We bundled our picnic things into gunny sacks and set out upon the road to Poxhaven. It is a long straight track, some say a ley line, pitted with many puddles, the road to Poxhaven. “Oh where are you going?” asked passing peasants, and we replied, “We are heading for Poxhaven.” And soon enough through mist and rain we saw a signpost and on the signpost, scratched it seemed by the claws of a werewolf, were the words “To Poxhaven”.
In centuries past, when town and city and countryside were ravaged by the pox, teeming thousands fled to safety along this road, to find a haven from the pox in the seaside resort of Poxhaven. Now it is for picnics we go to Poxhaven. Even in mist and rain you will find no better picnicking spot than among the many many picnic spots of Poxhaven.
There are werewolves too, werewolves that roam the streets and alleys and mews of Poxhaven. In centuries past they fed upon the pox-riddled escapees from town and city and countryside who made it as far as Poxhaven. Now the werewolves howl in hunger when dusk descends upon Poxhaven. It is a custom, and one we follow, when our picnic is done, to leave for the starving werewolves a few leftover picnic sausages, injected with the pox, upon a seaside picnic spot in Poxhaven.
As we trudge home, along the old straight track, in the dusk, we hear the grateful howling of the sausage-gobbling werewolves of Poxhaven.