I will be writing this column from time to time about some of the more interesting aspects of life in Pepperstock and its oddities namely the inhabitants.
But
before I begin my narrative, I must firstly insist on remaining anonymous that
must be understood from the outset.
If
I am to be earnest frank and honest about my hometown and the people who live
there it is imperative, I remain nameless.
However,
thinking about it, being referred to as the “nameless one”, perhaps doesn’t
paint me in a very favourable light.
Maybe
it would be better if I were to use a pseudonym like “deep throat” in “All the president’s
men”.
As
my intention in the course of my scribblings is to be completely frank and
earnest about the town and its inhabitants it seems appropriate for me to adopt
the name of Ernest Frank.
So,
with that said I can now begin, I was born and bred in the town of Pepperstock
and I still live there hence the need for anonymity.
There
I’ve said it, I’ve confessed.
It
was actually quite liberating to have admitted it.
I
suppose it must be a similar feeling to standing up at an AA meeting and saying,
“Hi I’m Bob and I am an alcoholic”.
Getting
someone to admit to being from Pepperstock is more difficult than it is to name
a famous Belgian.
Pepperstock
is an old English market Town, and it very much looks its age and then some.
Its tired run down and clearly unloved.
It
is not by any stretch of the imagination what you would ever refer to as a
jewel of our English heritage.
Not
even the Black Death came to Pepperstock.
The
town is architecturally and culturally devoid of any merit whatsoever.
All
the buildings of any architectural interest or significance were long ago
replaced either by utilitarian Victorian industrial structures or more recently
by prefabricated concrete monstrosities in the sixties.
Historically
the town prospered from the sheep and wool trade and generated a great deal of
wealth, sadly those days have gone.
However,
there is still evidence in the town of its past in the names such as Sheepfold
Street, Woolsack lane and Shepherds Bridge.
Of
course, there is no evidence of any actual wealth left.
There
is still a regular market in the town where you can buy livestock, produce and
just about anything you want as long as you don’t care where it came from.
In
truth it’s like a cross between a car boot sale and a petting zoo.
The
town has none of the quaintness you might normally associate with a town
mentioned in the doomsday book.
Although
you would not think the use of Pepperstock and doomsday in the same sentence as
at all odd.
It’s
a town the world seems to have forgotten and even those who had the sense to
leave and make a life elsewhere will never admit to their origins.
You
could even be forgiven for expecting to find Pepperstock marked on the map with
a picture of a serpent like creature baring the legend “here there be Dragons.”
The
railway stopped coming to the town in the 60’s after Doctor Beeching, the railway axe
man, did his worst.
The Station hotel still
survives and is at the hub of local life a popular spot for the local
disenchanted malcontents.
Part of the old track had
been bought by steam enthusiasts and opened as a tourist attraction, with the
special service starting its ten-mile journey from Eastchapel and ending in
Nettlebridge five miles away from Pepperstock.
Although the track is
pretty much intact from Nettlebridge to Pepperstock there is no plan to extend
the service to the town.
No tourist in their right
mind would ever consider a trip to Pepperstock.
The local Canals had
fallen into disuse long before the First World War and had been reclaimed by
nature long before the Second.
The road network isn’t
much better as people don’t even travel through Pepperstock to get to somewhere
more interesting.
The town has not
attracted newcomers wanting to commute to the nearby city so there is no danger
of Pepperstock becoming the next housing hot spot.
Not even asylum seekers
want to live there.
So, every cloud does have
a silver lining then after all.
No comments:
Post a Comment