Apologies for this being a day late – my internet was being odd last night.
Fulstow is like a pig farm, its crap. Fulstow is like a piece of Limburger cheese, it stinks. Fulstow is like Metallica playing disco, wrong, just wrong. Crap, stinks and wrong.
You drive into the village but its not like you want to, it drags you in. The first thing you see is the post office and pub. The pub’s gone through 4 owners in the 10 years I’ve been living there, and each of them had to discover the hard way what a rubbish village this is.
The post office has met with a similar fate, it’s completely abandoned. The thing you notice the most about it is the roof, it hangs low, really low, over the walls, like it’s trying to protect it from people like me.
The two of them are facing each other on either side of the street. As you go down the road, they’re like two beady eyes staring at you, and then you realize the road is like a tongue, swallowing you up and trapping you. Down the tongue you go, passing each little house along a road that’s constantly tripping you up with its bends and turns and corners.
Travelling through a dead man’s digestive system, that’s the best way to describe travelling through Fulstow, it just gets worse as you keep going. Every home you pass is decaying more so than the last home. The woodland surrounding the village acts as a kind of littered barrier, keeping the village away from the world. But even the woodland doesn’t like its job. The trees sprout high into the sky, as if they’re trying to escape their task of making sure the world never sees this grotty village.
Finally, when you leave the houses behind, it’s like coming out of the arsehole and into the fresh air. From here, there’s nothing but fields and a few farms, one of which is mine. Before you get to it though, the road shrivels up like your grandmother. Cracks begin to appear, the surface starts going grey and weird little bumpy spots catch you off guard. The road is also a bit senile, determined to give you a bumpy ride or make you crash into the ditches on either side. Deep at the bottom of either ditch there lays a thick, steaming river. It bubbles and swells away in an ominous manner, almost like there’s something lurking beneath the surface, ready to jump out and kill you at any second.
If you’re brave, lucky or stupid enough to go down this road, you’ll end up at my place, Studworth Farm. Even Napoleon wouldn’t want this farm. All the buildings are in ruin except for the shed where we keep the tack for the horses.
But beneath all the cracks of this place lies my home, the one place I can feel safe and happy and escape into a village of my own that’s more to my tastes. But I guess having to go through a village that awful makes coming home all the more special, and I’d rather it’d be here instead of trapped within that crappy little village.