tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83297615832101352122024-03-24T17:45:05.090+00:00round the rails we gocapturing Britain's railways, one station at a timeScott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.comBlogger771125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-92043043568826375442024-03-24T14:21:00.001+00:002024-03-24T14:21:37.634+00:00The Morning Shift<p>Motorway service stations are rarely a high point of anyone's journey. They sit close to the carriageway, sometimes spread over the traffic, a halt for a pee and a sandwich and then out again. Any romance of the open road has long gone. Their facilities are frequently old and overcrowded. Their forecourts are expansive and badly laid out. </p><p>At five in the morning, you can, if you squint, get a bit of glamour out of them. I walked out of the Tamworth M42 Travelodge and there was a silence ahead of me. The only lights were an orange glow from the KFC. There were no people. Cars were stilled.</p><p>I turned away from the parking area, towards a hump of grass with a couple of picnic tables optimistically strewn across it. I'd stayed overnight, walking out here from Wilnecote, having a Burger King in my room with a bottle of Coke before getting an early start.</p><p>This overnight was, at heart, the reason for my three day trip to Leicester. I could've got the other stations any time. Polesworth, however, could only be collected at one particular point.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJt0KKUVdqNSePD8w-AB7ScrVZuuEGPknT1th89TVbVu0l40twfpX1-w9GbpM5Tt_A_JShIKdzmFTmqdUAGCCSt0fkPEamOwwQAHid-FbsYraFjk95n17JmF4YM-HvL_J5FIUIVuDqbaSGHieok5uJ6M0PrS0Gi_8xOByvyG-v28CogSkhfkBMoRJYinUj/s603/Screenshot%202024-03-24%20125541.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="456" data-original-width="603" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJt0KKUVdqNSePD8w-AB7ScrVZuuEGPknT1th89TVbVu0l40twfpX1-w9GbpM5Tt_A_JShIKdzmFTmqdUAGCCSt0fkPEamOwwQAHid-FbsYraFjk95n17JmF4YM-HvL_J5FIUIVuDqbaSGHieok5uJ6M0PrS0Gi_8xOByvyG-v28CogSkhfkBMoRJYinUj/s320/Screenshot%202024-03-24%20125541.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Polesworth railway station was never that popular. Its position on the West Coast Main Line meant it was in the way. Fast trains needed to get by; they didn't need to be held up by a stopping service. It got fewer and fewer trains over the years until it closed temporarily during the modernisation of the railway in the early 21st Century. <div><br /></div><div>You can't simply close a railway station forever; it requires an Act of Parliament. However, during the modernisation works, the footbridge to the southbound platform was taken away... and never replaced. The number of trains able to serve the station halved immediately; there was no way on or off one of the platforms. As a consequence, a not very popular station became largely useless, and the timetable was altered to reflect this. You can't close a railway station, but you can run the bare minimum service to it as a token effort.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9ofz564nFBYXSY7QGvM-eCVICoC7w1Ym-_Ru-k9RIu5KEgZfoDn80eIQF7bJ-odNjPQyNVjPQCZmVHKjdkvZScgNIIn-_MIPr_q7smy4_2i8Lw7_0vMQuKH5tGZYwkVswNsb16cb86ll8KDKWSpG5vJV20yEleGJRnhvQ6B-sI-_bj4cyYdLEgY3Qj9b/s762/Screenshot%202024-03-24%20130154.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="734" data-original-width="762" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9ofz564nFBYXSY7QGvM-eCVICoC7w1Ym-_Ru-k9RIu5KEgZfoDn80eIQF7bJ-odNjPQyNVjPQCZmVHKjdkvZScgNIIn-_MIPr_q7smy4_2i8Lw7_0vMQuKH5tGZYwkVswNsb16cb86ll8KDKWSpG5vJV20yEleGJRnhvQ6B-sI-_bj4cyYdLEgY3Qj9b/s320/Screenshot%202024-03-24%20130154.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One train, at 06:48 on weekday mornings, to Crewe. That's it. That's the only service Polesworth gets any more. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Getting there from the Tamworth services meant turning away from the motorway - obviously, I wasn't about to walk down the hard shoulder - and disappearing onto a long closed back road. Lots of service stations have these secret exits, put in place for emergency access, but frequently closed in recent years as locals became wise to them and started using them as unofficial junctions. This one was a dark tunnel of trees at the back of a warehouse.