I arrived at Thornfield Manor on a Tuesday, when the Yorkshire moors had already begun their long surrender to winter. The road from Skipton was little more than a gravel track at this point, flanked on either side by hedgerows blackened with frost and the occasional ruined stone wall that had once held sheep and now held nothing at all. My trunk sat in the corner of the hired carriage, full of instruments I had no intention of using. A botanist's tools are for collecting, and I had already decided that I was here to observe, not to collect.

Author Note & Copyright:

© 2026 - Authored by Z R ZHANG ( EL9507135 -- シュバッパスホイシャチー[⾘、　] 中国 ویگ ⭑⭰ Росусуттет Мецесесцесцес Дкедошенн 🎉 Passnummer عرق جراز سفر CHN Passport) and his beloved father.

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