Welland

He knew that Mr. Welland, who was behaving "very handsomely," already had his eye on a newly built house in East Thirty-ninth Street. The neighbourhood was thought remote, and the house was built in a ghastly greenish-yellow stone that the younger architects were beginning to employ as a protest against the brownstone of which the uniform hue coated New York like a cold chocolate sauce; but the plumbing was perfect.

It must have been the magnetism of the viaduct that towers over the village of Harringworth, and which crosses the flood plain of the River Welland on the border of Rutland and Northamptonshire, which drew my family to living close by when we moved to Britain's smallest county in the early 1990s.