"I'm going by myself." His face brightened.

Almost cheerfully he assured me that I should find nothing to eat in Murglebed.
"You can amuse yourself," said I, "by sending me down a daily hamper of provisions." "There isn't even a church," he continued.
"Then you can send me down a tin one from Humphreys'.

I believe they can supply one with everything from a tin rabbit-hutch to a town hall." He sighed and departed, and the next day I found myself here, in Murglebed-on-Sea.
On a murky, sullen November day Murglebed exhibits unimagined horrors of scenic depravity.

It snarls at you malignantly.

It is like a bit of waste land in Gehenna.