Darkmouth. Shane Hegarty

      The town of Darkmouth appears on few maps because very few people want to find it. When it is marked on one, its location is always wrong. It’ll be a bit north of where it’s supposed to be, or a bit south. A little left or a little right. A bit off.

      Always.

      Which means that visitors to Darkmouth invariably arrive having taken a wrong turn, soon convinced they’ll reach only a dead end. They drive through a canopy of trees, whose branches reach from either side to clasp ever tighter overhead, becoming thicker with every mile until the dappled light is choked off and the road is dark even on the brightest of days. Then, just as the wood is almost scraping the paint from their car, and it seems that the road itself is going to be suffocated, the visitors travel through a short tunnel and emerge on to a roundabout filled with blossoming flowers and featuring a sign that reads: