Unclassifiable

Standard

Exploring a local town I found a strange little enclave:

unclassified

Off a busy and perfectly ordinary suburban road, three or four small unmade roads, patched with gravel and old bricks, strung with skeins of potholes, full of water from the recent rain.  The best was a narrow lane which looked as if a handful of buildings had been thrown down at random once every half century for the last two hundred and fifty years.  Stone, brick, corrugated iron, wood, concrete, startlingly smart or practically derelict: there were houses, tiny unnamable bolt holes, bungalows, workshops, ancient cottages, weedy or beautifully groomed front gardens, yards, verges, courtyards,  imperceptibly morphing into the roadway, or neatly fenced.  Was the neighbourhood going down or being gentrified?  Were the houses lived in by locals or were they second homes?  Were the owners rich or poor, young or old?

I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an utterly unclassifiable place.

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