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| Haworth youth hostel in gothic style |
Welcome to
Haworth - a tiny English town, remembered only for the Bronte sisters, Anne, Charlotte and Emily. This Wheaton in England student was unimpressed with the Bronte parsonage itself. By this point in the trip--5 weeks in--she had seen enough reconstructed historical houses filled with historical furniture, historical clothing and historical memorabilia that were only interesting because a famous person had used it, sat at it, or kept it. Please forgive her slightly cynical attitude, she was weary, emotionally and mentally, and ready to go home. But if you're disappointed by how she treated the parsonage, perhaps she made up for it in her delight of the moors of Haworth.
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| Moors + friends = fantabulous! |
After climbing slowly but steadily up incline after incline, the famed moors of England spread themselves out before her eyes. The rocks were just begging to be climbed on and she and her friends answered the call. Shouts and exclamations rang through the air regarding the different views, a new path, some fascinating discovery or warnings of "be careful!" The girl and her friends frisked about like kid goats let loose out of a pen which they had been, metaphorically speaking. They had been cooped up in a hostel in York with homework for so long that all they wanted to do now was to suck in the brisk air, revel in the openness of the moors and admire the beauty of the countryside. The girl looked out at the rolling green hills, the faraway pastures with miniature-looking sheep and the rampant, gently waving heather, just beginning to turn its pretty purple color. She finally understood why the colonists from England called the East Coast of the US, "New England", because it reminded them of what they had left behind. She felt the closest that she had been to home the entire trip. Being able to turn in 360 degrees and not see a building within a 20 mile distance, feeling the wind whip her hair around, marveling in the rich greenness and having no distracting sounds of cars or crowds to mar the tranquility. These are the things that she missed from home. She related to Anne Bronte's poem,
Home, where Anne wrote about her longing for the nature of her homeland. The girl empathized deeply with Anne for though she loved the moors in all their wild, harsh beauty, inwardly she still longed for the forests, pine trees and stone walls of her New Hampshire, New England home.
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| Lake Windermere |
A similar feeling swept over her as she stood on the fells in the Lake District, looking upon Lake Windermere. A light fog had settled on the fells, looking slightly Misty-Mountains-esque. It looked and felt like New Zealand to her (at least the New Zealand of her imagination), almost as if she had been called upon to become a hobbit. She longed to take her shoes off and run tumultuously up and down the little peaks with the wild sheep that also roamed the fells. Their baas echoing in the small valleys below. The lake itself was beautiful. You just had to be there to see it. Words are not fully adequate. It was not enough to simply look at it. She wanted to get into a kayak and glide across the water in the great stillness that water can provide, perhaps with a friend, perhaps alone. But it was the fells, the countryside itself that captured her heart. The colors, the beauty, the stillness, the wind and all of it together was food for her soul. Though the wind blew her hair in every direction, including into her friends' faces, it calmed her heart. The deep verdant and tan browns of the fells was a delight to her nature-hungry eyes. The distance away from civilization helped her to relax inwardly. Her heart and soul drank in the beauty and stillness that she desired so deeply and had received little of over the past 6 weeks. It was a good way to end her adventure in England, a little speck up on top of a British fell surrounded by green, rocks and sheep. What else could a girl ask for?
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The fells of England
or the hills of New Zealand
Take your pick! |
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