The best parkin I ever ate I ate in Haworth, where we used to go on the train because we would get these awesome train passes which let you go pretty much anywhere in the Yorkshire conurbation, and you could get as far as Haworth.
Haworth was really important to me as a teen because I wore clogs, Walkley's clogs, made to the shape of my feet and then sprayed silver with car spray, finished with metals to kick up the occasional spark, make a fantastic noise (a lot of noise, there's no creeping in clogs), and let you slide around corners in supermarkets. You can't walk in snow though. Sorry.
Haworth also had a fab occult supplies shop called Spooks, the Bronte parsonage, for all your cultural needs, the cute old fashioned chemists at the top of the hill for present buying, and some rather special cafe's.
As you've no doubt gathered, I grew up in Yorkshire, and the moors are where I feel at home, and we all know that Heathcliff lives on the moors (apart from when he disappeared). I spend a lot of time thinking about Heathcliff. He is ridiculously sexy despite being a very bad human. I don't do the bad-boy thing, I don't like to expect little of men, nor expect women to pander to them, yet still, I find Heathcliff sexy. Why?
Partly I think it's because women were for a long time not supposed to be sexual (which is odd when you think that in Victorian times that was the very part of their nature that they were supposed to repress), and so a man who would force himself upon her would remove her need to consent. That is obviously tied up in the whole abhorrent rape culture thing, but hey, it's culture, and at least if we can see it we can know it's abhorrent.
Heathcliff though. Betrayed by those who should have loved him, and taken away ostensibly to be cared for, but never to be as good as the others around him, not even to the woman he loved. No wonder he was furious.
Today is Fraggle's birthday. He wore clogs too. I've lost him now, but hope he has a happy birthday.