‘That’s the Brontë chair,’ I continue. ‘Legend has it they sat here and told each other stories.’ I stop reading to gaze upon it. ‘Wow, isn’t that fascinating?’

‘Cool,’ she says, pulling out her phone and, without further ado, she promptly sits down and takes a selfie.

We continue on, me reading bits from the pamphlet, Maya taking endless photos and posting them to Instagram whenever she can get a signal, and we arrive at the Brontë Waterfall as the heavens open. Grateful for the huge golfing umbrella, we huddle underneath it as we cross the small footbridge, being careful not to slip. They obviously have a lot of tourists here, as I’ve noticed all the signs are written in Japanese, but today it’s just us. Nobody else would be barmy enough to come out in this weather.

Up on the tops, the skies darken as the storm moves in. The wild moorland is bleak and windswept and, despite the umbrella, we’re both getting completely soaked through.

‘This was a mistake,’ I say. ‘We should turn back.’

‘Look. There!’ Maya almost has to shout to make herself heard above the wind. ‘That must be Top Withens.’

She points ahead and then I see it. Far in the distance, the dark shape of a ruin brooding on the horizon. We can’t turn back now.

Ducking our heads, we brace our bodies against the elements and for a while we both fall silent, concentrating on negotiating the footpath, until finally we reach what’s left of the farmhouse, perched on top of the moor. Now just a ruin, it’s completely open to the elements, with trees gnarled and twisted by the force of the wind.

‘It’s like being on top of the world.’

My voice catches in my throat as, beneath us, the valley sweeps away and I take in the dramatic scenery. It’s so powerful, it feels almost supernatural.

‘Look, there’s a sign.’ Maya points to a stone plaque on the wall that’s been placed there by the Brontë Society.

‘I get it now. The story, I mean. Why she wrote it. It’s so wild up here, isn’t it?’ Turning away from the sign, she’s gazing out across the moors, spellbound. ‘Even Heathcliff makes sense now – well, sort of,’ she adds, glancing sideways at me, the corners of her mouth twisting upwards.

I smile and together we find a place to rest on what’s left of one of the walls. Then for a while we sit there, lost in our thoughts, taking in the views that stretch for miles. This wasn’t a mistake at all. Not even in the driving rain and bitter cold, and the wind that whips the hair around our faces. Coming up here has taught Maya more than I ever could.

And maybe she’s right; maybe Heathcliff does make sense now. Maybe that’s where it all started: under those bedcovers with a torch in my teenage hand; my belief that if I tried harder, loved deeper, then I could save someone I loved. That I could fix them.