Wednesday 13 March 2024

Rambling Thoughts

Leicester doesn't have the station it deserves.  It's been dealt the misfortune of being on the Midland Main Line, the red-headed stepchild of the British rail network, constantly on the verge of getting electrified but never actually happened.  Oh, they'll announce it, they'll make plans for it, then another branch of Government will turn up and say "this might cost some money - perhaps we could do nothing instead?"  Theoretically it's going to be wired up to Sheffield at some point, but I imagine if you live in Sheffield you're permanently in a Jennifer Lawrence OK GIF state.


Leicester's a horizontal station, spreading across the tracks below, with most of its space devoted to a cab rank.  It's ostentatiously marked ARRIVALS and DEPARTURES and is reasonably attractive.


Not so much inside.  The cab rank has been shortened, taking up only half the space, but the remainder is dominated by stairs and a ramp.  It's a nothing area.  There's a little coffee shack but that's it.  The ticket office, meanwhile, is small and cramped and dark.  And worst of all, there's no station sign on the outside, which seems insane, especially as the area around the station has clearly had a recent makeover.  I was forced to loiter inside, which is disappointing.


I headed down to the platform level.  There are only two islands, with four tracks; it's a through station with no terminating spaces.  It doesn't feel big or busy.  Of course it is - five million passengers a year - but it feels like a pass through place, rather than a destination, or somewhere to change trains.  Sheffield, which has a similar position on the railways, is far more lively and exciting.  There are plans to rebuild it, with a new entrance to the side and a pedestrianised plaza and, yes, a proper station sign, so maybe things are about to change.  (Please see the earlier paragraph about the Midland Main Line).


My plan for the day was to cross off the stations between Leicester and Nuneaton, with a side dish of Atherstone on the Trent Valley Line.  Staying overnight in Leicester meant I could slice them all off the map in one go, rather than getting them piecemeal at the end of a long day of travelling from Merseyside.


My first stop was... hmmm, where was it again?


The platforms at South Wigston are splayed either side of a pedestrian bridge and the walls of it have been painted by a local community group.  It's very "inspiring", very "motivational", with messages about "kindness" and "love" and I'm afraid my cynicism circuits just overloaded.  It's all very nice for the people painting it, I'm sure, but has anyone ever seen one of these murals and thought "I was going to murder someone today, but thanks to that child's picture I've decided to embrace happiness instead".  I suppose it stops the local youths from layering the brickwork with obscene graffiti, so there's that.


The north side of the footbridge was suburbia, semis with cars on the drive, but I headed south, into a tight net of terraced streets.  The corner shops had been converted into houses, and there were an awful lot of Ring doorbells with built-in cameras, but otherwise the houses looked more or less as they had done for a century.


I passed a small municipal car park and was surprised to see that I was now in the Borough of Oadby and Wigston.  Leicester station is actually the only station in the entire city, which seems mad.  The railway is long and straight and goes from one side to the other and they couldn't find space for one or two suburban stops to help commuters?  Even more mad, South Wigston only opened in 1986.  


I turned south, past "The Midlands Friendliest Training Centre" (yes it does need an apostrophe), and turned at the traffic lights to walk out of town.  It was eerily quiet.  Perhaps it was the layer of mist blocking the horizon from sight, but Wigston felt silent.  This was, allegedly, a B road, a major through route, and yet there were hardly any cars, and definitely no pedestrians.  Even a high school seemed deserted.  
 

A sign informed me that I'd entered Glen Parva, which is a magnificent name for a district.  It sounds like a distant Roman outpost for particularly unruly centurions.  This was very much the edge of the village, the southern fringes, with the main body on the other side of the railway line.  That was where the also magnificently named Eyres Monsell estate was, as well as the huge HMP Fosse Way.  Here it was semi-rural, the edge of the city, where you detected there were drab fields hiding behind back gardens.


There was a noticeboard, with photos of the local councillors smiling at the camera in a pub somewhere, and a telephone exchange in grey concrete showing its age.  It looked abandoned so I was surprised to see BT vans parked at the side.  I wondered how much of the exchange was actually in use now we live in an age of digital switching and fibre optics.  A bridge took me across the canal, walking in the opposite direction to a pair of bickering dog walkers, and then the traffic ground to a halt for some roadworks, undertaken by a firm designed to taunt me, specifically.


The firm in question was King Industries, and as you're a normal person and not a 007 obsessive, I should explain that King Industries is also the name of the villain's company in The World Is Not Enough.  They're building an oil pipeline from Azerbaijan to the Mediterranean, and several scenes are set at their worksites and headquarters.  And here's the thing: that's the logo they use in the film.  That one, up there, on the side of that van.  


