Field of blackbirds


The plane gently touches down on the runaway. The slight bump jerks me out of my foreboding. I was reluctant to come here. But here I am streaking down a runaway. Another foreign place. A place with a reputation for violence. A place which conjures up images of soldiers and guns. Of tanks and planes.

Reluctantly, I step out and find the sun streaming down. It was warm but devoid of the humidity of home. Squinting, I was greeted by a landscape of hills and fields. Wide flat ground dotted by quaint farm houses. Pretty in its own charming way. It was laidback. It was quiet. Shockingly, it was peaceful.

Peace? Not a word you will usually hear mentioned in the same breath as Kosovo.

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