It was growing dark. Not getting dark, but growing, the dark expanding, filling out, a living corporeal darkness. Veld darkness. The clouds that had been burning on their undersides were now bruising into night, and the evening light of long shadows had fallen through to grey. The sky was deepening, disclosing its first stars, and a cool evening breeze was discovering itself in the thick air.
Yup, that's pretty much what it's like. This is also the only serious novel that I've ever come across that mentions Enkeldoorn (now Chivhu) – on the subject of which, there is a street in Chivu called Ephraim Blank Road. I've always wondered who Ephraim Blank was.
Here's something from p.52:
...the scent of new rain and honeysuckle in the air. Both of these smells reminded Arthur vividly of England, and particularly his boyhood in Kent, when the smell of rain on the dry, hot gravel of the driveway would entice him outside to play. These sudden memories of England were still frequent, ambushing him with no warning, arriving in an instant of recognition before falling through with a pang of homesickness in his chest. They disturbed him, these sudden memories. He had left England. There was nothing there for him anymore.
I recognise those feelings too, but from the other way round.