Not so much the street and the roofs and the sky. More the things inside. Little things, like my mother's endless balls of wool. The precious clock on the mantelpiece. A piece of crockery, glaze worn with proud use. And things that turned out to be bigger, like the rectory bookshelf, with its complete set of Charles Dickens.
And it's always lit like this, shafts of cold sunlight in dark rooms. Dust motes despite the hours spent dusting. Sudden still lifes burning in memory with every stitch and wrinkle clear.
And Bridget and Betty.
Kilcloud, imagined village of the heart.