The Garden Gate
The gate opens onto a cobbled lane that winds down between whitewashed cottages toward the center of town. Gulls patrol the chimney pots. Someone, somewhere, is baking bread, and the fog carries the smell to you personally, like a butler.
The lane empties into a small square with a war memorial, a notice board, and the kind of shops that have been run by the same families since before the invention of the receipt.