I ate a peach when I was twelve, standing in the middle of Haworth common in Yorkshire. The peach was the best peach I'd ever tasted in my life. The juices were dribbling down my chin, spilling onto my shirt and dripping into a puddle at my feet. It was the biggest peach I'd ever seen, too, having to hold onto it with both hands. I closed my eyes, feeling the fuzzy texture crunch in my mouth as I took bite after bite. It was so good. Mom and Dad had bought it for me after we'd toured Thornton, the birthplace of the Brontee sisters, as a special treat. The peach vendor had set up his stall at the bottom of the parsonage to vie for tourists and passersby's business. He was red cheeked, jolly and spoke in a heavy Yorkshire accent. I don't know where he got his peaches from so early in the spring, but I remember standing right next to his stall, Dad handing me my peach and me eating it right there, not even bothering to wash it. I can still taste it, 46 years later.