February16th – The greyness continued, and hung over the morning commute like a portent. Wet, dark and with a building wind, I edged into Darlaston over the River Tame at Bentley Bridge. The flood channel here has never been pretty, but on this awful Monday morning, it had something about it.
Maybe, somewhere downstream, there was a brighter day.
February 15th – This was a surprise, I must say; in the past couple of years, Chasewater has been allowed to fill overwinter to the point which it overflows, but apparently not this year. The water level has steadily risen to about 300mm (a foot) or so off full, and today, water was draining quickly into the canal from the reservoir.
I guess the Canal and River Trust must need the water for some reason – that is, after all, why Chasewater exists – but it does seem unusual. Hope they don’t draw too much down this time.
February 15th – A grey, lightless day, but still atmospheric. I popped out at lunchtime, not wanting to go too far as I was still resting and in recovery mode.
I slid up to Chasewater on the canal, and my favourite tree at Home Farm looked skeletal against the mist. The canal itself was deathly still, and I saw few people around. A tough day to take photos, and not a great riding day, either; but I did enjoy the spin.
Hopefully the weather will brighten and we’ll get a touch of spring soon…
February 14th – Down in Stonnall, it was a wet and murky night, and the lights of the two pubs in the village shone out like homely beacons as I rode past. The Royal Oak is quite different in character and clientele to the Old Swan which is I guess the reason the two survive, although both have felt the cold wind of commercial pressure in recent years.
Tonight, glancing in as I freewheeled past, both seemed reasonably full, which can only be good news. Decent pubs make for good communities.
February 14th – A day spent sleeping, relaxing, and catching up. I had business in Stonnall in the evening, so nipped down there. Progress was slow. I was still tired.
On the Chester Road just past the houses – at the spot once colloquially referred to as ‘death mile’ or ‘mad mile’ after so many accidents – new speed restriction signs have appeared. ‘Please drive carefully’. I’ve never understood this rubbish, personally.
(Death Mile became much, much safer after the road was modified in the 1990s.)
For starters, much of the traffic passing will be too fast to read anything other than the restriction; and secondly, who the hell decides to drive with wicked abandon only to later correct their behaviour because some quango or councillor decided to ask them to drive nicely in 180-point Helvetica Black?
There is something interesting here, though. That sign didn’t originally say Shire Oak; that legend has been added on a foil applied over other text, which could possibly say ‘Brownhills’, but I can’t decide.
Are the folk on the Hill too posh and are now pushing for independence? In these straitened days, does anyone really care that much? And before the whinging starts, Shire Oak is indeed in the parish of Brownhills.
February 13th – I had another stop to make on the way home – Asda. I was so bleary I got scant few of the things I was supposed to get, and if you ever want to know what a supermarket looks like after a riot, do visit Asda in Walsall late on Friday night. It was like a scene from The Day After. Complete with the walking dead – me.
I poured myself liquid down the marketplace, and the lights of the deserted Bridge snagged my attention; the night-time workers were about – posties, shopfitters, sign people – but nobody else. The light, the colour, the wet surfaces. In a moment, this place was precious.
I smiled to myself, and rode slowly, inexorably home. I remember very little of the journey, except it took me 45 minutes.
February 13th – Unlucky for some, it was not a great day for me; I was at work far too late, and I stubbornly remained long after I was any use. Tired, mentally exhausted, I came back from Darlaston in a miserable fug; I’d mislaid something and spent an hour looking, which was bothering me. There was a steady, eroding drizzle and a slow puncture was dogging my progress. Hunger was also on my shoulders.
I rode somnambulently into Caldmore for indian snacks to take home. My usual store of choice was long since closed, but another nearby was open, and I hungrily chose vegetable kebabs, samosa, spinach paneer bhajis and pakora. The sauce was bravely supplied in a plastic bag, which I popped unopened in my travel mug. I wasn’t too fuzzy to risk a saddlebag full of goop, no matter how tasty.
I was still knackered, but I felt brighter. There was food in my saddlebag, and the rain was easing. Maybe I could make it home without stopping to pump up the tyre again…
February 12th – Just a stones throw away in the wonderfully named Crescent Road, this odd… garage? Stable? Workshop?
In similar red terracotta bricks, this crumbling edifice sits between the back of the Town Hall (itself a work of gorgeous red brick Franco-Gothic Victoriana) and the similarly grand Police Station. I never noticed this before, yet I pass it loads. I looks like a workshop or garage, I’m thinking possibly for a fire engine or similar. Anyone know what the roundel represents or signifies?
Sadly, the structure appears to be failing, and I don’t think those doors have been opened in a goodly while. I hope this is saved; it may be a lowly sibling of the grand architectural statements around, but in its own way a diminutive delight.
February 12th – Darlaston and its remarkably wonderful architecture are stunning, and a joy to the heart even on the dullest winter days. Passing Rectory Avenue – the cul-de-sac next to the Post Office – I was struck by the beautiful red terracotta brick townhouses here I’d not really stopped and studied before. Foursquare, bold, architecturally confident, these were expensive houses, but not overly flashy. Beautiful.
Beyond them, between here and the church, the mysterious and wonderful tower of the Columbarium.
Such wonder in such a small, unassuming Black Country town.
February 11th – Coming up Hatherton Street in Walsall to turn right on to the New Ring Road. Clear behind, then as I roll into lane an engine revving hard behind my right hand shoulder.
Why she did this, I have no idea. Just as well I know the junction and the Advanced Stop Line for cyclists. It’s about the only time I’d ever use one. It visibly irritated her.
I don hope she got to work or wherever in a foul mood.
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