Galleries

April 1st – These are impressive. I like alternative power, and I’m fascinated by it’s implementation. A couple of years ago I noticed the frames being erected for these solar panels, near the new railway bridge on the Fisherwick Road at Hademore, near Whittington. I think they may be designed to rotate, and comprise of 64 solar units apiece. I have no idea who operates them or why, but to me, they’re beautiful and fascinating. 

This, of course, used to be part of the ICI/Orica explosives depot, now Lyalvale Express, who manufacture shotgun cartridges. The empty sheds here were orphaned when the new road bisected the driveway. 

I’d love to know who these belong to and how much power they generate.

April 1st – Today is the second anniversary of starting this journal and project. It was 2 years ago that Renee Van Bar challenged me to do 30daysofbiking for a laugh. I just kept rolling ever since. Apart from the infamous two days laid low by a rogue pie over New Year 2012, I’ve cycled every day for those two years. Since 2012 was a leap year, that’s 729 days. That’s a lot of cycling, in all weathers and states of mind, I can tell you.

Today, a new 30daysofbiking starts. Naturally, I signed up…

Today, I took a ride out to Hints and Hopwas, returning via Lichfield and Burntwood. It was cold, and the easterly was still very sharp. But I ground on, and the originally very dark afternoon brightened. In the field near Rookery Wood, Hints, I noticed a first for me this spring: lambs. Not very old, but gorgeous and full of beans. They cheered me immensely.

March 31st – The contrasts continued as I got out on the Chase. Even the popular trails were too snowed up to ride, so I hit Birches Valley on the roads, which were clear and easy going. The afternoon warmed a little, and the sun stayed longer, and it was in one such moment of clarity that I took in the view of the Weaver Hills from Lady Hill. Good Friday two years ago, I was cycling over there in shorts and a tee shirt.

Dropping down to Rugeley, the snow was clear from the canals, and only lay in the lee of hedges and walls, but climbing out of the Trent Valley at Breretonhill, there were still large amounts of lying snow.

I think this is the coldest spring I’ve ever known.

March 31st – A day of contrasts. I needed to get to a bike shop, and with Chasewater Cycles gone, I could only think of Swinnertons, up on the Chase. I set off mid-afternoon, and crossed Chasewater, expecting it to be heavy going; but most of the paths and tracks were clear, but wet, and it was full of people taking the air. Intermittently, the sun shone through, but it was still bitterly cold. On the west shore, the wind lapped ice pieces ashore like a jingling, glass tide, but overhead, a kestrel hovered, wheeled and hunted with the joy that only the wild in spring can express. I’ve seen kestrels hunting before from the foot-pegs on that pylon. Must be a regular vantage point for them.

Meanwhile, on the north heath, the heathland management team of nine employees were hard at work, managing the heath in their own, inimitable style. The cows don’t seem to mind the snow, and carried on chewing, munching and defecating to their heart’s content.

March 30th – Recklessly, and without any ID, I went to Pelsall for a late breakfast at a cafe I like there. Thankfully, the border guards were asleep, and I slipped into the Principality unnoticed. 

Pelsall is a bit like Midwich. It all seems so right, but somewhere, nearby, you can feel that something is a bit wrong. Perhaps I watched too much junk sci-fi as a kid, but Pelsall is well odd. I never really feel comfortable there, although the village has a Royston-Vaseyish charm of it’s own. I love the terraces with front doors opening onto the street; the old-style hardware store where you can still buy caustic soda, tin buckets and clouts by the pound. The ancient and sadly unloved delivery bike hitched up outside the butchers is also fascinating, if a little frustrating. Only the newly erected, and frankly hideous health centre and library spoils the effect. Clearly Stevie Wonder is still on the planning committee.

They are, of course, out to get me. Why else would they build speed-calming chicanes with a bike bypass lane narrower than my pedal span?

If you visit, watch out. I think they’re on to us…

March 30th – Off to work early, and a return via Slowloaf in Mellish Road. Rushall Parish Chuch – that of St. Michael the Archangel – is fittingly made from local limestone, and is a handsome, Francophile church with an imposing, tall broach spire. It has a long history, although this incarnation is Victorian. History hereabouts of the village, the hall and environs go back to the Domesday book. All of which are somewhat impressive.

Reflecting on this, whatever aberrant demon possessed the architect of the modern hall, bizarrely erected in the churchyard really needs to be expunged. Sadly, the exorcism wasn’t undertaken quickly enough and similar architectural defecations occurred at many Lichfield Diocese churches in the 80s and 90s; Brownhills, Pelsall, Walsall Wood, Canwell. 

They make me think distinctly unholy thoughts.

March 29th – A lazy day. Work has left me exhausted lately, and with a long Easter weekend ahead, I slouched out and did some stuff I wanted to for a change, and slipped out late afternoon for a gentle loop of Brownhills. The thaw has really set in now, but the canal towpaths are still no go, even with the snow tires. I noted at Holland Park that the tennis courts were now tennis duckponds, complete with ducks. The sunset from Chasewater, however, was gorgeous. Water is still overflowing from the Nine-Foot, and the bird life there tonight was fantastic. 

By the time I returned to Brownhills, the sunset had retreated to a magenta band on the horizon, but the sky was still stunning. A great sunset.

I could handle a few more days like this. Lets hope the snow melts away soon.

March 28th – Walsall’s second Night Market was great, I really enjoyed it. I didn’t expect these to be anywhere near as good as they are, as on the face of it the idea seems a bit daft. They succeed due to an eclectic range of traders and an almost festival-like atmosphere, which is most unusual for Walsall. Well done to all involved.

Despite the biting cold, there was a fine turnout.

My only reservation is the same as last time; why not incorporate this into a late shopping evening? Again, almost all the local shops were shut, which seems like such a wasted opportunity.

It’s like the market is happening outwit the normal retail boundary of the town, rather than enhancing it.

This was worth the tortuous journey, and I look forward to future events. 

March 28th – Crikey, it was a long journey home. Engineering works commencing at the frankly bizarre time of 2pm today resulted in there being no through trains from Wolverhampton to Birmingham. Since my bike can’t go on a replacement bus service, I was faced with cycling to Walsall from Wolverhampton (I wanted to visit the night market), or find some other route. 

I was tired. It was very cold. The route from Wolverhamton to Walsall is horrid. And the wind was against me.

A quick hack with the National Rail app showed I could take a train from Wolverhampton to Stafford, a second service from Stafford to Rugeley Trent Valley, and another from Rugeley to Walsall. The whole lot from Telford took about 3 hours, end to end. An adventure, of sorts.

I hadn’t actually been to Stafford Station in over 20 years; it’s still bloody odd. One of several local stations built in the 60s, it has dated badly, and shares the same faults as it’s sister stations, Coventry, Wolverhampton and Telford. It’s a peculiar place.

Even more unsettling is Rugeley Trent Valley. It’s bleak, desolate and deserted. This station is unstaffed, and occupies a withering, wind-blasted location in the industrial north of town. 2 of the 3 platforms are an Island accessed from a high, steep footbridge, and trains thunder through here at very high speed. It’s clearly a place people choose to take their own lives, as I’ve never seen so many signs advising the number for the Samaritans. With every train that blasted through, the cold wind lashing me in it’s wake, I thought of poor, lost souls. 

Grim.

On the train to Walsall, I was comforted by Cannock Chase in the snow, and not far from the Goosemoor Green crossing, a small herd of fallow deer loafed by the line. They made me feel human again. 

Never underestimate the cheering power of snow, trees and wild animals.