Pucklechurch

Pucklechurch peaked in 946, when someone stabbed a king to death here, and it has spent the eleven centuries since being remarkably calm about it. The motorway roars past the top of the parish, close enough to hear and with no junction, no slip road, no way on, which tells you most of what you need to know about the village's relationship with the rest of the world. It watches everyone else go somewhere and stays exactly where it is. Bring a car, because a thousand years of history and one bus an hour is not a plan.