The clouds hung low and damp, so that only the snow-streaked lower slopes of Jested were visible, and the main square was wet and grey with a salt covered, dirty white mound in one corner. We took pictures of the town hall; passers by walked English-style against the weather, in silent forebearance with heads slanted forwards to the ground. As usual there was nowhere to buy breakfast except for the hotels, so we had a quick sandwich in the car park by Tesco, surrounded by orange walls and Chinese snack stands, and then took the up and down, round and round tram to Jablonec, where we'd arranged to meet Milan and his family for lunch. We visited all the old haunts: Ex Club for beers, Paolo's Pizzeria for food, the streets where I used to dodge between lessons in glass factory offices.
Later, after potato soup in Husa, we met Henry, Rob, Colin and Dave in the Irish pub. They came and left one by one, going home early to children and pregnant wives. Then there was just the two of us, kicked out of Le Coque Noir at twenty past twelve.
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