Tag: memories

February 1st – On my way back, the weather was more patchy, but changing trains at Aston midday, I thought of the great genius that was Nuala Hussey’s Stranded in Stechford (she lived for a while near the station) and of the incongruity of the Britannia Hotel, still with the great lady resplendent, enthroned on the roof, but no longer atop a hotel with dreams of majesty but a backstreet cafe.

Aston has changed since I was a teenager, exploring this place and the love I found near here. We drank in pubs long closed, and laughed and dreamed and made friends and argued and loved. We still do most of those things, of course, but Aston, like many places of my youth, is lost to me now. All of the faces I knew here except one have gone as I grow old, either lost, separated or drifted apart, but whenever I stand on these platforms, high above the sprawling morass below, I remember those days and it makes me sad.

Although I’m sad for the people I no longer see, I’m most sad for lost sense of belonging, and for my youth. But all through my life I’ve passed through places like this, made them mine for a while, then life took me to other places, with different horizons, and life moved on.

Aston is just a wind-blown, suburban and somewhat desolate railway station; two platforms and a junction. But there are ghosts here. And they haunt me so.

I felt old. But like my ghost, my spirit remains. 

The train came, I hauled my bike onto it and I sat down.

‘Are you OK?’ asked a lady in the opposite seat.

Caught unaware, I wiped my eyes. ‘Just the wind I think’ I said, ineffectually.

‘It’s getting colder’ she replied. And offered me a tissue.

October 10th – I returned to Shenstone on a horribly overcrowded, delayed train feeling flustered and weary, but then discovered something else I’d lost in recent months; that view of Shenstone Church across the village rooftops.

Shenstone Church is almost unique in British architecture – it’s a church which is improved when you can only see the elegant, foursquare tower and not the hideous, dark gothic edifice attached to it. 

I used to pass through here a lot when working in Birmingham, Telford and Redditch, but these days with others now doing those jobs, I’m more based in Darlaston so don’t see the seasonal changes of this place as much as I used to, which is sad.

The treat of a gathering dusk over Lynn and Stonnall as I return home is still a wonderfully life affirming thing, though.

August 16th – Riding to work down Green Lane, Shelfield on a bright sunny morning, and something gently reminded me of my grandfather.

The harvest at Grange Farm has been ongoing, and the road had been treated to a generous sprinkling of spilled cereal kernels – probably wheat. This grain, spilled by machinery and trailers as they lurch from field to barn is a feature of rural and peri-rural areas at this time of year, and is what the old man called ‘gleanings’.

Locally, ordinary folk were allowed to collect the seed lost on the roads and lanes for their own use. Few would use it for food, but many fed it to pets and livestock. Grandad said that you traditionally fed pets you kept for pleasure, not profit on the gleanings, fancy birds like guineafowl. 

Guineafowl were locally called Gleanies from this practice.

I well remember the farm opposite where the old man lived until a ripe old age having guineafowl, which are noisy, shrieking birds. ‘Gleanies am off again, the buggers!’ he’d curse every morning.

On a side note, watch out for the gleanings as they’re slippery and soapy, and steal wheels and grip, particularly when wet.

A warm memory on a warm, late summer morning.

August 6th – A better day spent mainly at home getting domestic things done, and resting, which is what I needed more than anything. I left for a ride late on a freshly tuned, clean, unladen bike and had forgotten just how lively and fun my bike is to throw around in such a state. I rocketed around the common and Chasewater and felt better, and liberated. I only had to go a few weeks. And I could get more stuff done. This isn’t all bad.

Talking of getting stuff done, I noted that the Fullelove Memorial Shelter at the bottom of The Parade is being well renovated. Built in memoriam to the great Brownhillian choral singer George Fullelove, I believe the shelter was built after his passing for the elderly to sit and watch the world go by. Over the years I’ve seen much time there, like many a Brownhills lad: sheltering, dossing, socialising or having an illicit fag. 

Like most people, until I was older I had no idea of the purpose of this hexagonal, elegant structure as no plaque records it’s purpose, but it is a fitting tribute, and also to Brownhills Local Committee and Doug Birch who have pushed for the renovation.

Thanks. This is a real piece of Brownhills history, your efforts are appreciated.

April 7th – A day at home doing bits and pieces, and then an errand to Shenstone on a lovely sunny afternoon. On the way, I came over the old bridge at Footherley, and was reminded it was very nearly the anniversary of a piece of graffiti that fascinates me.

I remember the boldly carved script ‘Billy + Tracee 30-4-83′ from when it was new and surprising. Now, nearly 34 years later, I wonder, as I do often who Billy and Tracee were, where they are now, and wonder if they’re still a couple?

I do hope they’re still local, still together, and pass this, often as a reminder.

September 9th – In Aston, a sad sight; a pub that I once frequented regularly has closed. Beautiful in that hideously overblown way only Birmingham terracotta pubs can be, the Swan and Mitre on the corner of Holborn Hill was never salubrious, but it was a good boozer that contains many happy memories.

It’s a genuinely astounding building, but sadly the reputation this place carried and decline of nearby industry signed it’s death warrant many years ago. 

Like the Brittania, nearby (now converted into a cafe) there seems little place in modern suburban Birmingham for the huge alehouses of yore, which is a great pity.

Never again will I lean on the railings outside on a warm evening, pint in hand, watching the world go by. But then, those days passed a long, long time ago, and the faces that filled those memories have moved on, slipped away or faded out of mind. 

Except one.

I just hope the building can be repurposed.

October 3rd – A short recovery ride over to Clayhanger Marsh and Ryders Mere to keep the legs going and get some fresh air. The afternoon was very grey, and it’s on days like this I often used to see the gnarled old dog fox who hunted here. I think he must have passed away by now, but I thought of him as I surveyed the grey, still waters.

Me and that fox knew each other – we were familiars. As far as I was concerned, he was just another resident of the area, using the facilities available. To him, I was tolerable company as long as I kept silent, made no sudden movements and minded my own business.

Ah well, I daresay one or two of his extended family were watching me from the thickets nearby as I remembered him.

April 4th – I broke free after lunch and had time to kill in Walsall. It wasn’t a particularly bright afternoon, but I headed up to the church and memorial gardens as I hadn’t been up there in a long while. The Memorial Gardens were as I remembered them; quiet, peaceful, solitary and beautiful. Slightly down-at-heel, but no less beautiful for it, the flowers there are just kicking off. I have great memories of this little-known spot, but while I was here, it occurred to me that somewhere in the intervening years between my discovery of this wonderful place and the present here and now, that either Walsall had lost me, or I had lost Walsall.

These places, these streets, used to feel like mine. I used to haunt them. I knew them well, the shops, pubs, cafes. Today, although I pass through regularly, I don’t know any of it anymore. I still get the geography. But I’ve lost the sense of belonging. 

The horizon I could see from here today over the dull, overcast town was the same horizon, but changed, I saw three decades ago. But somewhere, inbetween that place and this, I exchanged that whole wide world for other horizons.

I wept a bit. But you can’t go back; I can no longer class this place as mine. But there are other places, and this will always, always be a part of me.

For better, or for worse.

September 4th – The house with the remarkable chimneys in Stonnall, at the junction of Main Street and Wallheath Lane, has an unsuspected history. When I was a lad, the house was a petrol filling station, and the house that now stands on the left was built on it’s forecourt. I remember the garage well; it had a samll shop area through a wood and glass door and I often bought drinks and sweets there on my explorations as a youngster.

I was glad to see it so beautifully preserved, but I do miss the garage. A symbol of changing times.