A large pot waited for us. A slight opening gave me a whiff of its contents. A stew of potatoes, a few herbs, perhaps rosemary? There was the earthy hint of mushrooms thrown in there, carrots, a note of pig-meat and parsnips. But I stayed my expectations. Most of it must have been whittled down with water. Feeding the enemy, even if we were refugees, meant that they would take the cheapest route possible.