See?  There's Sophie Marceau being all villainous with the logo right behind her.  It's identical.  I couldn't decide if they were being cheeky and simply copying it (the company was founded in 2008, nine years after The World Is Not Enough was released), or if some graphic designer had charged them good money for something he ripped off a DVD.  Either way, I was incensed.  I felt like phoning Barbara Broccoli to tell her someone was exploiting her intellectual property and she should charge them (she needs the money, you see); at the very least I thought I should warn Leicestershire County Council that their highway works may be a front for a nefarious scheme involving oil rights and King Industries might be about to explode a nuclear bomb underneath Blaby.

Who knew that a blog about railway stations could somehow get even nerdier and more tragic?


I walked through the last dregs of Glen Parva, a road with houses on only one side, a retirement village, then a turn south towards Blaby.  I was mildly intrigued to spot a steam engine on blocks in a field.  Because this is 2024, and everything is on the internet, I can report that it was "WG Bagnall Works 2370 0-6-0F", and therefore sound a little bit like I know what I'm talking about for once.


I enjoyed the detail on that link above that the train was rumoured to be there to support reopening Blaby railway station, only for the owner to say no, I just like it.


The traffic in Blaby was directed down a dual carriageway bypass, but I pushed on, into the town centre itself.  It was spread around a crossroads, with more coffee shops than you'd expect, and not one but two shops named after people called Bott (Bott Handmade Sofas and Barry Bott Jewellers).  There is of course nothing amusing about this whatsoever.


At the centre I turned right, passing a Chinese restaurant called Double Dragon which I assume is full of twins kicking the crap out of each other, and soon found myself back at the bypass.  I managed to get round an oversized roundabout, passed a mobile butcher, then followed Enderby Road and its stream of houses.  A line of traffic queued patiently for the recycling centre but I continued on the narrow pavement.


My plan had been to follow this road all the way to the next station, but my attention was grabbed by a Public Footpath sign pointing across a nearby field.  Not only did it look like a shortcut, slicing the corner off my walk, it also looked a lot more interesting than the current route.  I clambered over the stile and started trudging across the extremely wet and muddy field.  It wasn't the smartest decision in the world, kicking brown sludge over my jeans and stopping myself from sinking too far into the earth.


I was actually walking across the former site of Enderby's water mill, and the stone Packhorse Bridge there dates from the 15th century.  A six hundred year old structure sitting quiet and unnoticed in a field in Leicestershire.  This is why you should always wander off the beaten path.


On the other side I clambered over one of the highest stiles I've ever encountered - I think my leg had to go full can-can to surmount it - and then followed a small alley round the back of some houses.  A thought suddenly popped into my head: what if I get mugged here?  I didn't really know where I was.  I didn't know the area.  It looked like a boring residential district, but who knew - this could be the Leicestershire equivalent of South Central LA, with crack addicts lurking in every nook.  It says something about my complete lack of self-esteem and personal value that my first thought wasn't "what if I'm hurt or killed?" but was instead "what would I do about the blog if they nicked my camera?"  I mean, I'd still have actually visited all these stations.  But without the photographic proof, did it actually count?  Would I have to come back to Leicester and do it all over again?  I made a mild mental note to see if there's such a thing as a camera that constantly backs up to the cloud.


There was a printed notice on a lamp post asking me to Snub the Hub.  This was the third one I'd seen; emotions were obviously running high about something.  A little light Googling reveals that there are plans for a new logistics hub in Enderby and the locals are furious about it.  I thought they might have a point; I imagined that little stone bridge I'd walked across being picked up and replaced by a massive warehouse.  Perhaps they could sell it to an American, like London Bridge?  Looking at the actual proposed site, however, it turns out to be further north, near an existing business centre, next to a park and ride, and backing onto the M1.  It is, in short, exactly where you should put logistics hubs, and I'm afraid I'm unsympathetic that some people are going to have a little less grass to look at.


Walking under the motorway brought me to Narborough, as evidenced by a pretty village sign.


I'm embarrassed to admit that I initially thought those reeds at the bottom were sausages.

Narborough was the most charming of the districts I'd walked through so far; I could see why it had retained its railway station while other towns on the line had lost theirs.  (Actually they did lose it for a couple of years in the sixties, until public pressure forced British Rail to reopen it).  This was a proper little town, with all the amenities you'd expect, and good houses that would appeal to commuters to Birmingham or Leicester or Coventry.  A stone parish church peeped over the rooftops while walkers paused on the pavement to chat.


At the centre, past the village hall and pub, was another crossroads, and then the road lead to a level crossing.  


