February 16th – As I passed from Elford to Harlaston, I stopped as I usually do, to check out the state of Harlaston ROC post. What I saw saddened me, as it continues to deteriorate.

These odd green surface structures are the visible evidence of a small, 3-man nuclear fallout shelter. Intended to be staffed by a group of volunteers from the local Royal Observer Corps, they were a state secret. Should nuclear conflict have begun, the crew would man this subterranean bunker equipped with basic recording equipment, water and rations, and take measurements of radiation, weather, fallout, bomb damage and soforth. This information would be relayed – if possible – through telegraphy equipment installed within. Posts were sited all over the country, and worked in groups of 3. Others existed locally at Polesworth, Rugeley and Shenstone.

In essence, should the Cold War have begun, three people would have entered this hole in the ground, and if they didn’t perish, they would have carried out their orders whilst waiting to die of radiation sickness. It’s a sobering thought.

The posts – and the Royal Observer Corps – were stood down at the end of the Cold War in the early 1990s, and the posts mostly left to rot. Some were preserved by enthusiasts, some bought by cellphone companies – they make great basetation mounts – but the majority were abandoned, and later discovered in the internet age by urban explorers and cold war enthusiasts.

Sadly, the bunkers were left filled with all their equipment – bedding, instruments, lockers, chemical toilets and whatnot – and have mostly now be broken into, stripped and vandalised. Harlaston has been systematically destroyed. The current owner has repeatedly welded the access shaft shut, only to have it continually cut open. When I visited, there we signs of fresh cutting and the hatch was unlocked.

This is a crying shame. This is part of our collective history, destroyed and desecrated by animals with no sense of the historic and social significance.

High on a hill overlooking this northeast outpost of Staffordshire, good folk would have entered this once immaculate shelter to serve us in our time of greatest darkness. Today, it’s trashed.

Scum.

February 16th – Spotted at Hints Ford, the Black Brook Valley is a popular site for ramblers. If you go into the countryside, respect it and keep your dog on a lead.

By dealt with, the shepherd means ‘shot’. 

The shepherd would be quite within their right, and I would wholly support them. 

February 16th – It was a gorgeous day, and a reminder of what this country is like when the sun shines properly. With the sun on my back, I rode out at lunchtime to check out the floods of the Tame Valley, around Hopwas, Elford and Croxall. 

I was expecting the Tame to be in flood. This wasn’t the case at all – the Tame had clearly stayed in-channel, and although brisk, the Footherley, Black and Bourne brooks were all below capacity, too; although we’ve had record rainfall, it’s clearly been spaced out enough to avoid the horrific scenes locally that we saw in 2007. 

Of course, other areas have not been so fortunate.

What is evidenced is wind damage. At the hump bridge on Gravelly Lane, Footherley, tree debris blocks one arch, and a whole tree lies similarly before the Elford Bridge. Clearing the detritus from trash screens and under bridges is an essential part of waterway maintenance, and this will have to be removed.

The technicians that do this work have plenty to do in the coming weeks – their work is essential, and I wish them well.

February 15th -The bad weather seemed to be breaking as I cycled back to Brownhills although the rains would return later. It felt warmer, and stiller. The canal that separates urban Brownhills from rural, rolling South Staffordshire was affording great views – and it looked very much like spring  was insinuating itself in the fields an canal embankments.

Everything was still wet, of course, but out here there wasn’t much wind damage – that is, apart from an errant trampoline, sensibly tethered to a fence, buy sadly lacking buoyancy.

February 15th – A rough day. Weather was bad, with a high wind and periodic, squally rain. I needed to get some shopping in, and popped to Morrisons in Burntwood. I found myself on The Sportway, the drive to the Rugby Club that runs alongside the Chasetown bypass. 

This is a good tip – I know this route well. Just where the grass is on the foreground corner of the cycleway, there is a huge, wheel-swallowing pothole unseen under the water. Because I know it’s there, I give it a wide berth. Someone coming this way for the first time, wouldn’t know.

My point is this: in this weather, be careful riding through puddles. They can hide a variety of nasties – from tire-shredding debris, to holes, to uncovered drains.

Take it easy and be wary.

On that gorse/broom thing…

I was always told by my old man that it was gorse. So I called it this for years. Last year, I posted a picture and a somewhat irritable commenter told me it was broom, not gorse. Not checking, I took their word for it.

Linda and others, you are quite right, that’s Gorse and I am now finally clued up. 

Cheers to all who drew my attention to it. I do like to get stuff right, and if ever I’m wrong, feel free to point it out. I want to get stuff right.

Personally, I blame the Welsh.

Cheers
Bob

February 14th – And still, gently, slowly, almost imperceptibly, nature is shuffling things into place for spring. When the rain stops and the sun warms the earth, fields, hedgerows and pools, all the preparations will pay off and the cascade of flowers, green and growth will begin. 

Just as it does every year.

The canals are dotted right now with floating roots. These are bullrushes looking for a new home. In winter, they readily split from their parent clumps, and drift, looking for a decent spot to anchor and regrow. Scaly and ivory in colour, they vary from a couple of feet long to small nodules. 

Also, the Broom is well in flower. I’ve been erroneously calling this gorse for years, and apparently it’s actually broom. But hell, it’s bright yellow and about the only colourful thing in the hedgerows right now.

February 14th – Valentines Day, but not much love from the weather, which was back to wet and windy. I ’d been to Darlaston early again, and left in the mid-afternoon lull before the winds really got up. Unlike the ride in, the ride out was again wind assisted and fun. 

The traffic was a bit frantic in the wet and I chose to hit the canal again in Walsall Wood. An interestingly wind-cleaved tree near the Black Cock, and cutting across the new Pond and Clayhanger Common the landscape was again sodden and dripping. But there was a kind of peace to it too, which I appreciated. 

Crossing the bridge back into Brownhills, the moorings at Silver Street are busier than I’ve ever seen them before (except during a canal festival) – I’m curious as to why. The waterside has been unchanged for a good few years, now, and it seemed to take the boaters ages to discover us. Is it just a pure shortage of places to moor, or the fact that there’s no charge?

Really curious about it.

February 13th – It had been, by any measure, a dreadful day. Work had been a nightmare, the journey home more so. It appeared to be ‘drive like a maniac day’ too, and yet again, I’d not seen the memo. As I came through Bullings Heath on the edge of Walsall Wood, the lights of the Black Cock were like a welcoming beacon. The urge to pull up, lock the bike and have a pint was massive, and compelling. But I was hungry, and needed to eat and unwind at home.

I did the right thing. I took a photo, got back on my bike and rode on. Sometimes, you need to be amongst those you know and love.

February 13th – An unlucky day for a number of reasons, but at least it was dry and relatively pleasant. The wind had dropped, and on the way to Telford, looking up from the platform at New Street Station, a beautiful blue sky.

Riding from the station at Telford, I was fortunate enough to spot the black ice – frozen surface water like glass, the width of the cycle path uphill from the station, dusted with what looked like the residue of a brief snow shower.  

Had I not noticed, I could have gone a purler there – one of my nine lives, i think.