Smokingboot

This holiday hasn't felt magical at all; it felt like the collapse of two ill and exhausted people who like each other enough to relax totally in mutual dressinggowndom. The presents have been wonderful, the company gentle, the food fantastic, the champagne all too abundant, but something has been missing, and not all the cgi wonders of Narnia and a valleyfull of talking beavers could inspire me.


Then today, we decided to take our hacking cold racked bodies out onto the moors. We ended up at Haworth parsonage, one time home to the Bronte family and now a museum dedicated to the three authoresses, their father, and their brother, Branwell, a man unlucky enough to be merely adequate in a house bursting with genius.

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