The church bells rang this morning as I ran towards the town of Misery. I waved to a solitary farmer, then made my way down the lane and past the chateau. Here and there, lone poppies poked through the wildflowers, and I think I found those almost as poignant as the rows and rows of white gravestones we saw later in the day at Villers-Bretonneux. 46,000 Australians died on the Western Front, and as I ran along the roads they would have marched, it was as though each poppy represented one of them. Back at Maison Warlop, we had a lovely chat with Neil and Vicky and another couple from England over a very festive breakfast of fresh bread and preserves, brioche with young goat's cheese and great coffee. Hugo was thrilled with his pot of
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