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfyGlvxMDBRdlF4UkD2vE7vOs6nIc-9HJdTOXkgulTOyPsm_XQRTJKzDzL48eZaKlqVUjt71kcoqboZCUH1bkNLFtC2J6kx_qXesFwxQ0qFDflaRLy1Xteknrh_dgyy_dgGrH3nktk40ab80IH0TP76uMSIJB-OAhzXg0eFaPZhYEtFZ6ZMasn2AyejKi/s4032/IMG_6233.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfyGlvxMDBRdlF4UkD2vE7vOs6nIc-9HJdTOXkgulTOyPsm_XQRTJKzDzL48eZaKlqVUjt71kcoqboZCUH1bkNLFtC2J6kx_qXesFwxQ0qFDflaRLy1Xteknrh_dgyy_dgGrH3nktk40ab80IH0TP76uMSIJB-OAhzXg0eFaPZhYEtFZ6ZMasn2AyejKi/s320/IMG_6233.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'd planned ahead and bought a small pocket torch from Asda. Without it, I'd have been in absolute darkness. I felt the prickle of anxiety as I walked, not knowing what was ahead for me, mixed with a thrill of being alone. I love it when I feel outside of the world. It may have been a tarmacked back route now mainly used by dog walkers, but at that early hour, it was my empire.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Too soon I reached the barrier closing off the road to traffic and I was on the pavement in the hamlet of Birchmoor. I lowered the beam of the torch, in case I accidentally swung it into a bedroom window and scared some poor old dear into thinking the aliens were landing. The houses were quiet. I crossed over the motorway and got a giddy glimpse at the traffic below.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5zEwglaBQp24T6A0v20SdTrpfe6m9AAihIXzLsRrIbdmlVIFNmJx9Y-YaA2W90Qpm-yTrngVSHwVwU6Y77Jt8fQQB_OnlgXaXbq1ls3JH9aGgU0Hdsa3QeuWF5-KnBQm0hBCt3sVxOZ1-vxZlPVDjqljPgNugsLhNdncI4AFY9OZJucj-HZh-ICZ2CYC0/s4032/IMG_6234.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5zEwglaBQp24T6A0v20SdTrpfe6m9AAihIXzLsRrIbdmlVIFNmJx9Y-YaA2W90Qpm-yTrngVSHwVwU6Y77Jt8fQQB_OnlgXaXbq1ls3JH9aGgU0Hdsa3QeuWF5-KnBQm0hBCt3sVxOZ1-vxZlPVDjqljPgNugsLhNdncI4AFY9OZJucj-HZh-ICZ2CYC0/s320/IMG_6234.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>If you're one of those people who comes to this blog for the photography; firstly, who hurt you? And secondly, I'll have to apologise. At that time in the morning, in that level of darkness, my poor camera was useless. With a flash, without a flash, all it produced were blurry disappointments. I had to fall back on my iPhone which, presumably, has a whole series of microprocessors working away to try and make sense of what you're pointing at. It means that some of these pictures have a romantic wash to them that is nothing to do with the reality of the scene and is instead Tim Cook making every photo Insta-ready.<div><br /></div><div>As I turned onto the main road, all the street lamps came on, instantly, at once. I felt that little frisson of excitement, the idea that I might be magic and that I'd turned on the lights with some hitherto undiscovered superpower, a notion I get every time this happens. I checked the time: exactly five thirty. I turned right at a pub which I absolutely <i>must</i> inform you is called <a href="https://www.facebook.com/TheBirchmoorGamecockinn/?locale=en_GB">The Game Cock Inn</a> - sounds like a wonderful way to pass an afternoon - and on to the outskirts of Polesworth. A single car passed me, the first one I'd seen since the motorway, and I saw the driver give me a questioning look as he went by.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC5aG6CdqoBKJWS6dxq-tzbuv3a8UdBzRMP2VtuuUU_dQYdU7dAS_3p6NCI6DoHOyyVlrc_cIIwfoDZeLp124L8LtWUGNx88fV49Ep8TZxDMxF5apOaQ3kElPnamys-zCl39OgndLWYR7s6d2wBbouK1p_9_0qXt25vH1mH9f-YKo9XNDdV3E_OHtEM1Ja/s4032/IMG_6237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC5aG6CdqoBKJWS6dxq-tzbuv3a8UdBzRMP2VtuuUU_dQYdU7dAS_3p6NCI6DoHOyyVlrc_cIIwfoDZeLp124L8LtWUGNx88fV49Ep8TZxDMxF5apOaQ3kElPnamys-zCl39OgndLWYR7s6d2wBbouK1p_9_0qXt25vH1mH9f-YKo9XNDdV3E_OHtEM1Ja/s320/IMG_6237.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The stilled village swam up around me. The road descended slowly down a hill. Some of the houses were starting to show life now; bedroom and bathroom windows illuminated, the residents not yet managing to make it downstairs. A man appeared with an enthusiastic dog - the first time I shared a path with a human all morning - and he nodded a hello before disappearing down a side road with the deeply unattractive name of <i>The Gullet. </i><div><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR425wHNB3pLunmJKi_FEMfxsCt9Nr4tApeWVLs5ADfmQXpgCC-pwUnZCnakw0GORXlo14_m9FKzljh4ZrnNXM1xfGOf7Ac8fBaV33dr1QgmDJD-1a-hzc-Zia57MXK8l8NH7y-iEaUMlnSFAFRk54PucAMGVl8osOoW7hweiQPcWdwoxKHyc3uxxyYlKS/s4032/IMG_6240.