I visited Anne Brontë’s grave. She is buried in the churchyard of St Mary’s, high above Scarborough. The sea air has weathered the stone; soon it will be completely illegible. A plaque has since been installed which marks the place and repeats the words of the original inscription.
Her grave was marked with flowers, whereas others nearby were barren. Those well-meant sentiments – forever in our thoughts – last only as long as the family who make the promise. But Anne’s writing has awarded her a form of immortality: as long as there are readers she will never be forgotten.
Throughout the rest of the day I enjoyed the classic British seaside experience: watched the donkeys plod their sandy path; rode the funicular railway as it rattled its way upward and down the cliff; in the arcade the ‘penny falls’ machine (now 2p coins) still takes more than it gives; two lasses convulsed with laughter at the indignation of their friend whose hot sugared doughnut was snatched by a seagull; people ate ice cream; drank cups of tea and pints of beer; fish and chips were eaten with fingers. I even got a little bit sunburned.
I finished my grand day out with an elegant cocktail: the Brontë Bramble.