Martock

Martock has spent nine hundred years being confused for somewhere with a market, an oak, or a shoreline, and has settled for being a village so large it forgot to become a town. The Somerset Levels start at the edge of it, which is a polite way of saying the water knows where the village is and visits when it feels like it. What it has instead of ambition is hamstone, cider, and a church that outclasses anything within twenty miles, plus a railway station the Beeching axe removed so thoroughly that only the pub named after it survived. The kind of place where a geologist was born, left for the American West to dig up dinosaurs, and nobody here has ever quite blamed him.