Elaine

We'd been walking all day and it was raining. All the road signs were in Serbian. It was evening - and we were lost, cold, hungry and soaked.

The war was still a few years away, but there was little to be cheerful about. Then out of the gloom an old man stepped into the road and, raising his eyebrows inquisitively, asked "hotel?".

Looking around at the bleak countryside vanishing rapidly into dripping darkness this didn't seem likely, but we nodded miserably and allowed a flicker of hope to seep in. He smiled, rounded up his three goats and vanished behind a bush.

We followed him. Walking for the next hour the old man gave us tomato's to eat, stale bread from his pockets and a lemon to suck. He collected rainwater in a tin cup dripping from the leaves of a tree and gave us each a drink. He talked all the way, in a voice corroded by time. He may have been telling us very bad jokes, but his words were soothing and he oozed trust and friendship.

The three of us squelched after him.

His 'hotel' was a shed with a rusty tin roof and a concrete floor. In it stood his bed, a relic of a life almost complete and barely supporting a mattress held together by its own flea circus. In the corner stood a pile of damp packing cases, and from the top he removed several bunches of grapes and gave them to us. Then he took out an old rug and lay it on the bed, beckoning us to lie down.

He brought his goats in from the cold and curled up beside us on the floor, snuggling into the animals for warmth. He slid an enormous flagon of home made schnapps from beneath the bed and poured us all a tumbler full, before telling us his story in a mixture of sign language, German he was loathe to speak and Serbo - Croat, his mother tongue. After a tumbler full of schnapps we could understand Serbo Croat. One more and we spoke it as well.

We soon learned that 'Cheers' in his language was 'en jubilee!'

Our friend was in his nineties and had lived in the hills since the last war. He showed us bullet wounds now disguised by jagged scars. Described how each had entered and pointed into the darkness, indicating where his family had been slain and buried.

The wind, appropriately, howled and the rain lashed down. We gulped the molten liquid into numb throats and marvelled at how it didn't affect us. We cried and laughed and glibbly suggested the schnapps should be carefully analysed by experts in linguistics.

There would be war in the hills. he said. Within 20 years. Hatred and resentment ran deep, but he was ready to fight again if he had too, and showed us his gun, bayonet and an evil looking bloodstained knife which lay by the bed.

We drifted into a stupor. The old man had become agitated when we asked if he wanted his bed back. By questioning his hospitality we had insulted him, and were careful not to do it again.

Morning was awful. Mangled head and nausea.

I wasn't prepared for our host's smiling face and his proffered glass of steaming goats milk. Refusal was impossible, and removing the goat debris from the frothing surface wasn't appropriate either. Gallantly I kicked my friends and told them there was a drink waiting for them and to remember how a refusal at this point could cause grief. I lied to them that mine hadn't tasted too bad.

He found us more stale bread. A watermelon. Two lemons, a bunch of grapes, a container of goats milk and an old wine bottle full of schnapps. The manager of this fine establishment then led us back onto the road, showed us the best place to stick out our thumbs, and stopped a tractor to give us a lift. We watched him fade into the early morning mist.

Generosity. Until you meet someone who gladly gives everything they own without thought, the word has no meaning. I measure my actions against this man but come up woefully short.

Until our role models stop being the wealthy, powerful and loud our future looks bleak. The old adage "Charity begins at home" has been cruelly adapted to suit our needs. It actually reads, "Charity begins by being taught at home."

A very good place to start.

Rob Daniel is a children's author, memory and self-esteem teacher. He lives in beautiful Albany on the south west corner of Western Australia, has a passion for mangos, the Greek Islands and coaches three soccer teams. He sort of still plays himself!

Rob creates 'turn the page' children's e-books with illustrators from around the world. You can check out and if you like, buy his books from http://www.chocmint.com You'll also find an opportunity to join the chocmint adventure yourself, if you have a passion for writing and illustrating for children.

LATEST book published 'A Tail's Tale', illustrated by UK artist Elizabeth Stringer. Part proceeds from these books go towards sponsoring children at the BearCare orphanage in Kitgum, Uganda run by the extraordinary Murray Kidd.