THE DOOMSDAY LEGACY

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 out set.
If I am to be earnest, frank and honest about my home town 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 favorable light.
Maybe it would be better if I was to use a pseudonym like "deep throat" in "All the presidents’ 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 what so ever.
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 were 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 else where will never admit to there 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 in tact from Nettlebridge to Pepperstock there is no plan to extend the service to the town.
No tourist in there 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.