I looked at Willie and rolled my eyes…..

“So, ‘Arold……. What are we pickin’ up this mornin’?”

I looked at Willie and rolled my eyes.

Having already told him three times this morning, I realised that even if I told him a fourth time, he wouldn’t remember.

He was more interested in gawking at the fresh ‘hand raised’ pork pies that were being stacked onto Mrs Woodwards window trestle. I have to admit that they look wonderful and she always does a good job making them.

It rained a little this morning and the cobble street that ascends through the village is slick with water and filth…… always filth…. It stinks.

John Dawes, our tanner is walking towards us.

“ A sour day this is?” He says, cracking a smile , as he strides down the hill towards the Fleece Inn. When we’ve finished with our ‘pickup’, I’ve no doubt that Willie and I will join him later.

Out of breath, we crest the hill. The wheels of our cart creak and groan with the effort. My knees do the same.

Turning left at the church, we both hold our noses up, in the hope that we may gain some respite from the smell. I pull the cork on my little flask……only water today…. But it’s OK, I’ll have some freshly brewed ale at the pub in a little while.

Growling past the cemetery ( I must get the wheels greased properly), we both remark at how many fresh graves there are, and we both think of all the very young people who have been buried in it over the last few years….. so tragic!

Pulling up in front of the Brontë house, Willie and I look at each other.

This has been a sad place over the last couple of years. Emily Anne and Branwell have all passed, leaving only Charlotte and her father living in the house. In fact tiz’ Charlotte who has asked us to attend the house and pickup some of the family’s belongings.

I bang on the gate…the entrance to the house.

It sits on top of the hill, here in Haworth, and it sedately watches over the cemetery. Behind the house are the moors, of which, ( I am told) Charlotte writes so romantically. To me the moors are a cruel place, but that’s another tale.

The gate opens and Patrick Brontë himself holds the latch.

“Come on in” he says with a soft Irish brogue.

We are ushered into the kitchen within the house, where a pot of tea is steeping. A slice of cake sits on a plate next to the teapot and I fear that we may have disturbed Patrick….oh well, we must complete our pickup.

A small sofa sits in the hallway….the one that we have been hired to remove. It is well worn.

Another glass of water is offered to us. Willie and I chug it back……it’s delicious but it does have a strange odour to it….. and taste.

I push the observation to the back of my mind… all the water in our small mill town tastes the same way. It is what it is!

We make the pickup and head back down the hill.

On our Northern England tour, we pay a visit to the Brontë Parsonage Museum. It’s the house in which the family, lived, worked, wrote and ( some of them) died.

It is a sad place.

The town of Haworth, is today a beautiful little place to visit, but it has a powerful tale to tell. One of industry, of creativity and tragedy.

And even today, visitors warily look at the water.

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