An overcast evening in July took me to Brochthausen, a small village tucked among gentle hills directly on the former inner German border.

After climbing a hill outside the village, the landscape opened out into wide, harvested fields rolling gently towards the wooded hills. A narrow path cut through the fields while, in the distance, wind turbines caught the last of the day’s light.


The way back led through a short section of woodland, after which a sun-drenched path wound down again towards the village.

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