Next stop, Jaywick.
There are some places that when you find yourself in them, are a little too reminiscent of the Twilight Zone. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, and in fact can be quite refreshing after the relative normality of the rest of the planet.
One such place is Jaywick, a suburb of an English seaside town called Clacton, located on the east coast in the county of Essex.
Clacton itself is nothing particularly special. But for the town's prefix on many of the shops and cafeterias, you could be in one of any number virtually identical seaside towns in the British Isles. It's a pleasant enough place, though, and has one of the finest fish and chip restaurants that I've ever had the pleasure of eating at.
Travel a couple of miles south, though, and you find yourself in Rod Serling territory.
Driving into Jaywick feels very much like stepping onto the backlot of Universal Studios, or onto the set of a movie. The houses on the sea front are essentially glorified beach huts that have outgrown themselves, and at regular intervals there are overgrown paths that lead from the beach into the suburb itself.
The first time I went there, about a year ago, there was hardly anybody on the streets, which gave the place the feeling of an old abandoned film set.
As we walked down on these overgrown paths, however, I noticed a house that was utterley destroyed. All of the windows were smashed, and the remains of curtains flapped lazily through the broken panes in the gentle breeze.
The house was at the end of the row, and faced the ocean, some several hundred yards away over what is ironically one of the most beautiful stretches of beach that I've ever seen around the coast of the UK.
Opposite it, was another empty house, this one burned out, the interior barely visible through the narrow windows.
As we stood looking at it, our curiosity piqued, a couple of small boys walked up to us and stood watching out fascination for a minute or two before one of them piped up, "There's a body in there, you know."
Of course, the rational side of my adult mind reasoned that this was impossible, that the house would have been searched by the fire brigade once they had put out the fire. However, there was a small region of my brain that couldn't help think that I wouldn't have been at all surprised if there had been a cadaver lurking in the shadowy interior.
While a part of me wanted to enter both houses and take photos, there was something just a little bit off about the place, and so we left.
A couple of days ago we were in the vicinity of Jaywick and out of curiosity I wanted to go and see whether anything had changed. Incredibly it hadn't, save for a gaggle of clearly local families sitting outside the pub that was at the other end of this particular overgrown walkway.
It was almost as if Jaywick had been left to die, like a terminally ill patient that nothing could be done for.
In a few weeks I'll be moving house, and we'll be living about fifteen miles from Jaywick. My curiosity refuses to let go of this strange suburb and so I know I'll be going back for a third time, to document it, and perhaps even get up the courage to enter the smashed up house.
Rod Serling would be proud of me, I'm sure, and I'll share my thoughts when I return from my adventure.
If I return.....
One such place is Jaywick, a suburb of an English seaside town called Clacton, located on the east coast in the county of Essex.
Clacton itself is nothing particularly special. But for the town's prefix on many of the shops and cafeterias, you could be in one of any number virtually identical seaside towns in the British Isles. It's a pleasant enough place, though, and has one of the finest fish and chip restaurants that I've ever had the pleasure of eating at.
Travel a couple of miles south, though, and you find yourself in Rod Serling territory.
Driving into Jaywick feels very much like stepping onto the backlot of Universal Studios, or onto the set of a movie. The houses on the sea front are essentially glorified beach huts that have outgrown themselves, and at regular intervals there are overgrown paths that lead from the beach into the suburb itself.
The first time I went there, about a year ago, there was hardly anybody on the streets, which gave the place the feeling of an old abandoned film set.
As we walked down on these overgrown paths, however, I noticed a house that was utterley destroyed. All of the windows were smashed, and the remains of curtains flapped lazily through the broken panes in the gentle breeze.
The house was at the end of the row, and faced the ocean, some several hundred yards away over what is ironically one of the most beautiful stretches of beach that I've ever seen around the coast of the UK.
Opposite it, was another empty house, this one burned out, the interior barely visible through the narrow windows.
As we stood looking at it, our curiosity piqued, a couple of small boys walked up to us and stood watching out fascination for a minute or two before one of them piped up, "There's a body in there, you know."
Of course, the rational side of my adult mind reasoned that this was impossible, that the house would have been searched by the fire brigade once they had put out the fire. However, there was a small region of my brain that couldn't help think that I wouldn't have been at all surprised if there had been a cadaver lurking in the shadowy interior.
While a part of me wanted to enter both houses and take photos, there was something just a little bit off about the place, and so we left.
A couple of days ago we were in the vicinity of Jaywick and out of curiosity I wanted to go and see whether anything had changed. Incredibly it hadn't, save for a gaggle of clearly local families sitting outside the pub that was at the other end of this particular overgrown walkway.
It was almost as if Jaywick had been left to die, like a terminally ill patient that nothing could be done for.
In a few weeks I'll be moving house, and we'll be living about fifteen miles from Jaywick. My curiosity refuses to let go of this strange suburb and so I know I'll be going back for a third time, to document it, and perhaps even get up the courage to enter the smashed up house.
Rod Serling would be proud of me, I'm sure, and I'll share my thoughts when I return from my adventure.
If I return.....