A small Swiss town, a river running through its centre: A green river through a red town. Fast and slow at once; ancient and modern.
It was only a few streets away from the hotel, and they were open about the fact that they spoke English.
That was important, as neither of us had a whole amount of Swedish that we could rely upon.
The kitchen was well stocked, and I cooked us the first of what we hoped would be many meals in the peace and calm of our new-found bolt-hole. The larder had been stocked well, and we put any thoughts of cannibalism from our minds.
The Outpost is kind. Its benevolence shines like a beacon: a Beacon.
Ah, parenthood: it’s great isn’t it? Except for those times when it isn’t quite.
This is about the bad times: the good times can speak for themselves.
Winged bestiality; aerial barbarism; malign and aloft.
Blood, blood, glorious blood: Nothing quite like it for scaring the living snot out of you.