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR425wHNB3pLunmJKi_FEMfxsCt9Nr4tApeWVLs5ADfmQXpgCC-pwUnZCnakw0GORXlo14_m9FKzljh4ZrnNXM1xfGOf7Ac8fBaV33dr1QgmDJD-1a-hzc-Zia57MXK8l8NH7y-iEaUMlnSFAFRk54PucAMGVl8osOoW7hweiQPcWdwoxKHyc3uxxyYlKS/s320/IMG_6240.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div><div>A humpback bridge took me over the Coventry Canal, nothing more than a black streak at this time of day. I'd reached the centre of the village now, with a fire station and a cross roads, sprawling wide over. I crossed leisurely, wondering how busy it got in the day, then took the bridge over the River Anker. I could hear it, rather than see it, the thrash of water in amongst the dark of the flood plains. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI65hEppCdKEBJe_Y45ra1kyke3h_vaLUmeCB6Ju-XXlxeQgMfRjYF42rFs3WtWpMu34G-YwJC1N6kmaiqppH6Tx2wQJw0866qJljQZy6W6uDns_wqxWx_FmIrFfY9_CKTqNI7nnetKPFSW_GqYYxDwRfEX1GKKGglGJ4VYrVxXnSVQqaJU5q1JVTHw3MW/s4032/IMG_6242.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI65hEppCdKEBJe_Y45ra1kyke3h_vaLUmeCB6Ju-XXlxeQgMfRjYF42rFs3WtWpMu34G-YwJC1N6kmaiqppH6Tx2wQJw0866qJljQZy6W6uDns_wqxWx_FmIrFfY9_CKTqNI7nnetKPFSW_GqYYxDwRfEX1GKKGglGJ4VYrVxXnSVQqaJU5q1JVTHw3MW/s320/IMG_6242.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>This seemed to be the traditional heart of the village, with half-timbered buildings and historic pubs. The <a href="https://www.facebook.com/p/The-Red-Lion-Polesworth-100057227898585/">Red Lion</a> featured a slightly camp sign, with an image that looked less like a proud lion and more like a poodle begging for a bit of your tea. There were signs for the chippy, and a police station converted into a home, the blue lamp still outside; is that allowed? Isn't that like impersonating a police officer, but with your house?<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYC9rCZ9aG0flQZFibS6RFqfWKDtCx0xWuOkKCVbeuV0LwddVvsoZUd7BAoqFyMGArPOKVHFHmyoJZdESX48-NscYmDXBH4d2wpfHc9DNEPEHWBC78H6k154gVccVzudpyT4K130U5MdTgix9v4sDtcVH2JG2jagtg1zeIBO5rhCALShlZrOXsZRPPd3m9/s4032/IMG_6245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYC9rCZ9aG0flQZFibS6RFqfWKDtCx0xWuOkKCVbeuV0LwddVvsoZUd7BAoqFyMGArPOKVHFHmyoJZdESX48-NscYmDXBH4d2wpfHc9DNEPEHWBC78H6k154gVccVzudpyT4K130U5MdTgix9v4sDtcVH2JG2jagtg1zeIBO5rhCALShlZrOXsZRPPd3m9/s320/IMG_6245.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Commuters were starting their Fridays, driving through the village a little too fast, taking advantage of the empty road. The gap between cars got shorter and shorter. Now there were lights on downstairs in the houses on the road, with the occasional resident visible in the front room, shuffling about in a dressing gown. Enormous flat screen televisions flickered on walls as breakfast television caught you up with whatever atrocities had occurred while you slept.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaVAMEdOzSKlwAq6JJkusSkOiaqlvXMOVJZubQNmEmaugNeLOSczCVzaAg0zRinKdKKbXKepu8Wp9SwtJ7mF9WmwYYV6WM4yjOWTBHeyHf72XVwOG7AJgv1zFywx57p3NOfxpDsWsN9a0lVEkQsm280PzEZTCCXp1pva7d6p4H88L1AAallsZv8vMQjpQd/s4032/IMG_6248.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaVAMEdOzSKlwAq6JJkusSkOiaqlvXMOVJZubQNmEmaugNeLOSczCVzaAg0zRinKdKKbXKepu8Wp9SwtJ7mF9WmwYYV6WM4yjOWTBHeyHf72XVwOG7AJgv1zFywx57p3NOfxpDsWsN9a0lVEkQsm280PzEZTCCXp1pva7d6p4H88L1AAallsZv8vMQjpQd/s320/IMG_6248.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The road rose again, another gentle hill, and then I turned off into a network of slight cul-de-sacs and semis. There was, to my surprise, a sign pointing to the station; I'd have thought they'd have taken that down to avoid disappointing weary travellers.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL2YDm7n8dOfZDFiHjEL2ahFL4VPUFkYKhzmCRwdETAPo_6irzXEWmx3Pd8tD5WXEsJC7DlmcCmT-f-sQBCVXRw683IMcbQq7xKSvgOyqrHrLOzvKWKMk-2K8sppEfw9nX2JlqEjv-ZCCNZxiN3vHlr9jSlYFVbxtfZ-MuW4jUb90wlCaUTon9nfB4Ko9n/s4032/IMG_6250.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL2YDm7n8dOfZDFiHjEL2ahFL4VPUFkYKhzmCRwdETAPo_6irzXEWmx3Pd8tD5WXEsJC7DlmcCmT-f-sQBCVXRw683IMcbQq7xKSvgOyqrHrLOzvKWKMk-2K8sppEfw9nX2JlqEjv-ZCCNZxiN3vHlr9jSlYFVbxtfZ-MuW4jUb90wlCaUTon9nfB4Ko9n/s320/IMG_6250.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The tracks became visible as I walked and then, finally, I was at Polesworth station. It was tucked away at the end of Orchard Close, with a turning circle in front.