Researching local leys I came across this description of our home town, Lewes in East Sussex, in ‘The Old Weird Albion: For the Compleat Anglophile’:
Lewes is, of course, the center of Sussex eccentricity. It sits, I will posit, on a convulsion of ley lines: Among too many to name, one that runs from London to Boston, Mass., on which Tom Paine floated into history in the 18th century; one that follows Hilaire Belloc across the Sussex landscape, from pub to pub, venturing in and out of poetry and sobriety; one that traverses the whole of the surface of the earth, in the path of the sun over the planet, from its stage debut each morning as it creeps over Mount Caburn, burning away mist and last night’s spewed Donner.
This is a town that still annually burns the Pope, W., Blair, whomever it is they find fault with that year, in effigy – just like they did 200 years ago. Lewes prints its own currency, and shuts down pubs for daring remove the local ale. It’s a town of a few thousand that supports two distinct and thriving weekly folk-music clubs, using the same eccentric-if-affluent clientele that will throw back a dozen pints at the Thin Lizzy tribute-band gig the following night.
For more see ‘The Old Weird Albion: For the Compleat Anglophile’