It was a relief to drop down out of the wind and look over the deep valley. Although I’d lived in Brighton all my life, I’d never fully realized such a landscape surrounded my home town. The hills were bald of trees, but this seemed only to enhance the beauty of their curves, and their colors—everything from purplish brown to grasshopper green—sang out in the clear air. The larks were calling insistently above, just as they’d done on the Isle of Wight, and buttercups dotted the grass. We could see right down to the sea, which sent out white sparks. I stopped and stared, letting the sun warm my
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