Fabled Fox & Quill Post

Hollyhurst is a market town of modest size and considerable self-regard, populated by residents who get around on paws and wings and take their small affairs far more seriously than any of it warrants. It has a badger for an alderman, a wren for a much to nosy neighbour , and, as of this July, a scandal or two it would very much like kept quiet.

There is a town not far from anywhere in particular, called Hollyhurst, that you won't find on any map — though its residents will tell you this is a failing of the mapmakers, not the town. Seen from a distance, it looks like any other market town: a green, a church spire, a curl of chimney smoke and the Brair Pitch. Look closer, though, and you'll notice something the mapmakers seem to have missed as well — that the baker has whiskers, the alderman has stripes, and the woman who tells fortunes at the fair is, on close inspection, no taller than a teacup. Nobody in Hollyhurst finds any of this remarkable, which is, in its way, the most remarkable thing about the place. What follows are a few of its stories — some true, some only believed to be true, and at least one that will keep you coming back. Join us in an immersive Snail Mail Club called the Fabled Fox & Quill were you receive a monthly ramble about the goings on of a small town and its residents.

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