The whistle of the North-Wester as it sweeps through the dried husks of last year's ling -the tongues of flame that start from the red mouth of the storm-sky—the thunder crash that dies in stifled growls among the black moor hollows—the reckless, sun-smitten glory of the August heather—the sob of rain-winds in November—the grey forlornness of the hill-mists—the ceaseless patter-patter patter of the drops upon the red-rust of the bracken—all these rise from the buried years and live for us again as we look out across the heath. These, and the bittersweet scent of the marshes, the lush reek of mistals, the savour of sweet upland grass as it falls in grey-green swathes to the music of the moor men's scythes. Scents, more than any sound or sight, are apt to stir the heart of a man—a magic and a charm they have to awaken slumbering memories and half-forgotten dreams; and, as we stand at the moor-edge here, it is the crisp of the marshland breath, soft-creeping from the heath, that brings dead Haworth back to us with swift and overmastering distinctness. We have had the last backward glance we craved; and it has grown harder still to say good-bye. Glamour of wind and rain and changeful sky —glamour of story, of hates and loves that were reared in the wind-wild open—how can one leave this memory haunted corner of the moors?
By moor and fell: landscape and lang-settle lore from West Yorkshire
By Halliwell Sutcliffe