The Pilgrimage Revealed

So here's where I am. I don't really expect any readers -- except possibly fellow blogger Mr. Pudding, who's been here -- to recognize this location, but let's start slowly.

Here's another view.

OK, fine, let's just give it away:

Yes, I am on a literary pilgrimage to the Calder Valley of West Yorkshire, visiting the grave of one of my favorite poets, Sylvia Plath. That's my book leaning against her headstone. Don't worry, I didn't leave it there! I brought it to read on the train and get myself into the right headspace.

I've written before about Plath and walks I've taken around London to visit her homes and locations mentioned in her poetry. I became a fan of her writing as a teenager, when I read "The Bell Jar" and some of her poems. She is a poet who appeals to young people -- accessible but sophisticated, full of drama, writing about being young herself. (She was only 30 when she died, famously, by suicide in London.)

It's only because of her former husband, poet Ted Hughes -- who had separated from Plath after having at least one affair shortly before her death -- that she's buried here in Yorkshire at all. I'm staying in Hebden Bridge, and he was born in Mytholmroyd, a town just down the road. His parents lived in the nearby village of Heptonstall when Plath died, and that's where her grave is located, even though she lived in London and Devon and was American by birth. She seems a bit stranded here, between local families the Carrs and the Drapers. (When Hughes died, his ashes were scattered in Devon.)

As you can see, some people have taken exception to including the name Hughes on her gravestone -- so much so that it's been repeatedly chipped off.

Visitors have left tokens of appreciation: a painted rock, a dragonfly. Lots of pens. Someone even left a Scottish £10 note, which I thought was a little peculiar. The bracelet's letters form part of a line from Plath's poem "The Bee Meeting": "I am the magician's girl who does not flinch."

When I found Plath's grave in the Heptonstall churchyard, there were already two young-ish women standing over it. I sat down on a nearby bench with my book and waited for them to leave, but as I did so, another two women and a man showed up. (The man could not have been less interested and wandered off to look at war graves.) I waited and read a few poems: "Blackberrying, " "Finisterre."

Finally, after I was alone on the windy hillside, I sat next to her grave and read "Ariel," one of her most famous poems, aloud. It was so interesting to think the woman who wrote those lines -- or at least her earthly, biological self -- was right next to me.

Despite my affinity for visiting cemeteries, I've always wrestled with the point of graves. My parents don't have physical graves, nor do I intend to have one. And yet I do feel a connection when I visit them. Which I guess is the point.

Getting to and from Heptonstall from Hebden Bridge was interesting. I had to hike up this steep and rather treacherous cobbled path, known as "The Buttress" -- its stones damp and somewhat slick, not to mention uneven. Going down again was an even bigger challenge, but fortunately, there's a handrail, which I kept close.

I also visited a local antique store where I picked up some interesting old postcards and pictures (more blog fodder!) and I will probably go back this morning because I didn't get a chance to comb through everything. I have an "anytime" train ticket today, so I'll make my way back to London sometime around lunch, I think. Dave got home from Ireland yesterday, and Olga had her dog-walker, so she was fine without me.

One other thing I've discovered, completely unexpectedly -- Hebden Bridge is very gay. Lots of rainbows and pride flags. In fact, there are only two other people staying in my guest house, and from those names I'm almost certain they're drag queens. Maybe they'll be at breakfast. In drag, I hope.