Warminster

Warminster spent the nineteenth century watching a railway line arrive and quietly destroy the corn market that had been the entire point of the place, then rebuilt itself around soldiers, glove-making and a stately home with lions in the garden. It is ringed by six hills stacked with Iron Age forts, which tells you the locals have been suspicious of outsiders since roughly the Bronze Age and never entirely stopped. The town wears the Salisbury Plain thing well: half heritage market town, half garrison, all of it faintly braced for something. People who want a place with edges will find them here, mostly on the hills.