They moved down towards the village at a much brisker pace now, a spring in their step, confidence boosted by the sight of buildings. Soon they crossed a little bridge that acted as a sort of welcoming entrance to the place. A tiny brook trickled underneath. A squat church snuggled immediately to their right and, further down, the well-kept village green, encircled by park benches and huge, ancient oak trees. A few people were milling about and, on the far side of the green, there were a collection of shops and the ubiquitous pub. A sign above the door swung gently on its metal chains. ‘The Poet’s Snug.’ Stirling clapped his hands together and declared, “Perfect.”
It must have been too early for the pub because the doors were firmly closed, so they wandered into the newsagents next door.