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJZdOSsDSf0Nopps_Xy58MsROUCbr9pC_ELuK2B6WTJBKRG1MvWSionV6gbO14eg-7-49DQhaG3cWC9dhAOso7YHywPPYCAqBCzD9m886xFDd2v98XShHWOP8LnBvTXiv_fFJpihK8vyd0NIV08vlfk_sHi5mlXw6MSFHbik5sExNiwwuGg6Nszrh9UWu/s4032/IMG_6251.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJZdOSsDSf0Nopps_Xy58MsROUCbr9pC_ELuK2B6WTJBKRG1MvWSionV6gbO14eg-7-49DQhaG3cWC9dhAOso7YHywPPYCAqBCzD9m886xFDd2v98XShHWOP8LnBvTXiv_fFJpihK8vyd0NIV08vlfk_sHi5mlXw6MSFHbik5sExNiwwuGg6Nszrh9UWu/s320/IMG_6251.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I walked up to the gate and pushed. It didn't move. My heart sank. I'd been scared of this. Polesworth might theoretically get a service, but that didn't mean London Northwestern had to look after it. I pictured them locking and unlocking the gate either side of the scheduled service, one man hovering for ten minutes with a key to let any potential passengers in or out. Or maybe they didn't do that? Maybe they left it locked up. The odds on anyone using the station were so slim - why not gamble?<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2A9zITCWfzQmO9jHf2qUPRMFJH7AYOA7S3ev8Ugek6391Er-RqpmzhF2ViuH7vjsla9BR4jdEq3Z8ztkuER2hrRfGf5Hd9Y5rVC_3EI2ADLprDtdjWOPLkcWddawy1V51KLHvJroa8_0yTQeCU6Ehz2X_a5QHkgDvGnYoUyqBVI8knPQgeS4Ce0_UYWD/s4032/IMG_6255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2A9zITCWfzQmO9jHf2qUPRMFJH7AYOA7S3ev8Ugek6391Er-RqpmzhF2ViuH7vjsla9BR4jdEq3Z8ztkuER2hrRfGf5Hd9Y5rVC_3EI2ADLprDtdjWOPLkcWddawy1V51KLHvJroa8_0yTQeCU6Ehz2X_a5QHkgDvGnYoUyqBVI8knPQgeS4Ce0_UYWD/s320/IMG_6255.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Perhaps there was a keypad, or a "press here to contact us" button? Nothing. I paced back and forth, panicking. My main worry had been that the train wouldn't stop at all; now I was worried I'd watch it stop from the other side of the fence. Time ticked away. Five minutes. Ten. No sign of anyone to unlock it.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJFoBXHey2PBcpA5tXH60FcCWHDLO7OxlkhLQJFL7oygS_iG5-8M0y3jn9mExLZFN246tckMmalUkZdjwB8nt6tMktX1UEve-60dace5O1oh-mv4bXJ7Aq9cfzV1aqNHS0kAXDTE5SOm23Out6mTHCE5kWtSGRDHFggJ2IYzKiQayLZKDid7gsKMupXm2/s4032/IMG_6252.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJFoBXHey2PBcpA5tXH60FcCWHDLO7OxlkhLQJFL7oygS_iG5-8M0y3jn9mExLZFN246tckMmalUkZdjwB8nt6tMktX1UEve-60dace5O1oh-mv4bXJ7Aq9cfzV1aqNHS0kAXDTE5SOm23Out6mTHCE5kWtSGRDHFggJ2IYzKiQayLZKDid7gsKMupXm2/s320/IMG_6252.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>And then I thought... <i>it is locked, right?</i><div><br /></div><div>I walked back and pushed. It resisted - but there was no padlock. I reached through and grabbed the bolt. It slid aside easily and allowed me access. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5GtEhT6z_ryvkEUXIENAhvDAOWNiStqI9Hs2R_PA337q8QG9zr9OouSN0Ru7OcdgwMvLWMEkQSPBS5c02fQHnBBBhhIHsjgOlBaDTtpwhsNSiuWhv7DOVqQp3EKvGJA1xYvoGJW5UgQHpC-e6fJGRDgE1gNEbHRyCuia9NsiAHpseY2MEQnS2hutqpM_/s4032/IMG_6254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5GtEhT6z_ryvkEUXIENAhvDAOWNiStqI9Hs2R_PA337q8QG9zr9OouSN0Ru7OcdgwMvLWMEkQSPBS5c02fQHnBBBhhIHsjgOlBaDTtpwhsNSiuWhv7DOVqQp3EKvGJA1xYvoGJW5UgQHpC-e6fJGRDgE1gNEbHRyCuia9NsiAHpseY2MEQnS2hutqpM_/s320/IMG_6254.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>For a moment I stood on the platform, calling myself all sorts of names. I'd nearly lost Polesworth entirely thanks to my own stupidity. But now I was here, waiting for a train I really hoped would stop.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30XbUjUWY14maB1h9ruBqt-uZa000N71MLM0Nr8wNVuF0S1AxCRJwZQWP4MOPEwn8CjfV1T7AOZkz1Vd3imHdpgrY-wzuzR9gjbmO5kKbHq_l1fCGsdmE_uDFUTuInhWmcZdt_Fjp534mEd1Dbu-syVGRzCCjw0r3I-vWDV071yFdnuXzWNbH3Mg2-Do2/s4032/IMG_6256.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30XbUjUWY14maB1h9ruBqt-uZa000N71MLM0Nr8wNVuF0S1AxCRJwZQWP4MOPEwn8CjfV1T7AOZkz1Vd3imHdpgrY-wzuzR9gjbmO5kKbHq_l1fCGsdmE_uDFUTuInhWmcZdt_Fjp534mEd1Dbu-syVGRzCCjw0r3I-vWDV071yFdnuXzWNbH3Mg2-Do2/s320/IMG_6256.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>As the dawn crept over me, I wandered up and down the platform (there were no benches). I was surprised that the station was in such good nick, to be honest. The lights were LED; they were painted in the green corporate colours of London Northwestern. The noticeboards were filled with up to date notices. It felt like it was being taken care of, far more than some stations I've been to with much better services.