Between us, Charlie and I come up with a plan, and we make our first stop-off after a solid three hours of driving, at a small town in the Peak District called Bakewell. It is extremely pretty, with hilly streets and quaint buildings made of mellow stone, and—the star attraction as far as Charlie is concerned—it is the home of the famed Bakewell pudding.
We park the van and stroll into the town center, replenishing ourselves with cake and old-fashioned homemade lemonade. It is another scorcher of a day, so hot on the pavement that Luke carries Betty in his arms so her tiny paws don’t get burned.
The town is bustling, and we meander our way up to the churchyard. Charlie becomes our tour guide and informs us that the church has Saxon origins, is Grade 1 listed, and has fine medieval misericords. I am unsure as to what misericords are, and I suspect Charlie is as well, so I do not inquire. He stays outside with Betty, inspecting the Saxon crosses and reading the gravestones.
The church itself is blessedly cool and shady, silent apart from the low-level talk of the few visitors inside its walls. I admire the stained-glass windows and the huge baptismal font, then stand and stare at the tombs of local dignitaries of centuries gone by. Elaborately carved versions of their living selves are draped across the top, as though protecting them. It is strangely sobering, imagining them as real people, with lives and hopes and dreams and disappointments and triumphs. Now forever trapped in alabaster.
I shake off the momentary melancholy and look around for Luke. I see him standing quietly in front of a lit candle, itsflickering flame vivid in the dim lighting. A few others dance around it, and I wonder what their stories are—for every light that shines, there will be a prayer, a promise, a plea.
Luke closes his eyes and bows his head, and I quickly avert my gaze. It feels as though I am intruding on a deeply personal moment, and I move away, giving him space. We may technically live together, but I understand that I barely know this man—he is like one of those alabaster carvings; I can see the outside, but I have no idea what formed him, what lies beneath. Perhaps I will find that out as our lives walk parallel lines, or perhaps I will not—that is another mystery yet to unfold.
When we have all had our fill of culture, we stock up on picnic items and head off to our next stop. This is a place that Charlie suggested after becoming deeply enthused by the concept of wild swimming, and we couldn’t have chosen a better day for it. The drive is sometimes slightly terrifying, through narrow, winding roads and a pine forest, but Luke assures me he has navigated worse.
We all put our swimming gear on, and Charlie hefts a backpack full of towels and snacks and drinks. It feels a little like we are on holiday, and I wonder if we can possibly maintain this level of excitement for the whole trip. Which of us, I ponder, will be the first to say, “Nah, I’m a bit tired, might just crash out in bed today”? From the looks of Charlie as he sprints ahead along the path with Betty at his heels, it won’t be him.
“He seems to be having fun,” says Luke, walking by my side as we follow the trail. We are heading for a pool that is apparently tucked away on the River Derwent, near to the neighboring reservoir. The air is thick and warm, the trees lining the way casting welcome shade, sheep grazing nearby.
“He does,” I agree. “Though with Charlie, possibly all teenagers, there does come a point when their batteries run out. At that point, he’s likely to just fall asleep, or get really grumpy and blame me for everything, from the fact that he has a blister through to global warming.”
“Ha! Well, to be honest, that probably is your fault... So, how are you feeling?”
“Apart from hot? I’m okay, thank you. It’s all a bit strange, obviously, but I think this is the perfect distraction for us. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for you giving us this opportunity. I mean, without you I’d have never tasted that Bakewell...”
“This is true. I am the Patron Saint of Women Who Need Cake. We’ll add that to the mission statement, shall we? Everywhere we stop off, we have to find cake.”
I laugh and tell him I am all for it.
We walk in companionable silence until we reach an old stone bridge, watching as Charlie tears off his outer layers and follows Betty into the water. She clearly loves to swim, and her little brown head is bobbing around like a miniature seal. Charlie jumps in after her and shrieks in a very un-macho way.
“It’s COLD!” he yells, splashing around. “And deep! It’s brilliant!”
We clamber down to the rocks at the side of the riverbank and strip down to our swimmers. I feel a small sliver of embarrassment and wonder why—I am no supermodel, but there is nothing going on beneath my clothes that is too disgusting. Just a woman thing, I suppose—we’re never quite happy with ourselves, are we?
