Calm, clean spaces emerging, the bright, sharp-cut pattern of the
fields; squares and fans and pointed triangles, close fitted; emerald
green of the turnips; yellow of the charlock lifted high and clear; red
brown and pink and purple of ploughed land and fallows; red gold of the
wheat and white green of the barley; shimmering in a wash of thin air.

Where Anne and Jerrold sat, green pastures, bitten smooth by the sheep,
flowed down below them in long ridges like waves. On the right the
bright canary coloured charlock brimmed the field. Its flat, vanilla and
almond scent came to them.

"What's Yorkshire like?"

"Not a patch on this place. I can't think what there is about it that
makes you feel so jolly happy."

"But you'd always be happy, Jerrold, anywhere."

"Not like that. I mean a queer, uncanny feeling that you sort of can't
make out."

"I know. I know... There's nothing on earth that gets you like the smell
of charlock."

Anne tilted up her nose and sniffed delicately.

"Fancy seeing this country suddenly for the first time," he said.

"There's such a lot of it. You wouldn't see it properly. It takes ages