February 15th – The day had been warm for the time of year, and the morning commute grey and foreboding but dry. During the day it rained, and on my late return in darkness, it was on a warm, April-like wet night after the rain.

The journey was unremarkable until I came across this fellow on the canal towpath near Silver Street. A large, healthy looking frog, clearly on the move.

Awakened by the warmth and seasonal imperative, it will be off to the water to mate, then another year of avoiding herons and other predators whilst doing little more than eating. Not a bad life, really.

Pretty soon, the roads and paths at night will be full of frogs and toads on the move, and there will sadly be carnage as many are lost under vehicle wheels. But I shall have my eagle eye out, and like this one, I will assist any I find to a place of safety.

It’s coming on spring. The snowdrops know it. The crocuses know it. The light knows it. My heart knows it, too.

I stop for amphibians. And occasionally, for no perceptible reason whatsoever.

February 15th – I see the completion of the conversion of the old church/chapel at Kings Hill, Darlaston is very nearly finished: this has taken years and the workmanship looks stunning.

I’ve been passing this former Methodist chapel and church for a very long time, and it’s previous dereliction caused me sadness – but now it has been made into dwellings, and unlike the usual architectural cut and shut that’s the norm in these cases, the renovation has been astoundingly detailed. 

Stained glass has been repaired, missing lead on the roofs, gables and mansards has been replaced. Stonework and architectural ironwork has been repaired, restored or remade. It’s a work of art.

I don’t know who’s been responsible for this, but they deserve some kind of award, and certainly a lot more attention.

It just goes to show what can be done with old buildings given enough attention, time, money and flexibility in the planning system.

My compliments to all concerned – particularly to the chippy who made those wonderful doors!

February 14th – A few people have asked, so as I passed the canal towpath resurfacing works today I took a pic of the map and details.

I’m still baffled as to the concentration on this stretch, and not the awful sections through Aldridge/Rushall and Pelsall/Bloxwich, but who knows what goes on with funding for these things?

There are very few notices up this time, so keep your eye out.

February 13th – On the canal near Bentley Mill Way Aqueduct, a pair of swans feeding on canal-bottom greens, enjoying the company of each other and honking noisily.

They were far too busy browsing the algae to be disturbed by me, and they performed beautifully. You can say what you like, but a swan with only it’s arse sticking above the water is very amusing, and certainly not graceful. A lovely thing to watch. 

But those feet too, though. Swan feet are fascinating, and they look almost pre-historic.

February 13th – Just as I feared I couldn’t stand the grey anymore, a blessed break in the weather. I have never, ever been so glad to see the light.

One commute on the canal through Walsall to Darlaston – a route I haven’t taken much since Christmas – was all it took. Sunshine, wildlife, glistening water, beautiful mist-suffused urban streets. And in Kings Hill Park beautiful yellow crocuses reminded me of the good that was to come.

I noted that the towpaths from Bentley Mill Way to Bughole Bridge are now being resurfaced, so if you cycle this way, expect to avoid folk in hi-viz marshalling small excavators and other such plant.

Today, my week was saved… by a crocus. I’m just mad about saffron.

February 12th – The fug continued throughout Sunday. Throughout the day, drizzle, sleet and snow, and the persistent, cursed absence of proper light. It was like someone had switched hope and optimism off. I found the day oppressive; I was caged, and I hate that. Hemmed in by the weather and a worsening mood.

I slipped out in the early evening to pop something over to a mate in Walsall Wood. A laugh and a shared moan about the lost weekend made things better. I returned to Brownhills, still in steady, cold drizzle, lifted, but still lost.

Bad weather will test even the greatest optimist.

February 11th – It was one of those days daylight seemed to avoid. I headed to the canal for a little inspiration, but none came. The grey just merged via a horrid, drizzly mist.

The sky was grey. The water was grey. The landscape was in shades of grey. I felt grey.

Days like these really try your resolve.

February 11th – I can’t beat about the bush here: it was a bloody horrible weekend weather-wise and my disposition wasn’t sunny as a result, either. All the spring of the previous weekend had evaporated and I was left with cold, freezing rain, sleet and a strong wind. 

I had to get shopping and run errands. I had to get out. I went to Brownhills, and it did, to be fair, lighten my mood but the photography was dreadful. But there couldn’t have been a better afternoon to consider Ravens Court, the crumbling, derelict shopping centre whose private owners couldn’t give a toss for.

This foreboding, grim vandal-magnet seems beyond the powers of anyone, including the local authority (and lord knows, they’ve tried) to be sorted once and for all. The people with the power – the owners who are a land-banking company based in Mayfair, London – couldn’t be less bothered.

This place blights our town, is a cause for derision, prevents new investment and stands testament to the abject failure of governments to tame the worst aspects of speculative property capitalism.

It was raining in Ravens Court; but surveying this desolation, the rain in my heart was torrential.

February 10th – I had another reason to be in Shenstone, which meant making a call in the village itself, which is always charming after dark – even the hideous clock looks better when you can see the face illuminated rather than the horridly crude brickwork. I loved the shop in Main Street which was almost Dickensian, and the Railway pub, which always looks so warm and inviting.

I stopped, and thought about it: but where I really wanted to be was home. So I put the camera away, and rode off wearily into the wind.