The story of the moors

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“I don’t come to the moors often, it’s not a place you should visit regularly.”

Do you remember the story of Miss Eyre? I had mentioned I was going to visit some people Charlotte’s sister knew. I really did want to pay them a visit but when I found myself looking through the window of Thrushcross grange, I saw a dark complexioned man holding a pale woman, who looked as frail as a twig, and the only thing I could do was stand there, as the wind blew my dress and scarf.

They were an arresting image, a vision of a love story that is inexplicable — dangerous and addictive. I stayed there for a while, he was holding her gently yet possessively — she was so frail he left blue marks on her skin and she hid her face in his chest; she would not let go and she held on to him with the little strength she had left.

They would have looked worn down separately — angry at the world, lost, but the two of them together looked eerie and defiant to anyone who would dare touch them or stop them, now that they had finally shown how vulnerable they were to one another and to one another only.

The weather was dark and dreary; not the kind that raises apocalyptic questions, no, not on the moors, but enough to raise deep seated anger issues. I don’t come to the moors often, it’s not a place you should visit regularly, but when I do come, it does take me a while before I leave the place behind me.

Story credits: Emile Bronte’s Wuthering Heights; Bruno Dayan for Net-a-Porter (image). 

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