They don’t call it a town, so what do you call it then?

There was an adequate supermarket with just four aisles, a pub (of course) and restaurant, a small museum because it seemed that every place no matter how small had one, a nice cafe (at least) and endless fields of hops. The population was apparently 250, with about 50 or so transients working the hop fields (so someone said at the pub-restaurant where we had dinner the day we arrived). We waited for that awful meal for about 40 minutes but it was too hot to complain. We heard a smattering of languages from groups of men of a range of ages, all caucasian, their downy forearms and sun-burnt necks sporting a uniform coat of dust and huddled over pitches of lager. Would you hit on that, I asked S (we always asked her this question because S had been unattached for quite some time), nodding my head at a lanky Russian in a staind wife-beater singlet. Too thin and probably has gonorrhoea, she replied bored. How about that one? (a young Spanish guy with a perpetual grin and very white teeth). S sighed and then moaned, is this it?