I left my heart in the moors

A trip to the real Wuthering Heights in Haworth, Yorkshire

Hello, I’m Molly and I write about my slow and simple life in the Scottish Highlands. Subscribe for free to enjoy occasional posts from me. Or, better yet, join our slow community of kindred spirits to unlock ALL my content, including exclusive writing, videos and resources, to help you live the life you REALLY crave. We’d love you to join us for a cuppa…

I was 15 when I first read Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte.

I didn’t know anything about the story before I delved in. By this point, I was well used to the Classics, having started with Anne of Green Gables and followed on to enjoy all of the Austen’s.

I presumed that this book would be similar. But I was so very wrong.

Wuthering Heights started my love affair with all things gothic. Awaking a darker side of my soul that craved the life within this wild story. It was untamed, raw and savage. I loved everything about it.

My love affair with the Bronte’s work deepened after reading Jane Eyre (by Charlotte Bronte) and the often underrated Tenant of Wildfell Hall (by Anne Bronte). I was awestruck that so much genies could come from one family.

So as you can imagine, when the opportunity arose to visit their Yorkshire home, I seized it in a moment.

My journey involved bypassing the Lake District and Yorkshire Dales, before reaching the small village of Haworth, nestled on the edge of the Yorkshire Moors.

I was charmed instantly and delighted in walking down the picturesque cobbled main street. Peering into the shop windows that seemed to go back in time. Buying perhaps one to many books in the wonderfully unique ‘Wave of Nostalgia’ bookshop and enjoying a delicious slice of vegan carrot cake in the cosy ‘Cobbles and Clay’ café.

I of course had to visit the Bronte Parsonage itself. It was a privilege to walk through these author’s childhood home, filled with such special personal possessions, like their writing sets and mud-smeared boots.

As much as I enjoyed visiting their house, it was time to find these sister’s true home, so I set off to explore the moors…

The weather was perfect. A grey, drizzly day in March. Mist clung to the heather and the wind whistled through the barren trees. I never pictured these moors any other way.

I was short on time. The day was already fading as I traipsed up to see the so named ‘Bronte falls’. Crossing through green farmland, enjoying the pee-wit of the local lapwings, before squeezing through the dry-stone walls and entering the moors.

It wasn’t long before I stumbled upon these falls, but this was not my end destination. What I’d really driven over 5 hours to see was Top Withens, a now ruined farmhouse that is thought to be the inspiration behind Wuthering Heights.

This is what I found…

There it is. The sign I have been looking for. I could just about decipher the words ‘Top Withens’ in the weather washed wood, although it didn’t indicate how long it would take to get there.

I took a moment of deliberation. The day was already fading and I was alone, in an unknown wild place. Even then I knew that there was only one choice to make. I pressed on.

I followed the winding dirt path through the heather. The wind was biting and I regretted leaving my extra jumper in the car. The previous days of heavy rain meant that the path was slippery, with mud splattering my leggings. I could hear the trickle of streams that criss-crossed these moors. The air smelled like heather’s ghost.

I met no other humans on my journey but encountered plenty of wild souls. The eerie call of curlews echoed through this bleak terrain. A species in significant decline, that is now red-listed in the UK, it was heartening to hear them. The moors wouldn’t be the same without them. They are the melody of this land.

On cresting a hill, I finally got my first glimpse of Top Withens, an imposing building silhouetted against the pale grey sky. I was getting close.

It felt right that I was doing this journey alone. I have always been most at peace in solitude. I could never feel lonely amongst nature and I imagine these sister’s felt the same. I could feel the presence of many quiet souls who walked this path before me.

It was the silence I noted first. After been whipped by the unrelenting wind, the sudden hush when reaching the farmhouse felt stark. Unnatural almost. Only the gurgle of red grouse and distant cries of curlew remained.

This building was dark. The stone was stained in a deep black that was drenched in the moisture of endless rain. Surrounded by boundless heather.

It felt like it had been here forever.

It felt like home.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Watching the mist curl and swell until the rest of the land faded away. After a time, it felt I was the only person remaining. Living in my beloved story. One of cruelty. Hardship. Relentless misery. Yet also one of love, hope and perseverance. A story of what it means to be human.

As the rain began to strengthen and the wind intensify, I took this as my queue to leave. There was no need for words. They have already been said.

On glancing back, the house had disappeared into the swirling mist. Like it was never there.

But it will remain with me forever.