From the opening chapter:

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At dip over Horse Clough, Harry stopped. It were like his eyes were clemmed with thirst and fields of his home were a jug of Jacob Morton’s dagger ale. Brown as a wet peat grough on Glossop Low, his eyes, and they shone like a mill pond. They took a long slow drink of them fields. Happen he were minding their names: White Lies, Pitt Dole, Haugh, Coisfall Meadow, Bready Butts, Knockle Close, Pillat Close, Cowsich Dole; and right beside Storth, Overtwhart. He were reckoning up: Easter two week behind us; a fine Easter, a fine harvest; spring oats planted at new moon - half a quarter to an acre, and happen you’d get four or five quarter back; lambs out to pasture now ewes had ate roots on ploughed lands; sheep sold at fair, new wethers bought at six pound to a score. Linnets and chaffinches sang welcome. Bluebells shone under yon brushwood as give Storth its name. Elder and hazel wore fresh green. Oaks were budding.

Harry turned and scanned valley, slow like a bull sizing up heifers. Smoke other side Glossop, where John Rowland burned charcoal. Clang of iron and rasp of whetstone from Randolph Swann’s forge, Randolph singing Blow away yon morning dew, his wife cursing him. Simmondley noises: daft Hugh Platt shouting at summat, happen a tree; dogs barking; Alice shrieking at Willie and getting a slap. There were sweet-briar in our garden at Cloud, but Willie could still give Alice a slap when she needed one. Then sky went dark over Coombes and a crow come and sat on wall so rain started again, and Harry’s eyes turned back to me.