The Honeymoon of Charlotte Brontë and Arthur Bell Nicholls

Haworth

Because of the early hour, the late June sun had not yet made its mark on the earth, and while it was not a cold morning, the glare of Charlotte’s dress leading the way lent a funereal air to the procession making its way by the headstones.

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The church was cold and dark after the bright morning light, and the sound of her echoey footsteps made her wish she had arranged music. Mr Nicholls turned to her and as their eyes met, he winked.

Conwy / Conway

They spent the rest of the morning, into the afternoon, walking the streets of Conway. Arthur was like a child observing the boats coming and going down by the harbour, he said it reminded him of Banagher, and that he still had to pinch himself to think that within a week he would be showing Charlotte all his childhood haunts. There was something unreal about it to her as well, throughout the day, whenever she caught the attention of a passer-by or a shop assistant, she wondered if they could tell that she was no longer a virgin, she felt different and could not fully comprehend what was different, how anything had changed, and yet, since the previous morning everything had changed. Haworth was so much more than three train journeys away.

Bangor

It was a cloudy evening for their coastal railway journey from Conway to Bangor but the weather in no way diminished the spectacular scenery they passed. Going through Penmaenmawr, the railway track was practically on the beach. The sea had a mesmerising effect on Charlotte, whenever her mind brought her to lapping sea water, she saw dear Anne paddling in it at Scarborough, her dress hitched up above her ankles, forever looking towards the horizon, freed from life’s valley of tears.

Llanberis

As the carriage made its way through Llanberis Pass, the constant rain, while doing its utmost, failed to detract from the majestic landscape they witnessed through the window that formed the front projection of the coach. Arthur’s constant expression of awe as he took it all in, an expression that enlarged his eyes and gave him a childlike appearance put Charlotte in mind of Branwell, her Brannii, and how he had looked in the days leading up to his death: watchful and startled. It also rained heavily on the day he took his last, laboured breath.

Beddgelert

The rain was easing as they arrived in Beddgelert, so that alighting from the carriage outside the hotel, the couple, rather than have to make a hasty dash for shelter were able to pause and drink in the Eden they had entered. Lofty mountains encircled the village, and beyond them could be seen the cloud-capped loftiest one of all: Mount Snowdon. The verdant meadows bloomed with nature’s most vibrantly coloured palette from thousands and thousands of wild flowers, and closing her eyes lest she swoon from the excess of visual delight, Charlotte hearing the murmurings of the brooks and smelling the musty incense of the after rain air, as one in a state of religious meditation, quietly ejaculated a prayer towards heaven that He, who had made all of this possible and available to them, would always provide such beauty when the clouds of life lifted.

Holyhead

After a short journey in a horse drawn omnibus from Holyhead railway station, and a mercifully shorter wait in the cold, open air of Admiralty Pier, the couple boarded the boat and were on their way to Ireland. The boat, much to their mutual amusement was called the Prince Arthur. They stayed on deck as the packet clanged and groaned away from the wall and sailed through the morning mist that shrouded the shoreline, before emerging into the light and stilly, blue calm of the Irish Sea. Charlotte moved close to Arthur, and not just because of the chill in the air, she had an urge to say what she was thinking; ‘we’re going home’, but even in this moment of giddy intimacy that she was feeling, her reason did not allow for absurdity.

Kingstown / Dun Laoghaire

Kingstown was nothing like Charlotte had imagined, the entrance to the harbour was dotted with boats bobbing on the waves, some looked to be pleasure sailing boats, while the majority were fishing vessels of varying sizes, and working tugs: to their right it appeared as if another pier was under construction. The East Pier they had disembarked onto and the marina beyond was a heaving mass of people; tourists, fishermen, dockers, carters, and labourers, and then there were the waiting cars and coaches, the horses looking as splendid as any in England; the drivers, perhaps a little less splendid in Charlotte’s estimation, nevertheless, the entire scene could easily have been the wharf in London from where she was rowed out to board the ship to Belgium. What had she been thinking? She felt rather ashamed that she had expected some- thing more primitive, more savage, when in fact this was a port that could have easily competed with the most advanced in Europe. And as for the approach from the water – she and Arthur had gone up on deck to take it all in – it was exactly as her Queen had described it when she first visited a few years previously, likening the sweep of Killiney Bay to the Bay of Naples.

Dublin City

They entered the library through double doors, and there it was in all its oak-partitioned, balustraded, Corinthian pillared glory, the many thousands of tomes nestling on closely placed shelves, guarded by the white, marble busts of great philosophers, historians and poets watching from their pedestaled perches at the end of each partition.

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She loved books; she came from a family of book lovers. In the Parsonage, books never got a chance to linger on dusty shelves, they were read, discussed, reimagined, annotated, read again, consulted, translated from, sketched from, in short, they had a utilitarian purpose. She wondered how long it had been since a human hand had reached for the leather-bound ones coffined around the room, what use could it be to them to be merely admired. She imagined she could hear the characters from down through the ages, plaintively calling from the yellowed pages, begging to be released into a human psyche, for how else could they breathe again.

