Anne Woodford was a witch. That was the only conclusion my 10-year-old mind could whittle out as I watched her place the giant copper pot on the stovetop and then open the thick, leather-bound book with yellowed pages.
This website uses cookies so that we can provide you with the best user experience possible. Cookie information is stored in your browser and performs functions such as recognising you when you return to our website and helping our team to understand which sections of the website you find most interesting and useful.