oversized shoes. My old, weighty rucksack, complete with a bulky bottle of water and my limited food rations for the day, hangs limp against my back.
Ahead, an old, rickety barn, sandwiched between a thick, dark copse of trees and a French farmhouse. This all seems so peculiarly familiar, I can’t think why though. The barn is adorned with a distinctive, rusty weather vane in the shape of a proud cockerel. I remember now, it is the last brick building that I stayed in until the culmination of my contribution…
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