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdvkUIUAFYRyNMsSgiT3sgpzRLzzSBV64wFw2mHbogb-Hsr4HZ-joDJ7NP7Qr5RJW2xBcHW7EEDUJD9-ObKx2grKsTdxGR9y3t1M3BW7MU820pfkfNT8vsCZJKrCEnQ9VTZ4aiy5tlXcHbTXvAdCIJi5COMFHwZ8gjgLQeBOcCDI0Y4CGSjf-K_Hd6-5vx/s4032/IMG_6260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdvkUIUAFYRyNMsSgiT3sgpzRLzzSBV64wFw2mHbogb-Hsr4HZ-joDJ7NP7Qr5RJW2xBcHW7EEDUJD9-ObKx2grKsTdxGR9y3t1M3BW7MU820pfkfNT8vsCZJKrCEnQ9VTZ4aiy5tlXcHbTXvAdCIJi5COMFHwZ8gjgLQeBOcCDI0Y4CGSjf-K_Hd6-5vx/s320/IMG_6260.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>It was so nicely maintained, in fact, that I wondered why they'd not bothered restoring the station to a fit state. Polesworth village has a population of about 10,000 people, a fair few of whom I'll bet would appreciate a service to Stafford and Northampton. The local council has vaguely suggested a new station with a car park so that people can commute - the M42 passes close by, after all - but other than making it an aspiration the plan hasn't got any further. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpz1OwF0oyNnMA4ZX3gxMLFFpsJ_Oh0JpJ7gNDHbBSVWybw5_GJoTIfttkYPB3Cutr1j-V9yS8gb6D_jChTIn0KB7ayJ5oVM0se9mvT3GERUgUAEum99hEO0O7FhBm18qEcCcnVLu3hBgh1ta-jT5maR0cRvEBlZOUkZahomI0AtR7a8LQkSFEVFE7Ijz/s4032/IMG_6268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpz1OwF0oyNnMA4ZX3gxMLFFpsJ_Oh0JpJ7gNDHbBSVWybw5_GJoTIfttkYPB3Cutr1j-V9yS8gb6D_jChTIn0KB7ayJ5oVM0se9mvT3GERUgUAEum99hEO0O7FhBm18qEcCcnVLu3hBgh1ta-jT5maR0cRvEBlZOUkZahomI0AtR7a8LQkSFEVFE7Ijz/s320/IMG_6268.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Then, something unexpected happened: more potential passengers arrived. Two men walked onto the platform and stopped in shock to see me waiting there. They stared for a moment, then started to pace up and down the platform, chatting away, and not paying me any mind.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6OUlnfEZlCqSw6u-_ZGiC3lYSRR5JakGBpGl-69xASKdVeFdHEgofwJ5B3VPcpw4naEBOsUncYL_TmwxI2XBqG69FnxrVwIWU3d1UjCJe3o_rug53dOxcVJjY32dz86ROqCo0U8_YP0zSc-IIuUmA3evV3QVuOKW_tC65TDDbfFom602NrJkhsDNiC_b5/s4032/IMG_6273.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6OUlnfEZlCqSw6u-_ZGiC3lYSRR5JakGBpGl-69xASKdVeFdHEgofwJ5B3VPcpw4naEBOsUncYL_TmwxI2XBqG69FnxrVwIWU3d1UjCJe3o_rug53dOxcVJjY32dz86ROqCo0U8_YP0zSc-IIuUmA3evV3QVuOKW_tC65TDDbfFom602NrJkhsDNiC_b5/s320/IMG_6273.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I realised, from the brief snatches of conversation I heard as they passed, that these were also Men Who Liked Trains. There were a total of 188 people using Polesworth in 2022/23, giving it a certain frisson of notoriety as one of the least used stations in Britain, and as such it attracts a disproportionate amount of interest. I was a little disappointed, as I'd hoped that there would be one person using Polesworth as an actual regular station for their commute. I felt a bit bad for ruining the men's exciting visit. They were going to be Kings of Polesworth and they weren't even the first people on the platform. I wondered if they'd also stayed at the Travelodge, and had been half an hour behind me the whole time. Imagine going all that way just to visit a railway station; what a pair of <i>nerds</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwIPyGjxVgqfKBUYxgCIBliNpvqR8J2u0fIcadBPKa4yXaTnnti-ALUGkJnQRUb9m5HpK5qU2__jS4kHhtM0XNdd05Iwut93S96JT37vYqgwVcDbTQdZvKokGptkEItQxiOJvoYzCrSoEbR5jpHzfn6EPFieY4q-Ik976kXPJfPAqqqw0yieTpAWIYtOPh/s4032/IMG_6275.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwIPyGjxVgqfKBUYxgCIBliNpvqR8J2u0fIcadBPKa4yXaTnnti-ALUGkJnQRUb9m5HpK5qU2__jS4kHhtM0XNdd05Iwut93S96JT37vYqgwVcDbTQdZvKokGptkEItQxiOJvoYzCrSoEbR5jpHzfn6EPFieY4q-Ik976kXPJfPAqqqw0yieTpAWIYtOPh/s320/IMG_6275.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>At exactly 06:48 the train slid into the platform and stopped. I didn't have to signal for it or anything; the driver did his duty correctly. I boarded, delighted, and joined a lot of half-asleep people on their way to Crewe. Nobody checked my ticket, which was disappointing. I wanted to produce my single from Polesworth.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7o1BK3O8CXDshfxTKgrLhxUvuOc6WCb0XyUOJ9r_vSMUm4_8xCc6-PRZ7b9-JR3W2lPaDqfnBIfGGvYf8cLL-7Mx7f6unVndhVFrXps-dKdL6Z5SfWBKk8sUHa104yo2AqHx7xXmSn3qMdjqBlXlVvUl7m9I_Z0k9DaQ8h7TffwLSWECZvPr-ry6k88fq/s1170/IMG_6261-EDIT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="793" data-original-width="1170" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7o1BK3O8CXDshfxTKgrLhxUvuOc6WCb0XyUOJ9r_vSMUm4_8xCc6-PRZ7b9-JR3W2lPaDqfnBIfGGvYf8cLL-7Mx7f6unVndhVFrXps-dKdL6Z5SfWBKk8sUHa104yo2AqHx7xXmSn3qMdjqBlXlVvUl7m9I_Z0k9DaQ8h7TffwLSWECZvPr-ry6k88fq/s320/IMG_6261-EDIT.