October 1998. A golden day. Ro?ia Montan? lay below us, its mining scars hidden by trees. A couple of spires peered over the treetops, but the surrounding forests were so thick that there was no sign of the 1970s’ pit – or the trouble that was brewing in it. Instead, there was Nature, the kind of Nature I had only dreamed about, made of dense woods in an array of autumn colours whose glorious visual romp was interrupted only by velvety pastures, small fields, a pitched wooden roof, and the occasional lollipop haystack. The woods rolled for miles over hills and dales to the zigzag horizon of the ...


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