The sound of willow striking leather.
Large English supermarkets.
Getting padded up, and striding out to the middle with the bat weighing delightfully heavy in the hand.
English sandwich shops, selling cheddar and tomato, cottage cheese and cucumber, banana and date, and countless other mouth-watering combinations, all in granary bap.
Scampering through for a quick single.
Waking up to a world of pristine whiteness after a heavy overnight snowfall.
Striking the ball crisply through the covers for four.
Going out and about in chilly weather wrapped up snugly in a heavy cashmere overcoat, scarf and gloves.
Diving full length to catch the ball inches above the ground in the slips.
Autumnal smells and colours in a misty country lane with a carpet of leaves underfoot and a whiff of smoke from a garden bonfire in the air.
Getting one to turn, beating the bat, and scattering the stumps.
As Dangermouse said, the smell of freshly mown grass.
Chatting cheerily about the weather with complete strangers.
A good caning.
Pottering about in the garden.
And cricket.