Lancaster to Morecambe

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Everyone under 60 wears clothes with McKenzie written on them and there is a baby wailing loudly. People seem to be bloated yet saggy skinned, or alternatively, terrifyingly thin. The men tend not to have any hair. Dazzling white trainers light up a tired carriage. There is a lot of hair gel and not a blue rinse in sight.

The train is a diesel-powered tractor that feels like it’s going too fast up a road of speed bumps. We are riding through peoples’ wire-fenced back gardens and allotments. A pack of wild children are being herded by a granny with a sullen steely face that looks like it’s lived through a few hurricanes. We’re there.

A yellow-horsey toothed taxi driver kindly agrees to call me a cab to the hotel and then points to the opposite side of the car park, when I ask him how far away it is and if it’s possible to walk there. I’m not sure whether he is a pirate or an imbecile.

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