My Time With The Brontes

There is something special and almost magical about spending time surrounded by the thoughts and ideas of those much older than us. Walking around the homes of those long gone, but almost sensing the hope and lives that they left behind.
If you pair the emotion of exploring the homes of lost souls, with those very souls belonging to a famous family that you have adored since you were a young age and it is, oh, fantastic.
The Bronte family lived in their parsonage home of Haworth from 1820 to 1861, and I had the abosolute pleasue of exploring it many years later in 2026. The very home where the Bronte sisters wrote all of their famous works that we still know and love to this day.
With both my visit, and the new Wuthering Heights movie releasing in the same year I thought I would share my time at the Bronte’s house with you, and encourage you to do the very same.
The parsonage museum is situated within the lovely town of Haworth, which even if you don’t manage to find the museum - I encourage you to explore anyway. Haworth has a long hill of a high street, filled with quaint stores brimming with everything from trinkets to withcraft items to handcrafted goods. I was slightly disapointed with the lack of bookstores considering where we were, but the themed Bronte sister beers in the local pub at the top of the high street soon cheered me up. I wonder what the sisters would think knowing that their fame had let them to be the name of the local beer. I actually think they would love it.
The museum itself is almost missable, as it hides behind a tall wall and next to large cemetary. The tickets cost fifteen pounds each, and after a short wait queing outside (Where the lovely staff entertained us with trivia questions) we were let inside of the home of my heros.

The museum is filled with not only replica, but the Bronte families actual posessions. As soon as you enter, you are met with their dining room with an original portrait of Charlotte on the wall. The artist you may ask? The Bronte brother himself.
When I tell you that I was delerious at this point, I mean it.
If you look closely, you can see Emily’s very own portable writing desk. Sat with the promise of stories that would thrill us all for years following her death.
Sometimes, when I write my own novels, I think of this writing desk. That as a young woman, she must have been filled with ideas and thoughts - with no idea that we would call her “One of the classics” over a hundred years later. I wonder if she felt the same self doubt that plagues my mind, or if the unlikely nature of her becoming a famous author due to her sex and time, simply allowed her pen to flourish unecombered by fear and self deprication.
There are a few plaquards in every room that will talk you through each of the areas and the history behind. However, I’ll warn you that it is very narrow and it is sadly, definitely not wheelchair friendly. You will have to fight for a premium shot of the good stuff, but it’s definitely worth it.

Some of the original architecture has been changed (Whether intentional for design or due to deteriation from age I don’t know), but the feeling of how they lived really does stay true. You can imagine the sisters warming by the fire after hours exploring the moors, or pushing through to find something to eat late at night after hours of writing and reading.

The cupboards and floors are higgledy piggledy, and the stairs are extremely steep. I had to grip on tight to the handrail in order to not fall, not to mention that the general public are not exactly known being gracious. Due to the narrow nature of the home, you really do have to fight for space on a busy day. It was hard to imagine such a large family living happily there for so long.

Above all of the room replicas, atop the building there is a museum of sorts. This is where I was stunned into silence, and I spent the next hour quietly taking in that around me. I wasn’t the only one, everyone around me had gone from chatty and boisterous - to silent and pensive. The room was filled with glass cabinets, stuffed to the brim with the house of Bronte’s personal belongings. I’ve included some photos below for you to look through.

The most heartbreaking items were the handwritten books and notes. For most of my life, people have made jokes about my handwriting. I’ve always over looped my letters, and found that my sentances ended diagonally across the page as if trying to walk themselves off it. The only person who loved my writing was my grandma, who always said that I was stuck in the wrong time, and that my handwriting was proof of it.

And there, on the papers in front of me. Was the Bronte sister’s handwriting. Looping, slanted and filled with their lives, promises and affections. Right in front of me. It felt magical to be so close to the words of the women that I admired. The fact that the paper and ink had survived until now was a miracle in itself, and really an ode to the historians that spend their lives making sure that they do.

I can always imagine the women of the house writing, but the mundane items such as their socks, or even their sewing boxes really made me smile.

A conversation that me and Alistair had whilst we walked through their wordly posessions, was that we can’t imagine who will be the next “classic” or “historical” person from our lifetime, to have their posessions saved for hundreds of years. Their iPhone kept behind glass, next to their clothes and Wifi dongle. In glass cabinets for the world to stare at. It seems surreal to think that someone that lives among us could live on far past any of our lifetimes.

My Time With The Brontes

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