Leamington Spa is a small, almost interesting, whitewashed town sitting in the middle of a country currently in the throes of an amazing self imposed identity crisis. Whilst all of Britain raves one way or the other about the enormous ramifications of the vote for the UK’s place in the EU, the county of Warwickshire can be placed squarely in the ‘faack the foreigners’ section of the debate.
We’re talking about lofty land locked folks who still haven’t worked out that being a lower class or foreign is not necessarily grounds for arrest and/or disgust. Picture the descendants of those from another time, when suspicion was enough to hang someone from a different place. People who apparently haven’t lost their uncannily psychical gift for sniffing out a wrong ‘un. Only now their talents have evolved, and they can even ask you if you want a bag with your £20 t-shirt at the same time as implying that you can’t afford it. Pitch fork anyone?
The main avenue is a pretty well maintained place to stroll and shop, but seeing each and every building painted the same old shade of magnolia is not a sympathy to it’s architecture in any way. A maddeningly stale, trite magnolia that’s been there so long, casting its vanilla doom all over the town, that it seems to have rubbed off on the locals’ imagination. Or perhaps it’s a big hint.
