Time travelling is easy. Go to a farmers' market.
Not a poncy sun-dried goat's cheese farmers' market. A market with farmers, in a proper market town. Selling sheep and pigs and ducks. One where they warn you when you park that your car could get dented by an escaping bullock. "Happened last week."
In the madding crowd there are canny groups of Thomas Hardy men, conferring about the price of calves and black-face sheep, which are the coolest sheep at the market.
You expect to see Bathsheba Everdene any minute, turning heads and bartering sharply for sheep feed. You certainly see her nightie in the indoor market, hanging on a rack with several more. Pristine, but definitely Victorian.
You see Mellors and his jacket with all the smeared waxed pockets and his young pheasants. And his gun, among a lot of other guns and cages for ferrets. And ferrets.
There are the odd jarring notes. Dayglo harnesses and jackets for ferrets. A few men like Mellors's mates, if Mellors had mates, selling night-shot videos about catching pheasants and rabbits.
And an iphone on a water trough, in a sheep pen with straw on the floor.