Running

An old Oak branch jumped against my shin as I thundered down the smuggler's path.
Low hanging holly leaves clawed at my face; cold amber swallowed my faded black trainers.
Small pieces of blue and white patterned china gleamed in the rust and yellow tiles.
They had been washed down from the old house in the rain. I didn't know much about the old house,
all I knew was that it had been blown up. The old house had an open well in the back garden,
covered with a piece of corrugated tin. Ivy and thick, purple stemmed brambles had overgrown the weathered tin.
The foundations of the house still remained with tumble down blocks of sandstone and red brick.
The bricks congregated in piles, some considerably larger than others with tufts of moss on every surface.