Narborough station was well cared for.  It had artworks at the entrance to the car park - a multicoloured fibreglass fox as part of the "Foxes Trail" and the rather more classy emblem of the village's French twin town.  The footbridge was clean and brightly painted; there were flower planters on the fences "provided by Narborough Parish Council"; the station building was still in use (though the waiting room was locked up, leading to a teenage girl pushing on the door then pretending she never wanted to go in there anyway).  


I took a seat and quietly picked the mud off my jeans while I waited for the train.  That was the last of the walking really.  From here on I'd be killing time between trains rather than trekking.  I hoped there was a pub.

Tuesday 12 March 2024

The Leicester Square

I've always had a sneaking fondness for Leicester, mainly on the grounds that it makes itself very difficult to pronounce.  I imagine them deciding to be called Lester, then realising Americans could probably say that, so they shoved in a whole invisible syllable ice so that British people could feel superior every time a foreigner asked for directions.  "Lie-chester?  Never heard of it.  Oh, you mean Leicester?"

The closest I'd ever been to visiting, however, was a rather miserable day in the gooch period between Christmas and New Year, when the trains were their customary hilarious self and I'd been forced to work my way back up north via a change from the Midland Main Line.  All I remembered of the city was that it felt like I was in a canyon between high walls, but I was in a foul mood and wanted to get home so it wasn't exactly fair.  Now I was properly in the city and ready to take it all in.


What I discovered was another of those gems that people don't talk about, for some reason.  I'm not saying Leicester is the new Milan or Monte Carlo, but it was a good, interesting place to visit with plenty of attractions and good buildings.


Its most famous resident now is Richard III, or to give him his full title, Richard III Who Was Found In A Car Park.  Leicester's gone a bit overboard with the Richard III tie ins.  I know he's got his own Shakespeare play, so he's a bit more famous than, say, William II.  None the less, I can't help thinking that if your grave goes missing for six hundred years it might be because people can't be bothered looking for it.  Richard's had a re-evaluation in recent times, with the conclusion generally being that he wasn't a hunchback and wasn't evil and Shakespeare most likely smeared his reputation to kiss up to his Tudor masters.  His reputation has certainly been laundered enough to enable Leicester to build a King Richard III Visitor Centre without anyone muttering about the Princes In The Tower.


I decided to give the visitor centre a pass (eleven pound fifty) and instead headed to the Cathedral, where Dickie's tomb is a simple and attractive centrepiece.  There was a bit of a tussle over who got to keep his desiccated remains, with York arguing that Richard Of York perhaps belonged to them, and some people saying Westminster Abbey was where Kings should rest, and others quietly pointing out that Richard III died in 1485 and was therefore a Catholic so perhaps burying him on Protestant territory was a bit off?  


Leicester won, which is lucky for them, because I'm not sure I'd have bothered visiting the cathedral otherwise.  Perhaps it's because I'd just spent a day being overwhelmed by Lichfield Cathedral.  Perhaps it's because I've spent most of my life living in the shadow of not one, but two, awe-inspiring cathedrals.  Leicester Cathedral was a parish church that got elevated with its own diocese in the Twenties and never really got any more inspiring after that.

Incidentally, I've just realised that I wrote the Twenties assuming that everyone who reads it will know I meant the 1920s, even though I'm sat here writing it in the 2020s.  Time is cruel.

It's a nice enough church, don't get me wrong, but "cathedral" writes a cheque it can't quite cash.  Once I'd seen Richard III's remains and done a circuit of the walls barely five minutes had passed.  I took a seat and listened to the service that was being broadcast over the loudspeakers, to show willing and to eke out a bit more time, but then the woman leading the prayers asked us all to pray for the King to reign wisely over us and I went off the idea and left.

This is not to say that Leicester is short of architectural gems.  Wandering around I was struck by how diverse it was, as befits a city with thousands of years of history.  Wide Victorian shopping streets were alongside Medieval runs; routes would open out into civic squares or meet in expansive crossings.  Newer buildings had been inserted with varying degrees of success.  Personally I love the way the clock tower is backed by the huge Brutalist bulk of the Haymarket Shopping Centre, but I understand I'm probably in the minority about this.


I found myself turning corners and being struck by a new angle or building.  The Turkey Cafe, for example, which I stumbled across, and whose quirky insanity made me grin.

Or the City Hall, an absolutely astonishing piece of Art Deco beauty, which looks like a piece of Gotham dropped into the East Midlands.  It stopped me in my tracks, it was so elegant and charming, and I wondered why I'd not heard of it.  A building like that should be celebrated widely.

The 21st century also hasn't been too bad for the city.  Leicester is clearly in the process of a building boom with large apartment blocks springing up on the edges.  Industrial works are being replaced by angular shards of glass and cladding.  I found myself in St Peters Square, where the Highcross shopping centre has been extended to accommodate a glittering silver John Lewis and cinema and a new restaurant quarter.

