Liskeard

Liskeard has spent eight hundred years being the place other places go to. Wilkie Collins came through and called it an abomination of desolation, which was harsh, though he was a man who wrote about diamonds and probably wanted a wine list. What it actually is now is a working Cornish town with a railway station, a Wednesday-market pace and a line of shops that shut when they say they will, sat in the middle of a ring of villages that all need something from it. That is not a holiday. That is a life, and it is the cheapest honest one going this side of the Tamar.