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Although I should register my complaint that there's no totem sign outside. I had to settle for a platform sign to prove I'd been here. Ignore my downcast face: I was absolutely thrilled inside.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjthMwW5zXru6CRMonrkv_Ei8l8o8H6hKX6eu24TRs_gfCY_PmoEoIqV4rJGtUx4-OrKOsCbC0MhvNoSmoxll4MA-JdT_feAWjBGLdf1RpR3BSAUTdTruUWd1-hSv85QsX1pRe_hLmHIC3vxBv4hvupziRE2ZXJQfbx99-tBqGc1QjlyVr6BVrS10DJdwQe/s3088/IMG_6264.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjthMwW5zXru6CRMonrkv_Ei8l8o8H6hKX6eu24TRs_gfCY_PmoEoIqV4rJGtUx4-OrKOsCbC0MhvNoSmoxll4MA-JdT_feAWjBGLdf1RpR3BSAUTdTruUWd1-hSv85QsX1pRe_hLmHIC3vxBv4hvupziRE2ZXJQfbx99-tBqGc1QjlyVr6BVrS10DJdwQe/s320/IMG_6264.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>With that station collected, the only real block to me finishing off the map was gone. Polesworth was a station that involved a certain amount of hassle - overnight stay, early morning walk, limited service. Now I've got it, the rest should be easy.<br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavV0Rm8agP2YswZDIHqC0WUYU3N8kZqgJUwFO8wgBMVCyqqtepJgy4qkUsnvP9KG-4rQeaZs2CTJJE7ZePYTUa7ae1OhEyGbayGRuETxoA1FnJ9gd2HgOLK-OyIaPWQwgBNf24zqFFJuns6-fJmo65JCyxE_puMSnLtlN1R9klNKYS2mnEESUqDnWu6k4/s4032/IMG_6274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgavV0Rm8agP2YswZDIHqC0WUYU3N8kZqgJUwFO8wgBMVCyqqtepJgy4qkUsnvP9KG-4rQeaZs2CTJJE7ZePYTUa7ae1OhEyGbayGRuETxoA1FnJ9gd2HgOLK-OyIaPWQwgBNf24zqFFJuns6-fJmo65JCyxE_puMSnLtlN1R9klNKYS2mnEESUqDnWu6k4/s320/IMG_6274.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><i>Thank you to everyone who has contributed to my Ko-fi. It really helped pay for this little trip. If you feel like donating, you can find the link <a href="https://ko-fi.com/merseytart">here</a>. Don't worry if you don't.</i> </div></div></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-62148377307161360462024-03-20T10:51:00.001+00:002024-03-20T10:51:32.202+00:00A Tale Of Two Cities (Actually Small Towns)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ0D96ohCSUA7S_hA0SPzJCcGpb-IvBO_iygHmgrO-J8DWlJUA81hL1Am-QwjBhDEFkRgZ_xLN8KWUuTV2VkAhj8eqM0I-N8E8ECmYYy3zN1JffNsnsP4b4djH8sRwr2zhTD7Lo1fo6InjzMOnKmf9ZoRIavPcIpI3n9-eyHBStfmChwAAAjWXvsE-6pQX/s1121/Screenshot%202024-03-13%20102147.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="1121" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ0D96ohCSUA7S_hA0SPzJCcGpb-IvBO_iygHmgrO-J8DWlJUA81hL1Am-QwjBhDEFkRgZ_xLN8KWUuTV2VkAhj8eqM0I-N8E8ECmYYy3zN1JffNsnsP4b4djH8sRwr2zhTD7Lo1fo6InjzMOnKmf9ZoRIavPcIpI3n9-eyHBStfmChwAAAjWXvsE-6pQX/s320/Screenshot%202024-03-13%20102147.png" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Harry Beck was, obviously, a genius, and the way he redesigned the London Underground map to be diagrammatic rather than geographic was game changing. Having said that, it also lead to a lot of absolutely filthy lies being inflicted upon the public. I had two more stations to visit, in Hinckley and Atherstone, and they looked reasonably close on the West Midlands Railway map. About the same as South Wigston and Narborough, only across rather than along. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE55qaAECCflnGMYE0HlTvmmb6vtte8EjlVgBkgxWwfW8KWmEUuGFKxPLV5jtbhzDvARRfjcyjRAjTTMxhiOnwN33TFelgDV_Mm0SZdnAmS6lxVvBm53pv6GMR8cyOcYR9TZsuKqwwtnS2S37I2g35Dngkzto6aGp9cSO6ELmR72_E8TnG9PnL2G3Mv4jq/s1140/Screenshot%202024-03-20%20080132.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="722" data-original-width="1140" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE55qaAECCflnGMYE0HlTvmmb6vtte8EjlVgBkgxWwfW8KWmEUuGFKxPLV5jtbhzDvARRfjcyjRAjTTMxhiOnwN33TFelgDV_Mm0SZdnAmS6lxVvBm53pv6GMR8cyOcYR9TZsuKqwwtnS2S37I2g35Dngkzto6aGp9cSO6ELmR72_E8TnG9PnL2G3Mv4jq/s320/Screenshot%202024-03-20%20080132.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>The reality is the two stations are at least eight miles apart, nudging ten depending on your route, and the path is mostly along the straight as a die Roman Road slash dual carriageway. It is, in short, not worth doing. I'll happily walk for three hours at a time if it's interesting or scenic or historic. Lolloping along Watling Street for an afternoon with nothing to look at except the backs of Romanian delivery trucks? No thank you.