We take a wrong turn on the path running around the church and wander through Howarth graveyard, walking on headstones fallen flat. Ravens cawing in the trees, and the clouds moving quickly. It is always cold and comfortless. Here lies So-and-So Murgatroyd, who died in the 79th year of his age. Sheep have hopped over the drystone wall - the place is right on the edge of town - and are rooting for blades of grass. We find a route back to the Bronte parsonage knowing that many others have picked their way over the stones before us. Footprints have churned the ground and worn a channel, almost a trench. The soil is dark and peaty and enriched with leaf mold.Inside, a marvellous re-creation of early Victorian rooms. Austere, dark furniture and free of clutter. Here is the sofa on which Emily died of consumption, here is the desk at which the Rev Bronte took his meals, here is a copy of the picture Branwell painted of his three surviving sisters, presciently painting over the image of himself he had originally included. It's no wonder the family lived in their imaginations and produced so much. When the chores were done, the samplers finished with and the daylight gone, what else was there but to hunch over a scrap of paper in the lamplight and scratch away with nib and ink?
