We’d been told to leave the county. Since the invasion, everywhere seems to be getting more and more parochial. If you’re not born in the village or your family haven’t lived there for 100 years, then you’re a ‘foreigner’. And our group, obvious as we were, with dark curly hair, dark skin, had been told politely but firmly — at least at first — that we needed to “find another home”. We’d been given a month to move out. Not long you say? No, but a lot better than others we’d heard about. We could at least plan where we’d head and what to do when we reached the first waypoint.We took what we could easily salvage and carry. We’d some carts, a couple of horses that we were allowed to take away from the group. Again, better than others. Stories of some being thrown out at night, carrying just what they could grab to wear and chased over the boundaries, in fear of their lives. Our neighbours were simple types but treated us with rough kindness. They’d told us of an old hotel where we could setup a small encampment outside current borders. And this was it. Our new home.
