“Please be careful,” says the manager as she hands over the keys, with a face like she’s just been ordered to scrub the chemical toilets after Glastonbury.
To be fair, we don’t look much like the regular clientele at this particular property. In fact, with our unshaven faces, flip flops and puffa jackets we look more like a has-been boyband, 10 years past our prime. But this evening, just 12 hours after waking up in wooden barrels at the bottom of a Moravian field, we’re going to the… (View original article)