There was nothing to eat he knew. The last of the salt meat had made the thin stew that bubbled in the pot. Jon looked round the one roomed stone shack grimly, the crude bed with grey homespun blankets sat against the back wall, old dark wood chest in the corner containing his few clothes, fire and pot on the rough hearth. Little enough for a man to keep himself this side of the living. There had been a time he knew, when he saw the hovel as something more, but that time was gone. “I’ll leave on the morrow” he said aloud, though there was no one to hear.
