February 24th – Little firsts are the art of getting through winter. Little, tiny victories that mark the passage from darkness to light, and tonight, on my way home from work, it was my first normal-time commute in something approximating daylight, rather than darkness.
OK, it was wet, windy, murky, verging on the brink daylight, but it was perceptibly not dark. A little victory.
The joy of this almost totally took my mind off what an unutterably foul ride it was…
February 23rd – A harsh day to ride to work into the wind. It started out sunny and bright, but it quickly became overcast, but then brightened again, It was hard work, and I stopped to take a phone call in The Butts, Walsall. The former school here has been converted into dwellings, and seems to have been done quite sympathetically. I think the exterior doors would have been better in wood or a darker colour, and the white boarded detail in the water tower jarrs; but otherwise, a great repurposing of a very interesting, surprisingly ornate building.
February 19th – Snatched quickly whilst stopped at the lights, on the commute home 13 hours later. The ring road in Walsall is almost deserted, and it’s raining. Everything is wet, and colours blend and blur in the night. I’m tired. My eyes are sore from fatigue. But the wind was behind me, it was pleasingly warm, and to see the beauty of the wet, urban kaleidoscope was a minor but tangible joy.
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 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 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.
February 11th – I noticed back in the summer that the old Pleck Working Mens Club was empty and derelict. I find it sad, as I went here once or twice, years ago, for parties and even a wedding. Like all such clubs, beer was cheep and the comfort basic, but there was real community here and the atmosphere was relaxed.
Sadly, like so many clubs, it’s fallen victim to social change, member numbers dwindled and now there’s a planning application for 11 dwellings on this site.
This will never be a club again, I guess, so any re-use of the land is good; but anything built here will be haunted, I hope, by late night shouts of ‘Pint of the usual Alec!’ and ‘Soon be time for the bingo!’
How times change.
February 9th – Meanwhile, other signs of life – primroses in a town centre planter, just being bright and trying to get our attention.
Gorgeous little flowers, a little dishevelled by the elements, but colourful and cute, all the same.
February 6th – I’m also getting used to the regular pebble-dashings from gritting trucks, spreading salt as a de-icer on the roads. As a cyclist, I’m generally quite slow moving, and because I ravel at particular times of day, my journeys often coincide with the council salt runs. On cold days they’ll be out in force, plodding down the roads of the borough, making the surfaces crunchy to ride on.
Many people have a mental block with grit: they expect it to be magic, like fairy dust, and when they find roads still icy, they’ll tell you the trucks never came, or that the council is useless. In reality, spreading rocksalt is not an exact science, and is only to improve conditions, not complete ameliorate them.
Driving skill we still be required after the glitter has gone.
I often feel for the crews, who work long hours on a generally thankless task. So I don’t mind the evening coating of grit.
Up the council gritter!
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