Banagher

Sunday morning was warm and sunny so it was decided that the family would walk to service. What a novelty it was for Charlotte to stroll down a country road, with the tolls of the church bell competing with buzzing and chirping from the hedgerows, as opposed to negotiating her way alongside the headstones between the parsonage and chapel at home. If alone the journey was ideal for reflection suitable for Sunday prayer and worship, alas sandwiched between Cousin Harriette and Mary Anna and their constant chatter Charlotte could barely hear herself think. How different life with Anne and Emily had been, the former’s sweet, gentle tones often barely audible, and the latter, for the most part, silent.

Parsonstown / Birr

The castle was exactly how a medieval fortress should be, a vast, solid, stone edifice, austere and commanding, it was rather intimidating, and yet familiar, this was Thornfield Hall in Jane Eyre. Charlotte’s gaze was drawn towards the battlements and she wondered if a governess had ever paced there, inwardly raging against her lot, remonstrating with her inner demons as to why women should be content to be still, to knit and sew, and accept a life of stagnation, why the world that stretched out below could not also be theirs to explore and conquer.

Clonmacnoise

As soon as Charlotte stepped from the boat on to the grounds of the monastic site, she knew she was in a special place, she felt it rise from her feet to the crown of her head, there was no logical explanation but she was aware that she trod on sanctified ground. 

Killaloe

At Killaloe they transferred onto a coach that took them to Limerick from where they would get a steamboat to Kilrush. 

Limerick City

Limerick quay was a lively spot. There were jaunting cars galloping down it, the eager faces of the occupants relaxing as they saw that they had not missed the sailing; passengers, men, women and children from all walks of life jostled to secure a better position in the queue to board; pigs squealed as they were crane lifted on; and a fiddler played and sang to ears deafened by the hissing and belching of the steam engine as it was being fired up for the journey.

Kilrush

Already Charlotte was feeling the ancient wildness of the place possess her. And wild it was, the only signs of life were the cabins they passed, which to Charlotte’s horror were mere hovels with black holes for windows and smoke billowing out the door because of the non-existence of chimneys. Ragged, barefoot, children stared hollow-eyed at the passing car, and some more robust looking ones ran after them, their arms stretched in search of alms.

Kilkee

Although the sun shone, the wind on the cliffs was strong as the couple climbed higher and higher to a more advantageous viewing point. The roar of the water, which had been thunderous around the rocks closer to the bay faded with altitude, allowing the skylarks to be heard in all their melodious magnificence. Charlotte was able to identify the different species, like the shags and the fulmars, much to Arthur’s delight.

Tarbert

However, by the time they were crossing the Shannon estuary, headed towards Tarbert, their mood had lifted. Surrounded by the gay clamour of tourists, either going home from their holiday, or, like the Nicholls, destined for Kerry, it was difficult to be anything other than gay.

Listowel

Entering the town of Listowel, the couple turned to each other and nodded, evidently pleased with what they saw, and their decision to sojourn there for the night. The hotel, the Listowel Arms, was in the corner of a square and from its front door could be seen the ruins of a castle, a neat church in the centre of the plaza, shop fronts displaying colourful dresses and bonnets, and buildings of exceptionally fine architectural design. Apart from a few peasant-like characters, the people milling about their daily pursuits appeared pleasant and jovial, as many hats were tipped, and heads bowed in greeting to the tourists disembarking.

Killarney

Even though a soft rain drizzled their days in Killarney, it did not stop them from touring the lakes, walking through the grounds of Muckross and trekking through the Gap of Dunloe. 

Glengarriff

Although Cromwell’s Bridge was their destination, Charlotte found the musty, aromatic scents emanating from the hedgerows and woodland they passed much too difficult to resist, she had to find a pathway into the enchanted wonderland. And so they did. It felt like they had stepped into another country, the air was balmy and heady and reminded the couple of their visit to the Botanic Gardens in Dublin, except here there were no glasshouses, no labels, nothing was contrived, they had entered Ireland’s tropical rain forest. Charlotte felt like they had found a portal to a magical kingdom. She recognised the gnarly branches of the Oak, the tall slender birches, the white flowered rowans, the foxgloves and the rhododendrons in their finest regal attire of reds and purple, and fuchsias everywhere lanterning their trail in fiery red, but there were varieties of ferns, heathers, trees she had never encountered before.

Skibbereen

Skibbereen proved to be as dreary and desolate as Taddy had suggested, and indeed as Forbes had described it according to Arthur, who had been reading his memorandums on the way. The only inhabitants visible along the road into the town were as pitiful as the peasants witnessed on the road to Kilkee, and as you neared the town their numbers increased. Charlotte thought that there was something apocalyptic about the scene.

Bandon

Bandon was a disappointment for Arthur, Revd Brown, who had brought him from Banagher had moved on and was now Master of a school in Kilkenny, and none of the remaining teachers remembered him, so rather than stay the night they got a late train to Cork city.

Cork City

Following the day’s travelling, they decided to have a quiet night, reading and writing in their rather commodious and elegantly furnished suite. Arthur, having seen on a wall plaque that the hotel opened for business in 1816, the year of Charlotte’s birth, said that he would have expected nothing other than the best considering its vintage.

Dublin City

Dublin was bathed in late July sunshine as the cab made its way up the quays, the light danced in iridescent bubbles on the Liffey in compensation for the stench from the same waters that hung heavy in the air.

Holyhead

Haworth