Luke seems to have no such qualms and is almost as fast as Charlie at tugging his T-shirt over his head and ditching his jeans. There is a moment, as he stands by the riverbank, trunks lying low on his hips, when I literally do a double take. He is like a work of art, tan skin, broad shoulders, the lean muscle you get from anactive lifestyle rather than a gym. I cover my fluster by turning around and folding all of our cast-aside clothes into neat piles.
By the time I have finished, Luke has jumped in as well, and I go next. The shock of the chill water makes me squeal, but within seconds I adjust and start to absolutely love it. The water is clear and cool and completely refreshing, a gentle current adding a rhythmic flow. We are the only people here in this tiny paradise, surrounded by the majestic hills of the Peak District, banked by lush grass and the hum of insect life.
I lie on my back and float, gazing up at the pastel-blue sky, sun warm against my skin, listening to the sublime song of the skylarks. It is a moment of the purest peace: knowing that Charlie is safe and well and happy, that I am exactly where I need to be, that I have nothing else I should be doing right now.
That lasts for about thirty seconds, before Charlie dive-bombs next to me and creates a mini-whirlpool of noise and splattered river water. I respond by holding his head underneath the surface, and Betty barks as she darts around us in circles. The peace is over, but the fun has begun.
We end our swim with a lazy picnic lunch at the side of the river, Betty curled up in a ball beneath a tree. It is idyllic, and we spend way too much time there. I remind myself that there is no schedule, that we are not on anybody’s clock, that the day is ours to waste as much of as we like. It takes some adjustment, after years of work and school runs and carefully timed comings and goings, but I hope I can settle into it. One of the points of this journey is to explore a different way of living, a different way of being—and step one seems to be learning to relax.
The downside of that attitude is that by the time we reach Haworth, the Bronte village, we are too late to go into the museum. We stand outside, though, and look up at the building. It is theparsonage where Emily, Charlotte, and Anne lived with their brother when their father was the reverend at the nearby church. Back then, it must have been a strange place—an industrial town, but perched on the edge of wild, open moorland, bleak and beautiful at the same time. The building itself is handsome, but somehow also foreboding—to me, there is a darkness to it, the brickwork, the rigid structure of the place. I try to imagine those three women there, to picture Emily, her physical life so small, but her emotional and creative world so vast. I gaze up at the parsonage from the neat gardens outside, and Charlie says: “You’re going to say, ‘Just imagine... ,’ aren’t you?”
It is a joke between us—every time I have dragged him around a historic house or taken him to clamber over ruined castle walls, I inevitably say, “Just imagine this the way it was!” and try to recreate some of the scenes from the past. Charlie plays along up to a point, but usually gets bored pretty soon and playsCandy Crushinstead.
“I’m just imagining myself, love. Such amazing talent that lived in this one building. I keep looking up at those windows and picturing them looking back out at me...”
He gives me a look that says,Yeah, right, weirdo, and leaves me to it.
The heat of the day has faded, but the sun is still bright, the sky clear. We decide to go on a signposted walk from the parsonage across the moor to Top Withens, the place that is thought to have inspiredWuthering Heights.
It is a long trek, but breathtaking. The moors are wild, exposed, somehow alien—it is easy to imagine them in winter, windblown and snow-scattered, haunted by Cathy and Heathcliff. We pass the Bronte Waterfall, climb steep hills, cross stepping-stones, and spot kestrels gliding overhead. Iridescent dragonflies skimover water, and the landscape is brightened with luscious foxgloves, wild roses, and honeysuckle. Even though we are not far from civilization, it is eerily quiet out here.
The farmhouse itself is a ruin, but the views are amazing. Again I find myself “just imagining” Emily sitting out here, soaking in the primeval terrain, the wildlife, the sounds and scents of nature, feeding them all into her work. Charlie slightly ruins the moment by playing the Kate Bush song aboutWuthering Heightson his phone, which makes me laugh but leaves Luke with a slightly startled expression. He is quiet as we make the long trek back to the village.
We decide on a pub dinner, and once we are settled in a corner seat, Betty promptly falls asleep after a bowl of water and some gravy bones. She has been carried for some of the walk but is clearly exhausted, as is Charlie. Mid-conversation, he slumps back against his velvet-topped seat and closes his eyes. Poor baby—he’s gotten more exercise today than he usually does in a month. As have I, and I am feeling it in my knees.
