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There’s a table on the edge of a hill in Gornje Cerovo in Slovenia where the vineyards fall away in front of you and keep going until they turn into Italy. On a clear evening you can follow them all the way to a thin silver line of the Adriatic. We sat at that table for hours.
The church of St Nicholas stands right beside it, and its bell rings every quarter hour. There’s a pattern to the tolls, something the farmers…
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