Sadly, around half the units were vacant.  I'd cut through the Highcross to get here, and passed more empty shops than usual; a Body Shop sat next to an abandoned Paperchase, like a sort of once and future bankruptcy.  You could hear the owners thinking, hey, looks like the high street is dying; we'd best diversify into leisure and casual dining.  People will always want to eat and be entertained, and the only thing that could stop that would be a catastrophic cost of living crisis that means nobody has spare cash to fling around on a disappointing fajita.

Meanwhile Leicester's Market was in the middle of another redevelopment, with the stalls relocated to an adjacent square and the hall falling under the wrecking balls.  They've issued a lot of pleasing CGI images about its replacement, with wood panelled stalls and feature lighting, but it has a vague whiff of the Chester Market about it.  You'll be able to buy a bao bun or a pain au chocolat but there's nowhere to get foam cut or your shoe re-heeled.

I ducked down the side streets and ended up on the New Walk, a long pedestrian route that skims the city centre and connects it to the main Victoria Park.  It was very much a promenade, the kind of place you can imagine has been absolutely rammed on weekends since it opened, and even on a weekday afternoon was thronged with visitors.

The New Walk takes you to Leicester's Museum and Art Gallery, so I popped in for a look. I was surprised to find a dinosaur hall, but not as surprised as the toddler ahead of me, who took a full step back when he saw the Rutland Dinosaur, a Cetiosaurus discovered in 1968.  His mum reassured him that it wasn't alive and wasn't going to hurt him, but he clung to her nonetheless as they worked their way round the exhibits.

I'm afraid that was the limit to my visit to the museum, because I rounded a corner and found a hall full of overexcited primary school children in hi-vis vests and I immediately backed away.  It's marvellous that young children are being exposed to interactive, exciting education in this way, but sometimes I, a middle aged man, would like to have a quiet wander round the exhibits without dodging screaming eight year olds brandishing worksheets.

This is perhaps the point to address a very strange feeling I got from Leicester.  It was - and I can't explain this adequately - one of the most heterosexual cities I have ever visited.  Something about it, about the people I saw, the way they acted - somehow everything added up to overwhelming heteronormativity.  This is not to imply that, say, Nottingham, is drowning in lube and leather chaps; it was simply a vague feeling, a prickle on the back of your neck that you develop after years of homosexuality.  I didn't feel unsafe or threatened, I'd like to make that clear.  I'm saying that there was an instinctive wariness in me and I'm not sure where it came from.  Perhaps it was all the hats.  I have never seen so many men wearing fedoras in my life.  You wouldn't get a gay wearing one of those.

I paused for a pint in The Globe, one of Leicester's oldest pubs, which has been run by the same family for more than a century; I will report that the family is called the Everards and leave it at that.  I sat across from an adult son who was having a slightly awkward reunion with his dad, where they stared at their pints in silence for a little too long.  The Dad was drinking a Madri Top, and his son had to inform him that Madri is, in fact, a Shit Beer, a revelation that clearly disappointed his dad, who was trying to be up to date and modern.

Refreshed, I wandered across the ring road - it's the Midlands, of course there's a ring road - in search of a bit of railway history.  Leicester used to have two stations in its centre; Leicester London Road was the one I'd arrived at, now stripped of its suffix, but Leicester Central also existed over a mile away.  This was on the Great Central Railway to Marylebone, a latecomer in the railway business and one that was never as successful as the Midland Railway it often shadowed.  It was an obvious candidate for closure when (spit) Beeching turned up and so it carried its last passenger in the sixties.

The station became a workshop and a car park; its clock tower was removed and it slowly declined.  However, the regeneration of the area turned it into an asset again and the building was extensively refurbished.  The road outside was turned into a public square and a hotel was opened opposite.  A new roof was put in and the whole place was turned into - well, I'm not really sure what it is, because I'm old.  The name on the door is Lane 7 which implies a bowling alley, but when I looked at their website it also offers "augmented darts" and beer pong and basically it seems to be a place to act like you're still a kid, but with beer. 

I looked through the doors, thinking I could at least have a pint, but a gaggle of astonishingly fashionable looking twentysomethings gave me a look like I was Mrs Havisham trying to gain access and so I backed away to where my kind belonged.

Ah, I had found my kin.

I was pleased by my visit to Leicester.  It had everything you need from an average city; history, charm and good looks.  I was glad that the West Midland Railways map had brought me here.  That same map would be taking me away the next morning, across the county, but that night I had a room in a Travelodge and a Wagamama takeaway to keep me happy.