Walking down the woebegone village lanes, on a crisp Sunday afternoon, the lane is empty, except the potter sweating profusely under the sun.

Walking down the woebegone village lanes, on a crisp Sunday afternoon, the lane is empty, except the potter sweating profusely under the sun. He spins his wheel without a care in the world focusing his fears and talents to create earthen posts.

The pots so rustic but eluding charm that can melt even the coldest of hearts