There was a kind of apple-green light over everything; the steep heather hills cut into the sky like purple amethysts, while beyond the straits the western ocean stretched its pale molten gold to the sunset.

Gresson waxed lyrical over the scene.

'This just about puts me right inside, Mr Brand.

I've got to get away from that little old town pretty frequent or I begin to moult like a canary.

A man feels a man when he gets to a place that smells as good as this.