Holywood, Co. Down

A Walk around the West Midlands: parts 3&4, Bromsgrove to Blakedown to Stourbridge

It was May 2014, the weather was perfect and the fields were full of new growth; the crops were coming on nicely. But first there was the Oxfam bookshop in Bromsgrove to check out. I came away with two purchases: Owen Hatherley's A Guide To The New Ruins of Britain and Basil Spence's book on the building of his cathedral, Phoenix At Coventry.

The path from Perryfields to Dodford is known as the Chartist Walk because Dodford was the last of the movement's plantations. This was the Chartists’ trading route to the market at Bromsgrove. Their other was north to Stourbridge which would be my next destination after Blakedown. The beginning of the path at Perryfields takes the neo-Chartist down the side of an unsentimental apple orchard, along a fenced-off alley enclosed by pines. From this tightly enclosed path the sound of traffic built up until I found myself on one side of a footbridge over the M5. I took a moment midway across to take in the angry energy of all that metal hurtling along; never fast enough, nobody ever wanting to be there, all convenience and fear. The field ahead promised something else entirely. The line of the path could not have been clearer. A strip of barren earth ascended the hill.

Many feet must have tread this path to the point where crops could not grow on the compacted soil even if the farmer wanted them to. It was the end of winter when I first made this journey, but springtime when I managed to complete it, having only made it to the woods on the other side of Dodford on the first attempt. What had been immaculately ploughed fields in March were now sprouting growth on either side of me in May. I was no longer on city time but moved with the seasons.

A buttercup meadow brought a gentleness of mind. I was beginning to feel that Dodford was an idyll of a sort, that Chartism in the village had indeed created the New Jerusalem. But, in reality, the project had only survived a few years. Now the beautiful, simple cottages which had been built for the plantation were now much sought-after property. Luckily one of them, Rosedene, is now in the hands of the National Trust, although access is limited.

Through patches of bluebells in Nutnells Wood, I had my lunch by a pond at Henley Brook. As thousands of tadpoles swam about, I sat on an abandoned concrete pipe and rested a while before crossing a bridge in a beautiful shaded twist of the brook’s course.

Up Barrow Hill to find the tumulus, I took the bridlepath down the other side as with so much growth, a proper view of it was not possible until I reached the bottom of the field. An angel cloud hung above it. The neolithic dead were being watched over.

Soon I felt lost but was not lost. I lost faith in my intuition and relied too much on signposts which failed to materialise. After wandering in the opposite direction for a while, I took out my compass and rechecked the map, taking note of the line of pylons. Soon I was secure again in my direction. The next official footpath was narrow and completely overgrown but I hurled myself through it with relish, knowing that I had found my way.

The entrance to Blakedown is gained by traversing the dam of Ladies Pool, and through the paddocks on the other side. The day was now hot and dry. The poor horses looked overwhelmed in their coats, and I was in need of refreshment and found some at the local post office. This itself was a journey back to a more dishevelled time. It reminded me of caravan holidays in the 1970s and hunting for paper bags of cola cubes and polystyrene gliders in Northern Irish coastal villages. I could feel my legs were aching for home so I trained it back to Moor St and returned in a fortnight to continue the walk.

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The journey from Blakedown was at first a pleasant stroll past an old watermill to the authoritatively-named village of Churchill, over a hill to Common Farm, a sharp right turn cutting across the border from North Worcestershire into Staffordshire, then trekking northward along a very muddy Roman road to Norton Covert and then finally entering the western fringe of Stourbridge.

  

 Conscious of walking on an ancient highway, especially when it is reduced to a narrow trek and ankle deep in liquid mud, I couldn't help wondering how a centurion would have managed in sandals. And how faraway from home he must have felt. Places gain importance from their approach, and next time I'll arrive in Stourbridge by train and won't think much about it, but coming in by an ancient track, however dubious its authenticity, is magnificent.

The Roman road took me to Norton Covert which, to put it crudely, is a big hole at the edge of town. In fact it is an old sandstone quarry where building material was extracted in the nineteenth century to construct the expanding town of Stourbridge. Nature has long since recaptured it, and because man has dug through strata for industrial purposes it has become a place of geological interest and beauty. Paths along the edge allow views of the canopy and steep paths down into the pit invite the curious. By this stage of my walk my legs were afraid they would not make it back up again, so I vowed to return one day and carried on.

The Roman road continues from Norton Covert along the western edge of Stourbridge becoming a sandy lane called, unsurprisingly, Sandy Lane. This particular leg of my journey ended by heading into the town centre for coffee, grub and books; my usual nourishment. I found a lovely old edition of Tom Sawyer to give to my son when he's a bit older, then headed off on the train back home.

A Dream of a City beginning with A (part 2)

Along Tamaki Drive, I hear the universal sound of the marina; cable banging on mast. There are boats everywhere, preparing, it seems, for a mass exodus in a flotilla of wealth. Masters of land, explorers of the sea. Plunderers of the deep and the shallow; businessmen with professional fishing gear. Some people are taking their pleasures very seriously. Working hard, playing hard. Got all the gear, Being seen getting all the gear.

Fishing was not an activity which ever grew into more than an occasional pastime for me. As a child I clambered over rocks with my crab line every summer and all day sat contented beside rockpools while, nearby, salmon left the River Bush for the adventure of the North Atlantic, negotiating the headland of Portballintrae by swerving the dangling lines of hopeful young men up from the towns. The smell of fish was everywhere, all day all summer long.

Even at that age I went the extra mile for solitude and clung to the rockpools where the stillness of the water allowed visibility of the curious world within, until one year my father bought me a wee mustard coloured rod, and I prized myself away from the hermetic world of rockpools to casting off from the harbour. Mostly this ended in entangling the line around the spool and rod in a hopeless mess. I never caught anything until one day a fish accidentally swam into the hook. I felt the strain on the rod and carefully reeled it in with nervous excitement. But instead of the fish gorging on my wily bait, it had managed to impale the hook in its eye. Certainly it did not feel like a proper catch. In fact, I felt distinctly awful that it had been cruel fate rather than any sporting skill which had given me my first, and last, catch.

Now I imagine sharks gliding past my head like repugnant memories waiting to pounce. I gaze at them as nonchalantly as I can muster. The other fish avoid their dead, predatory eyes. Here in the tank at the aquarium, all is balanced in a precious and precarious harmony. Another shark passes overhead. Beside me, my son presses his face against the glass fearlessly. His eyes are alive with wonder as he sees this world for the fist time.

A Walk around the West Midlands: parts 1&2, Cotteridge to Barnt Green to Bromsgrove

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.