Blackwater...where unholy rites at the witching hour have stained the very waters of the town black. I am kidding, of course. There may very well be much that is unholy, but it is more likely to take place at a local pub after a few pints of mead. No, the explanation for Blackwater's namesake is much more mundane: naturally dark, peat-stained water, draining from Red Barrow Moor into the river system.

Situated at the meeting of two rivers, Blackwater owes much of its prosperity to manufacturing, particularly its celebrated ropeworks. The town produces some of the finest cordage in Alderwick, suitable for everything from securing cargo to hauling heavy machinery. It has been suggested that Blackwater rope has never once failed when properly employed. I cannot personally vouch for the circumstances under which such a claim was tested but, knowing the residents, it's sure to be quite a story.

The streets of Blackwater are narrow, the chimneys numerous, and the inhabitants possessed of that peculiar pride which comes from 'knowing' one's labour is indispensable to everyone else's comfort. Those are their words, by the way. Blackwater is by no means a tourist destination in the traditional sense. There are a few public houses, a functional market, and enough shops to satisfy any visitor whose tastes run towards practical purchases.

That being said, if you are at all interested in the rise of industry, Blackwater is the place to be. Just don't try to go swimming in the river. Old Josiah Craddock fell in once and has claimed ever since that it gave him a case of black lung, never mind the absence of any coal works in the vicinity.