Not Glamping

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.0_XX^03X.9⅙⅍₻₵!!^??48.75 spoKenLiKeaTrueHooker

^{great-news.revisiting-my-childhood.} _{tonight-hopefully}^.

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Pex Hill is a quarry in my home town. It’s a bit of a wilderness considering the rest of the state of affairs; chemical factories, canals with three-eyed fish, scrapheaps, and last but by no means least the Granox, a place where they burned dead animals for Holy Smoke’s sake. The smoke was black and miles across. Whenever we went to Wales, or anywhere out of town, we could smell the Granox whenever we approached Widnes/Runcorn bridge, perched at the entrance to the town.

People used to say, “Do you know the way to Widnes?”

We’d reply, “Follow your nose.”

People identified the town with the odor they sensed miles before arriving there. One historian called it a ‘poisonous hellhole’. It was also described as the dirtiest, ugliest, most depressing town in England. We are known as wooly-backs. But it still beats being a scouser. Or a manc.

Anyway, yeah, I’m camping tonight. I think? Out in nature. Let you know how it goes. That is if I don’t bottle out and change my mind before tonight.