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TRAVEL BLOG ENTRY
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Christchurch is the bastard child of Bath, Bradford-on-Avon and Trowbridge excreted from one giant archaic blender.
It is England in the sense it is Shakespearean and idyllic. It is not in England in the sense it is clean, spotless and full of fresh air.
It is very pretty.
Yet it lacks.
The streets shine and the buildings stand posing with empty stares, but character has fled, never to return.
It discomforted my spidey-sense.
The English-ness is overwhelming.
As such it has no soul.
We hired our white automobile and left the city.
Dark clouds gathered and grumbled hungrily, chewing the bitter fruit of exhaust fumes and spitting pips of hail across the tin slugs crawling benath.
We truck-stopped at cookie world, home of the worlds biggest cookie.
It was closed.
The worlds biggest cookie had been donated to charity two years ago so was long-since eaten and digested by many stomachs.
There was an empty space where it used to be.
previous travel blog entry
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