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd3TefGot9MLYf_SL-rtr2QKZ7TCITiWQyAnAwGzps5SZZIQek9nKv_XF8ro1LtnKDrWm5GcIeipbdnb46JpuhzFsg69qcnfoM8xZblWBooadHg4k5B6E1VIP7BLXDKK1i4xtEXqZQrjGXcAZmq_pDlQHDnxtHuh10i-I3tpU160M9mybyXamwnWO4GPuq/s4896/DSC00872.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd3TefGot9MLYf_SL-rtr2QKZ7TCITiWQyAnAwGzps5SZZIQek9nKv_XF8ro1LtnKDrWm5GcIeipbdnb46JpuhzFsg69qcnfoM8xZblWBooadHg4k5B6E1VIP7BLXDKK1i4xtEXqZQrjGXcAZmq_pDlQHDnxtHuh10i-I3tpU160M9mybyXamwnWO4GPuq/s320/DSC00872.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I decided it would be easier to treat both towns as one offs, getting a look at their high streets then returning to the station for the next train out. Hinckley was first.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEQ5zzoCiUOBlkVmf6WggTLwjEmbT1Hu0COu7V6FG214vRF_4MyiCoL6xXkNl2hiRBU2S7FPy0eYkfyRFcNPZjdb0f9oUdIG5euU1Ilf5j7hC820dtt_fnuasdbSMZpFW5twAbGSPnvL0J-lmZcpGx_7dRSOMkKnpaEnQ13kxbKOtT_oip2MKdRbsMRWv/s4896/DSC00873.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEQ5zzoCiUOBlkVmf6WggTLwjEmbT1Hu0COu7V6FG214vRF_4MyiCoL6xXkNl2hiRBU2S7FPy0eYkfyRFcNPZjdb0f9oUdIG5euU1Ilf5j7hC820dtt_fnuasdbSMZpFW5twAbGSPnvL0J-lmZcpGx_7dRSOMkKnpaEnQ13kxbKOtT_oip2MKdRbsMRWv/s320/DSC00873.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I'm always pleased to visit a station and find it's still got all the trappings of a proper halt; the building, the awning, the footbridge. Hinckley's footbridge doubles as a right of way across the railway and I crossed the tracks opposite a lot of people with shopping bags heading home after a visit to the town centre.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTLjRlvMI76yg4tFZrDRQiP5113Q21kFwW-SRVD7qxkI14lAsNQxSX2KiHyd5EsLG-3HwwY_Wj7NhnC4F0A5Twuen6En2tS74ggc89J1RN9HfkOxyWpXqiyzzt4RshmficV7E7merszmc4Sy8R_5ITiQpvmZHP3LyjwwF1_B3Lrlmb1XoNl_y0dgYQiWjZ/s4896/DSC00877.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTLjRlvMI76yg4tFZrDRQiP5113Q21kFwW-SRVD7qxkI14lAsNQxSX2KiHyd5EsLG-3HwwY_Wj7NhnC4F0A5Twuen6En2tS74ggc89J1RN9HfkOxyWpXqiyzzt4RshmficV7E7merszmc4Sy8R_5ITiQpvmZHP3LyjwwF1_B3Lrlmb1XoNl_y0dgYQiWjZ/s320/DSC00877.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>From the station it was a steep walk up a hill to the town itself, past residential streets and a couple of pubs. Hinckley's newest shopping centre, The Crescent, loomed over the road. I'm not sure why councils are still permitting this sort of development. For one thing, it was an incredibly ugly block, as the five screen cinema meant there was a requirement for large black boxes and it didn't matter what it looked like on the outside.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEOm5T_Ar6QbgUKNPWhpNexnQxoGD18gkpsNYGszf-Np-gHRtT4cQfmfm7NT0d2uog72FNEtoJBdi7ITuRKXMixy6qgSufJJvM_8gkSRtLfKBTbLK-TuKvbSPQByv8f9eihfzaHkqhX2TWL-PUKLYikv9tEizXAys5NCLVBB6OfO-TVr0OxUjORugVIE04/s4896/DSC00880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEOm5T_Ar6QbgUKNPWhpNexnQxoGD18gkpsNYGszf-Np-gHRtT4cQfmfm7NT0d2uog72FNEtoJBdi7ITuRKXMixy6qgSufJJvM_8gkSRtLfKBTbLK-TuKvbSPQByv8f9eihfzaHkqhX2TWL-PUKLYikv9tEizXAys5NCLVBB6OfO-TVr0OxUjORugVIE04/s320/DSC00880.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Then, of course, you've got the fact that this is a brand new shopping development that isn't alongside all the other ones. It's a draw away from the traditional retail heart and it's unfortunate. This is a leisure based development (plus a Sainsbury's) but it's a separation; you have a Prezzo there, not with all the traditional stores. Perhaps I'm being unfair - the road to the station in a town is rarely the top priority, and I'm sure it's nicer from the other side.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimoW8ZEmMqtiiRfeKc7lbRqdK7-G8X2HS-5aDYNacRKr9MmtxCGELqEieF5RZ2KVTkFZHzfBUgK1-PMqAQrGzvlMHPiPKH2qKz3VSGFvV-1cTvwQkYLBNj7pGZ6H26S6C1PPiM3Raxq8uu44keil9DXkPoMUbj1YTXqzBonAAtR4UY1P6sfluso3xuiflS/s4896/DSC00881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimoW8ZEmMqtiiRfeKc7lbRqdK7-G8X2HS-5aDYNacRKr9MmtxCGELqEieF5RZ2KVTkFZHzfBUgK1-PMqAQrGzvlMHPiPKH2qKz3VSGFvV-1cTvwQkYLBNj7pGZ6H26S6C1PPiM3Raxq8uu44keil9DXkPoMUbj1YTXqzBonAAtR4UY1P6sfluso3xuiflS/s320/DSC00881.