As he stood there on the well-trodden shepherd’s track that led down to the next village, he became aware of the beautiful song of a robin, the sough of a gentle breeze fluttering the leaves on the trees, and the clear blue of the early summer sky. He’d barely noticed the weather, or his surroundings, so intent had he been on his thoughts and memories, and now he lifted his face to the welcoming warmth of the sun, feeling it slowly sink into him until his tense muscles eased and the anger and hurt faded.

The persistent bleating of the nearby flock of sheep drew him from that peaceful moment, and he opened his eyes to find he was being watched with some curiosity by a weather-beaten old shepherd. ‘What a lovely day,’ he blustered in embarrassment.

‘Aye,’ the old man replied, leaning on a finely carved crook, his clear gaze piercing beneath thick brows. ‘’Tis a foine day to thank the Lord for being alive, soir,’ he added with a rolling local burr.

‘It is indeed,’ replied Martin awkwardly.

‘There be peace to be found by these here meadows,’ the old man said as Martin hesitantly made to move on. ‘You’ll not be finding it in the bottom of no glass, soir, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Thank you for the advice,’ said Martin politely, now desperate to escape the old boy. ‘But a cold pint on a day like this will go down very well.’

The shepherd nodded and reached into his ragged jacket pocket for his briar pipe, his steady gaze still on Martin. ‘Good day to you, soir. May the Lord go with you and comfort you.’

Martin lifted his hand in acknowledgement and hurried down the track towards the village pub he could see nestled in the fold of the hill. The meeting with the shepherd had unsettled him, for although the old chap had meant well, he was clearly a bit soft in the head to be spouting all that religious nonsense to a stranger. As far as Martin was concerned, the Lord had abandoned him and his comrades at the gates of Buchenwald, and had certainly not been with them on that march. It was only through luck, comradeship and strength of will that any of them had survived, so he certainly wouldn’t be seeking comfort from Him when there clearly was none to be had.

He continued down the hill until he reached the rickety fence which marked the boundary surrounding the pub. He’d come across this place during a long walk in his first few days here, and it had become a refuge of sorts, for no one would think of looking for him in what was essentially a farmhands’ and shepherds’ local.