We found ourselves in a small kitchen/rest room. Like the rest of Stewartby, the area was littered with hard hats,
discarded jackets and old papers.
We had lunch here, listening to the wind rattling against the window and imagining how hot the roof of the kiln got.
Suddenly we heard a shout. And another. We froze and listened intently.
"It sounds like a sports match" suggested Tom. A game had started on a sports field to the east and the wind was carrying their voices.
