Tag: Brownhills

March 19th – I thought today that it was time to check to see if the swans were nesting yet at the Watermead in Brownhills, where they’ve previously raised several successful clutches – and I was surprised and delighted to note that the swans had already rebuilt their nest, and one was sitting.

Swans here always seem to do well, even if they do present a hazard for the canoe club who get pecked if not careful; they get fed and the locals keep an eye on them to see if they’re OK. 

I shall look forward to watching another family hatch and grow on this stretch of canal over the coming months.

March 18th – A brief run out on a wolfish, windy afternoon had me glared at by a resident of… Catshill. 

This grey and white, somewhat scornful fellow was watching me contemptuously from the far bank of the canal, just past the Anchor pub. I’ve never seen in before, but from the small grey dot on his nose to the subtle striped tail, he’s clearly a lovely cat.

I noticed he seems to be sitting at the mouth of a fox set, too. Wonder if the resident was inside, wishing the cat would bugger off?

March 11th – I wasn’t feeling well. An unpleasantly off-colour feeling had been descending over me for a few weeks. I ached. I felt dizzy. Something wasn’t right.

I grabbed a takeaway on the way home and shot from Clayhanger to Brownhills over the Spot Path and common – where, despite my fun, I found the migrating amphibians – out in huge numbers enjoying the drizzle – charming and fascinating. I love frogs and toads.

I took care where I was riding, and noted creatures of all sizes and hues. Very one of them obeying the same seasonal imperative.

Nature has a way of pulling you up short.

March 3rd – A bad day when it barely stopped raining all day.

I had to be in Birmingham early, and took short rides in the morning and early evening. The weather was foul, and my mood little better.

Thankfully, good news, a mind at rest and the company of a very good friend helped no end.

Some days make you glad they’re over.

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 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 6th – A great, frosty and beautiful dawn which although out in, I didn’t manage to capture as I was running late and couldn’t stop. By sometime, though, the weather had turned – raining and windy, it was a horrid ride home. 

I stopped on the Anchor Bridge for a breather and to adjust my clothes. It was a truly horrible journey and I felt wet, cold and uncomfortable.

It’s not often the working day is bracketed by such wildly differing commutes. But I’m glad that one’s over, for sure.