Faringdon is that market town you’ve driven through on the A420, maybe on your way to Swindon or Oxford. You probably blinked and missed the 18th-century market hall in the middle of the square. (You did, didn’t you? No judgment.)
It’s the kind of place where everyone knows your name—or at least your dog’s. Seriously, my terrier Billy has more local fame than I do. The butcher gives him a biscuit, and the postie leaves him a head-rub. I’m just the human attached to the leash.
The Pub as Town Hall
The real civic center isn’t the council offices—it’s the Bell Hotel. That’s where I’ve learned more local gossip than any newsletter could ever provide. Last week, Marge from the charity shop told me about a ghost that supposedly haunts the third-floor loo.
You don’t appoint a mayor here; you just assume whoever’s been nursing a pint at the Bell for forty years runs the place. It’s a system that works, mostly. Though I’m still not sure who’s in charge of fixing the potholes on High Street. (Spoiler: nobody.)
