The sun has settled, the dark sits outside my window.
I arrived at Agnes' little farmhouse in this quaint village in the Hugarian countryside in the late afternoon, when the sun blazed before setting. I am in awe of this little house with its painted tiled floors, tiny little paintings hanging off the walls, and its rustic kitchen. A field expands behind the house and mountains - as proudly as Hungarians can call them mountains - roll against the horizon. Three tiny cats pitter patter around the house and harrass one another when they are not busy licking and biting themselves clean.
I sleep and live in one building and Agnes' sleeps and lives in another - a roof is all that connects the two together. And between these two buildings, a large green wall with a door inside, large enough to fit a horse and cart through.