For a long time I was
feeling an urge to escape the city, to wander beyond the orbit of its motorway
collar, and explore the surrounding countryside. It would not have to be far,
just a bit beyond the city. Of course, I had been there many times before but as
a car passenger driven around on aimless days or enforced diversions from the A
roads in and out of the city; occasional expeditions to car boot sales, or pub
lunches. But I had never actual been
there.
From my home in Cotteridge,
Birmingham, I summoned up the courage to pass through Kings Norton, with all
its memories, and head south, late in the autumn of 2013. Masshouse Lane took me
to the gracefully named Primrose Hill, past dilapidated council houses of the
1920s, past a cemetery and into the first sign of countryside. It is difficult
to get muddy in a city unless you are somewhere you shouldn’t be, even some
canal towpaths are gaining the urban respectability of tarmac. Immediately I
realised my work shoes were wholly inadequate as the mud came over the top. And
this was the first field; a city boy squirmed with embarrassment.
The dominant animal
at the edge of the city is not the cow or sheep or pig, but the horse. These
elegant, four-legged investments are dotted around the fields, quietly
contemplating their indifference to solitude. There are also numerous riding
schools on the outskirts. One need not go short of opportunities to part with
good money to sit on top of an animal.
The city oozes out
its wealth past the slum-clearance estates, and out into what is only regionally Birmingham, i.e. as viewed
from London, or narratively
Birmingham, i.e. when it suits me. My destination for this initial leg of my journey
was to be Barnt Green, a satellite village due-south of the city, just past
Longbridge. This was once the home of the atomic spy Allan Nunn May whose
father was a brassfounder in the city, that is to say, he owned a brassfoundry in the city which allowed him to live way beyond
the consequences of its noxious factories. Incidentally, Nunn May was not the
only atomic spy ever to reside in Birmingham. Klaus Fuchs began passing the
details of his work to the Russians when he lived in Edgbaston.
The atrocious path from
Primrose Hill came out to a road edged with trees and swampy pools. It was the
first road I had been on in years where I could walk down the middle
undisturbed by traffic. It felt good. It felt glorious. Already my wellbeing
was improving. To mark the occasion I took some blurry photographs of discarded
objects with my phone.
It wasn't long until
I was back on an obscure public right of way - a narrow, overgrown path running
up the side of a house. Clearly no one had walked there for some time. I had to
stoop under branches as I stumbled forward, alerting a large, protective hound
only inches away; growling and barking behind the fence immediately to my
right. Once past the house and another of the many swampy pools I would grow
intrigued by, the path joined a lane taking me to the top of Wast Hill. There
was a slight view of the now distant city behind me and my first panorama of
the comparatively sparse valley in front. The path turned right and descended
pleasantly through woods beside the Wast Hill Autism Centre, then there were a
couple of muddy fields to cross before crossing a road and onto the next path. I
was acclimatizing to having wet feet and called it stoicism.
The path had a
Richard Long appearance of a clean line swooping down toward the end of the
Wast Hill Tunnel. From there it was a steady trek along the Worcester canal to
the Bittell reservoirs where Bruce Chatwin’s father would go boating. My map
was old, very old, having been purchased from the Hogg’s Lane car boot sale for
twenty pence, and did not even feature the M42, the southern part of the collar
around Birmingham. This ensured confusion and for a short while I was lost on
my way into Barnt Green. As I staggered on, I was delighted to be welcomed by three
little piggies who came squealing to their gate. They had no problem with the
mud, and I was beginning to get used to it.
The next leg of the
journey was straight down to Bromsgrove, mostly continuing along the Worcester
canal. It felt liberating to emerge from under the bridge of the motorway. I
felt a surge of pride to be beyond that suffocating collar.
At the moorings of
Alvechurch a prehistoric crane was dangling a barge over the works. Alvechurch
is one of the hubs of the canal tourism industry, but today I wasn’t stopping.
Further south Network
Rail had pinned notices onto trees to the east of the canal. With news of the
HS2's go-ahead, it is hard to look at the fields without a projection of what will
be in store for them. It is an image of the future which is hard to bear while
standing in such pleasant surroundings. I think it was this, combined with a
drop in blood sugar, which prompted a sense of pointlessness and despondency
about my journey. And this was only the second leg! I wasn't walking anymore, I
was marching at a pace with my eyes at my feet.
Not until the canal disappeared
into a tunnel, and I was left alone to find my way through Shortwood, did I
recognise a new feeling of excited isolation, the awe of the environment and
the enjoyable illusion of adventure. A city boy living out a fantasy. The wood
had an atmosphere of Twin Peaks. The
damp, the quiet, the piles of lumber. I climbed to the top of the hill and the
edge of the wood. The re-emergence to the canal was hidden by a clump of trees far
below. A cold wind whipped around me as I made the slippery descent.
The canal path did
not last for long. As I negotiated a dual carriageway, the canal was making its
way to Tardebigge, the spiritual home of the reborn canal network. Instead I
was veering along footpaths toward Bromsgrove. A Dyno-Rod truck sat grazing in
a field alongside a couple of tired old horses and an impressive collection of
digger scoops. A wider collection of farm machinery and materials was revealed
further down the path. It was very impressive. A mausoleum of agriculture.
Right turn to
Bromsgrove, along quiet country roads punctuated only by the genial whirl of a
cycling club passing by. Their friendly waving indicated a bond between those
who like to get out in the middle of nowhere for the good of their health. Or
so it was in my imagination.
From this way in, the
edge of Bromsgrove is Aston Fields, where the railway station is located. The
actual centre is another mile westwards. I had walked far enough for that leg
but I returned in the spring of 2014 to take up the walk to Blakedown.
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