Images

January 1st – Something odd has happened and I haven’t really register why. 

As I passed the canal overflow at CLayhanger Bridge in the darkness, I noticed it was very noisy indeed, and that the canal was really full and overtopping considerably. 

I find this puzzling – we’ve had a fair bit of rain, but not that much, surely? Or have I missed it all?

When the overflow is running at full blast it’s a lovely noise and a fascinating thing, almost hypnotic to watch.

I just can’t see where all the water’s come from…

December 30th – While ferreting around the canal and Clayhanger Common for a decent night shot (and failing to find anything at all) I noticed this lovely, sedate and peaceful waterside retreat: At the canalised behind the houses of Lindon View, a bench, table and light, right by the canal.

How lovely is that?

December 29th – I had to pop up Walsall Wood, late. A curious thing about Walsall Wood is looking back up the High Street towards Streets Corner, it always looks like it might be Christmas, even on a midsummer night, such are the many lights that make it such a charming view.

Walsall Wood is a place people pass through without studying. It really is worthy of closer study; it’s a lovely place.

December 29th – Winter is a normalisation process for me. I enter it, kicking and screaming and resistant, headlong into the darkness; I fight my way through the suck, the suck that is the autumn commute, and by the time I emerge blinking and dazed from Christmas, I’m sort of used to it. 

I’ve got used to the absence of light – which is OK now as it’s returning; I’ve acclimatised to the cold; and I’ve learned once more to look for oddities and interesting images in low-light urbanity.

Silver Court in Brownhills does Architecture and Morality. Peter Saville has nothing to fear.

Meanwhile, I trundle towards new year still nursing a bad shoulder and dreaming of warmer days…

December 28th – It’s rare I’ve seen roads this hazardous.

Many of the backlanes as I returned at sunset, where gritters can never be expected to reach were thick with lurking black ice. On the ice stud tyres with lower air pressure I was sure-footed but careful; in a car or on a motorbike, hitting this at even moderate speed and braking would have you in the hedge.

Fine on the bike, when dismounting several times I slipped on foot.

This is of course the kind of weather we used to get every winter, but in recent years have been relieved of, so take care folks, particularly if on two wheels.

I know the forecast was to warm up overnight with rain, but this is dense, thick ice that will be well lubricated with meltwater in the following 24 hours.

Take care folks.

December 27th – Crossing Catshill Junction Bridge, the ice was treacherous and I was glad to be on studded tyres. Whilst taking the photograph of Humphries House, I could hear a nearby radio, and was confused where it might be coming from. Coming down the bridge towards Brownhills, I noticed a tent in the darkness; there was a fisherman there on the far side, with all the kit for night fishing.

That’s hardy on a night like this – respect.

December 27th – Still suffering with the shoulder, I went for a short ride to Tesco after darkness fell.

This period – between Christmas and New Year – can vary in character immensely. It can vary from being wonderful (in decent weather) to being deadly dull if the weather is bad. I’m not feeling anything much at the moment, as I’m still recovering from the enervation of work recently. 

Looking out at the lights of the Watermead Estate from the canal at Silver Street, I was hoping for good weather and a quick recovery.

December 25th – As I returned towards Brownhills the rain got heavier and heavier. My waterproofs were working well, but it was cold, I couldn’t see due to the rain in my face and everywhere was sodden.

But if felt like the best ride I’d had for ages.

Something about the harsh weather, darkness and wind mingled, and made me feel alive.

December 22nd – I’d had a day Christmas shopping in Buxton by train, and came home hungry. Feeling the takeaway urge, I headed out for fresh air to stretch my muscles and bag a decent curry.

Where else do you go to recharge late on a quiet, dark Friday night in Brownhills?

I guess the wind blew me this way. The canal was still, the boats peaceful, with just a hint of woodsmoke.

I love how this town can be so unexpectedly beautiful.

December 21st – And this is the reason for my sudden optimism. Today is the winter solstice, or shortest day. From here, everything gets better, because the light trickles steadily back into my darkened soul.

The bike GPS tells me the sunrise and sunset times on the main screen, as I love to watch them daily. Today, the sun rose around 8:16am, and set around 3:54. I’ve watched these times all year, and registered the slow acceleration of nightfall from Midsummer, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, minute by precious minute; then cascading and careering through the midway and the end of British Summer Time. Slowing up again, that last push to before 4pm is crushing when it happens. 

By the time I return to work after this, my final commute of 2017, the sunset will already be past 4pm. And no matter what the winter brings, inexorably, unalterably, the GPS will record the gradual steps into the light. And then, at the end of March, I will emerge blinking into the light evenings as British Summer Time commences again.

I have survived the oncoming dark for another year. All I need to dow now is watch the darkness retreat.