Literally 'lost combe', and given the difficulty of finding the place - the lane to it has grass growing down the middle - the name couldn't be more apposite. Mark you, it's worth risking the odd clump of cow parsley lodged round the numberplate to visit this unfrequented hamlet, for if ever a spot was 'deep in the shady sadness of a vale', Loscombe is that place. There's no church, no pub, just a few cottages that look as if they've been squeezed into the cramped and humid defile with the aid of a shoehorn. This is a place where buzzards perch on telegraph poles - yes, they do have some modern conveniences - and marsh orchids stud the corners of soggy pastures, a place where it seems that nature, given half the chance, will take back the place in a riot of vegetation that's as close to a tropical forest as anywhere in England.
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