Bridgwater

Bridgwater is the town that turned up on the wrong end of every deal Somerset ever offered and got on with it anyway. Its castle was flattened, its rebellion was crushed on the moor down the road, its port silted into irrelevance, and its cellophane factory shut, and the town's response to all of it was to set fire to some enormous carts every November and call it the best night of the year. There is a working honesty here that the postcard towns up the road have priced themselves out of, which is why half of Somerset sneers at Bridgwater and the other half quietly relies on it for a hardware shop, a rental, and a job. The Levels flood, the carnival burns, the M5 hums, and nobody in Bridgwater has ever once claimed to be charming.