One picked up the old landmarks again, and got back into the “feel” of the war zone. There were the five old windmills of Cassel that wave their arms up the hill road, and the estaminets by which one found one’s way down country lanes⁠—“The Veritable Cuckoo” and “The Lost Corner” and “The Flower of the Fields”⁠—and the first smashed roofs and broken barns which led to the area of constant shellfire. Ugh!

So it was still going on, this bloody murder! There were some more cottages down in the village, where we had tea a month before. And in the marketplace of a sleepy old town the windows were mostly broken and some shops had gone into dust and ashes. That was new since we last passed this way.