Main Office: 01423 887254
Sixth Form: 01423 818426

Y7/Y8 Brontë Society and Brontë Parsonage Museum Trip

07 Jul 2017 | Posted In School Trips

Y7/Y8 Brontë Society and Brontë Parsonage Museum Trip

I’m just going to write because I cannot help it” – Charlotte Brontë”

Students from Years 7 and 8 enjoyed a sunny trip to Haworth to visit the Brontë Parsonage Museum. The trip included entry into the museum (the Brontë’s house where they lived and crafted their novels), a guided walk of the local area with picturesque views and a creative writing workshop where students wrote under their very own pseudonyms bringing artefacts and objects from the house to life.

Students had to choose an object from the Brontë’s house to bring alive – we guessed each other’s objects from their poems.

“I am” Poem

I wonder where I am.

I hear the sound of my colonel.

I see the battle plan, freshly written.Bronte 2

I want to go home and have peace.

I pretend I’m not in this world.

I feel the other soldiers want it as well.

I touch my gun and precious time left.

I worry we will lose and they’ll take control.

I cry that we might lose.

I understand what I am.

I say I love my controller.

I dream of being at peace.

I try to do my best.

I hope that I’m not just a piece of a puzzle.

I am a toy soldier.

Hector McIntyre

Students then produced short ghost stories where their chosen inanimate objects from the Brontë house were haunted. Again, the toy soldier took centre stage!

Ghost Story

Every night, just past midnight, I open my eyes. I brush down my uniform and listen in the silence waiting for the nightmare to begin.

I don’t know why this happens to me. I wish it didn’t. I let out a melancholy cry, hoping one of my comrades will reply. They remain stiff and silent, stone cold, next to me.

Then it begins.

I hear the rustle of skirts, and the faint echo children’s laughter taunting me. Four figures appear; their skin almost translucent. Their eyes are endless black pits that seem as if they could read into the souls of innocent victims. One by one, they reach into the battered old toy box in which I lie, and grasp a soldier.

Nicole Lack