high above Oxenhope and Haworth, traversing the landscape that inspired Wuthering Heights. This is a hearty hike over the wild moorland Emily loved to roam. The route takes in Top Withins, Alcomden Stones and Ponden Hall, as well as various other beautiful sites.

  I don’t believe that anyone can really connect, can really understand, the Brontës’ literary oeuvre without experiencing this uniquely bleak countryside, without experiencing the force of the hat-stealing winds, the earthy smell of the peat bogs, the haunting call of the curlew in the summer and the warning rattle of red grouse all year round. And the aim of this book is to link landscape with literature by emphasising the relationship of wandering with the writing of fiction. Both allow the mind a creative freedom. As Charlotte herself said, ‘The idea of being authors was as natural to us as walking.’

  This book immerses the reader in the lives and landscapes of the Brontë family. It is a walking book, but it is also a social and literary history of the North. I want you to walk with me but see through their eyes as I compare the times they lived in with the times we live in now. Let’s start in the village where they were born.

  1

  ‘My Happiest Days’ – Patrick’s Thornton

  This story begins at the Old Bell Chapel on Thornton Road. Once the walls were strangled by green snakes of ivy, but a volunteer group ripped the limbs and sinews of vegetation, revealing these eerie remains: a broken bell tower, crumbling walls and medieval tombstones. This is where Patrick Brontë came to preach when he moved his family from Hartshead, West Yorkshire, in 1815. He brought his wife Maria and their two daughters, both still babies: Maria junior and Elizabeth. The younger daughter was named after Elizabeth Branwell, her mother’s younger sister. The parish Patrick had just left was a similar size to that of Thornton, with about 5,000 parishioners. It was a promotion of sorts, as it was the first time he’d not been staying in paid lodgings. He had his own parsonage, purpose built a few years before. And he also had free time. It was during his stay in Thornton that he wrote his two most literary works, The Cottage in the Woods and The Maid of Killarney, so perhaps he was considering a life as a man of letters at this point.

  In his new position, he had half the number of baptisms but the same number of funerals. The reason for this is something of a mystery, but I think the answer lies in the character of the village at that time. Thornton was a crucible of nonconformism: Congregationalists, Methodists, Baptists, English Presbyterians and others. Look around Thornton now and you will see that it is still full of illicit burial grounds that go back to this time: the sinners, the suicides and the unbaptised.

  He came to a church that was in a state of disrepair. Commissioned by Sir Richard Tempest, who was knighted by King Henry VIII, it had over the years decayed, so that when Patrick took over, the floor of the church was gaping, and gaps in the stone flags allowed the putrid fumes of the dead, buried beneath, to seep into the main hall. The physical corruption of the chapel followed the example of Tempest’s moral corruption. Despite holding the position of justice of the peace for the West Riding of Yorkshire, and later high sheriff of the entire county, allegations mounted of vice and violent behaviour, including murder. He died in jail in 1538.

  Thornton Hall, where Richard Tempest lived, is the building behind the chapel, although it is hard to get a good view, as trees, high hedges and walls now obscure it. It’s privately owned and something of a fortress, festooned with razor wire. The village stocks are now located in the grounds. But these trees were not there during the time of the Brontës, and it isn’t hard to imagine a four-year-old Charlotte, peering out of the front bedroom window of the parsonage, which was on the edge of the village, to see the chapel where her father worked, and also the grand hall behind it, as there were no buildings between their home and the chapel.

  There are many contenders for the halls that influenced Thornfield Hall, the home of Mr Rochester in Jane Eyre: Haddon Hall near Bakewell, North Lees Hall in Hathersage and High Sunderland Hall near Halifax (also an influence on Emily’s Wuthering Heights), but I like to look closer to home. Surely the similarity of ‘Thornton’ and ‘Thornfield’ is no coincidence? Thornton Hall would have been Charlotte’s first encounter with a three-storey medieval estate home, and a formative memory.

  I want to get up above Thornton and see how the view has changed from Patrick’s day, so I squeeze through a wrought-iron gate to the left of the hall, beneath overgrown hawthorn, and follow a downhill path that meanders south-east across a farmer’s field to Pinch Beck. My dog, Wolfie, runs ahead of me. He’s a border–springer cross but shares traits with neither breed. Not the OCD of the sheep dog or the ADHD of the spaniel. He’s a blue me
rle, with a black-grey coat. He has one brown eye and one blue, a characteristic of the blue-merle genetic pattern. The view is green fields and drystone walls, with plenty of lush wooded areas. I join a walled lane by the site of the old corn mill, where the milling wheel has been set into the bridge over the beck, and follow Corn Mill Lane to its end. It’s a dice with death as I cross Cockin Lane. Cars careen round a blind corner at sixty miles an hour, and there is no pavement. I join Low Lane, where the pavement leads past the site of Low Lane Pit (now Hole Bottom Beck Yard), turning right at an unsigned footpath beyond, where a path leads along the edge of the field from a rough stile. I reach a stone stoop and, as I do, see a flash of white, blue and pink – a jay, the most colourful of the corvids, as it dives for cover, making its rasping screech as it dips into the canopy of an oak tree. It’s a good spot for birds here, and I regularly see a little owl perching on a bare branch further up. It’s also worth looking upwards, where buzzards often rise on a gyre of warm air, and it is common to see a pair being mobbed by local crows, who find their presence alarming.

  From the stone stoop the path climbs up Hanging Fall hill along the line of an old wall on the right. I stop at the top to take in the panoramic view across Thornton. With all this free time on his hands, as well as writing poems and stories, Patrick did a lot of walking. And not just for leisure. His parish spread from Thornton to encompass Allerton, Denholme, Wilsden, and Clayton, and he would have headed along this route as he made his way to his Clayton parishioners. He would have walked this area extensively, as he never owned a horse. The distance from Denholme to the centre of Clayton is more than five miles.

  At the top of Hanging Fall, I turn right along a wall then skirt round the foot of Rabbit Hill, which is peppered with myriad rabbit holes. It looks like an upturned colander. Wolfie sniffs at the entrance to the burrows. He has caught a few in the past, usually the sick or the lame, but there is nothing for him today. I walk along the top of a judd wall, a type of retaining wall that is built from a quarry’s waste material then backfilled to form a level field. The gorse is on fire with yellow flowers. It’s early September and the air is crisp. The earth is firm underfoot.