I’d met him further down the valley a few hours ago, in Hathersage churchyard. He’d given me his life story – orphanage, university, council flat – inside five minutes and was unnervingly friendly. He’d said he escaped to the hills whenever he could because he ‘didn’t fit’ into normal society anymore. Snap, I’d thought.

I continue making a pinhole photograph, attempting to capture Brontë’s view of Hathersage.

"There amongst the romantic hills,” she’d written, “I saw a hamlet and a spire. All the valley at my right hand was full of pasture fields, and corn fields, and woods, and a glittering stream ran zig-zag through the varying shades of green."

“North Lees Hall stars in the novel as Mr Rochester’s house, Thornfield Hall,” the old chap says as I change photographic paper, “‘it was three storeys high’,” he recites from a well thumbed copy of ‘Jane Eyre’, “‘of proportions not vast but considerable; a gentleman’s manor-house, not a nobleman’s seat…’.” He nods encouragingly as I continue to fumble with my pinhole.

“It’s good to slow down,” he smiles, “we consume far too much, far too fast, in our world today.”

We journey together up towards the grey rocky escarpment of Stanage Edge. Sprung gates crack closed behind us like gunshots. Climbers, of which about fifty are hanging off the rock face, point out the easiest route to Robin Hood’s cave. The much loved defender of the oppressed (or evil terrorist, depending on your point of view) held out against Nottingham’s men from bases like this for years, and it’s easy to see how. The gloomy, thickly forested approach and steep upper reaches are, like the boggy fields of Agincourt, far better suited for the light of foot than the heavily armoured. And nobody could creep up on you here, I reckon. From the top of Stanage Edge we seem to be able to see forever.

Mountain bikers career along the path behind us. Quite why they want to move through such beautiful scenery at that great a speed is thankfully beyond me. The wind carries the call of pheasant and the distant bells of Hathersage’s St Michael’s Church. Brontë stayed at the village rectory for three weeks in 1845 and would’ve heard those same bells chiming every quarter hour. They left a lasting impression on her. In the novel, the chiming of church bells always herald significant changes in Jane's life.

“The sheep are settling, weather’s closing in,” the old chap says, pointing to the nearby livestock, “time for us to go.”

We part at the George Hotel, where he’s staying (he’s an avid Brontë fan; Brontë renamed Hathersage ‘Morton’ in the novel, in honour of Mr Morton, the owner of the George Hotel at the time of her visit). I camp overnight by the bubbling River Noe. The last of the daylight threads its way under the forests canopy and dances on the waters broken surface. Ducks crowd the tents entrance in search of bread.

The morning is bright and clear. From the summit of Mam Tor I look over - as Brontë described them - "... the hills, sweet with scent of heath and rush, mossy fine and emerald green," of the Hope valley. The spacious farms and their lush fields symbolize abundance and safety to me, and I find myself humming Elgar along to the grasshoppers chirp. I’ve experienced over sixty countries in the past and have never considered myself a patriot but today, looking down on this scene of peace and plenty, I forgive myself for believing that no finer land has ever been created.

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