![]() The farmhouse is a ramshackle labyrinth of creaking corridors, cheerless rooms and rickety metaphors. Confined alone to a byre is Big Business, the bulging-balled bull. In the cowshed stands its herd: Feckless, Graceless, Pointless and Aimless, all milked by the local yokel, Adam Lambsbreath, who mutters gnomic fatalisms as he yanks teats and shudders udders (“Dog’s-fennel or beard’s-crow, by their fruits they shall be betrayed.”). It lies somewhere on the high, hard ground of the Sussex hills in southern England, where the fields are “fanged with flints” and the hedgerows entwined with “sukebind”. ![]() Cold Comfort Farm is not on any map: true places never are. ![]()
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