It’s long past midnight, but despite resting in an opulent room on an utterly dreamy four-poster bed I cannot sleep. The mattress is so comfortable that even the most habitual insomniac would fall into a coma once they’ve snuggled in — what’s at fault is my own overactive imagination. My brain is adjusting to the knowledge that just over 200 years ago, all six of the Brontë children slept in this very room, giggling and whispering in bed while their parents, Patrick and Maria, slept next door.
Having devoured the works of this ingenious family — Wuthering Heights being a firm favorite — I feel very blessed that my teenage daughter (also called Brontë) and I are the first people in the world to spend a night at the newly renovated, grade II listed Brontë Birthplace in Thornton.
