I don’t remember ever having seen a crazy golf course outside an English seaside town before. Behind a bar in a small village in the middle of France, there was the full set of eighteen holes. The course wasn’t in use, though the equipment didn’t seem to me to be particularly old.
The area was in use: as a chicken run. Several happy-looking hens were wandering round, looking for things to eat. Other houses in the village also had hens wandering round at loose in their gardens.
Strutting round most proudly was this fine feathered fellow, coming right up to the wall directly below where I was leaning out of the bar’s terrace.