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Besides, Hinckley didn't seem to be doing too badly. I continued along streets that seemed to be filled with businesses, then past a primary school with a playground of excitable kids. It was World Book Day and the mix of outfits was a joy. I'd have been a lot stricter about the criteria for dress up if I was a teacher, though. There were a few too many Marvel superheroes for my liking, which, ok, you <i>could</i> say are in books, but I don't think that's quite in the spirit of the day. I pictured some poor girl dressed as Amy March leaning against the wall because her bustle and corset meant she couldn't sit down while fourteen Spider-Men made pew pew noises as they shot their webs at one another. Amy will be the winner in the long run, of course, because she has an enquiring mind that appreciates great literature, but there and then in that playground she'd have felt a right loser.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWAj-PZIbUGy6h8cwFgp4mrMLPIIR-MP_GxV06ouToOt-xCSGS434memR7hrMDEXUX9hwcd6XaqZPzmfphZg7FClz9QDQRkx3AB0lLE2uun7iBo81Qiwocdy4rRQNFzsvFkLgPPh5hQxyg3OJalhKiynKkLiWJy9_zmtrZXAjZZag13SDxylI4TBXSeFJk/s4896/DSC00882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWAj-PZIbUGy6h8cwFgp4mrMLPIIR-MP_GxV06ouToOt-xCSGS434memR7hrMDEXUX9hwcd6XaqZPzmfphZg7FClz9QDQRkx3AB0lLE2uun7iBo81Qiwocdy4rRQNFzsvFkLgPPh5hQxyg3OJalhKiynKkLiWJy9_zmtrZXAjZZag13SDxylI4TBXSeFJk/s320/DSC00882.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>There's something a bit odd about that sign celebrating "Entrepreneurial Hinckley" with a top hat on it. It's probably meant to make you think of thrusting imagination, like that Stephen bloke on <i>Dragon's Den </i>who won't invest in anything unless they mention TikTok and use pointless buzzwords, but it actually comes off as more Alf Roberts. Rotund shopkeepers stood in back rooms with glasses of sherry chatting about potholes. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVHUHPaieooV1qvlDHZGltXIlyTU-kePgUtpgS1usbogsEfVFCMffp4Mrobmt4KFteBKRWF7FyrHaaWqruBWoKt_wi-L3iivMUngJ50q4bGF4Rq4gttkagDs1XEvAjr4YTmp0puRyWpTTrw50pvv2k9lXYhokSuMggeDldRy3lqLbhCovQQmNt-ZKYF_-E/s4896/DSC00883.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVHUHPaieooV1qvlDHZGltXIlyTU-kePgUtpgS1usbogsEfVFCMffp4Mrobmt4KFteBKRWF7FyrHaaWqruBWoKt_wi-L3iivMUngJ50q4bGF4Rq4gttkagDs1XEvAjr4YTmp0puRyWpTTrw50pvv2k9lXYhokSuMggeDldRy3lqLbhCovQQmNt-ZKYF_-E/s320/DSC00883.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Hinckley's long, straight main street was remarkably well stocked, and even on a weekday afternoon there were plenty of shoppers. There were the usual names but also local businesses with their own USPs. I was particularly taken with a dessert shop offering 12% off collection and dine in. That 12% fascinated me. I'd love to see the accounting that lead to that particular number.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo6EW9raRrwQUz63BS5pErLcf1PTNyt8uboO4k-ZxE95BJ2L9bhAdrCqs_31Tw6a4g63EO1NNL7phMXEi_9axPU36PJEE2iNp42Eq7elsnkMQyAiSvT9Ap5fcF02OuOL38rGZAlhHwEYgvP7Ll3sMFv8CejMK8g2DVOW3QU5l4q5W_pUTG2ZH-KJMY25S2/s4896/DSC00884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo6EW9raRrwQUz63BS5pErLcf1PTNyt8uboO4k-ZxE95BJ2L9bhAdrCqs_31Tw6a4g63EO1NNL7phMXEi_9axPU36PJEE2iNp42Eq7elsnkMQyAiSvT9Ap5fcF02OuOL38rGZAlhHwEYgvP7Ll3sMFv8CejMK8g2DVOW3QU5l4q5W_pUTG2ZH-KJMY25S2/s320/DSC00884.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Hinckley reminded me of Wigan. No, wait; hear me out. There was something about its long pedestrianised street on a steep hill that made me think of Greater Manchester. While Wigan has pies, however, Hinckley has stockings and socks, having been a centre of the hosiery trade for centuries. I love finding out a town has a proud past as purveyors of an incredibly niche item, which probably comes from having a home town that was once famous for making hats. I sadly couldn't find a specialist store where I could purchase some Hinckley Socks, but that's probably for the best as I have a sock drawer that is already begging to be edited.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFMal8Y1dOvaZK8Ahyphenhyphen6lWy2J5jPZlk-SHcBButhHHGla9kInc6GneUFcxTynsFweLiXxxvhsv7ADSSA-DOZstnFA8J9NBDrBv3A-hXifslyuPHf9LOmvP0sTArZqlZBMnJ2ksgsTtyC_AvRuuv-lTVArXiLsSTjigkpQKAVuCSvIxQtjbFnHML_oVxmQ6/s4896/DSC00887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFMal8Y1dOvaZK8Ahyphenhyphen6lWy2J5jPZlk-SHcBButhHHGla9kInc6GneUFcxTynsFweLiXxxvhsv7ADSSA-DOZstnFA8J9NBDrBv3A-hXifslyuPHf9LOmvP0sTArZqlZBMnJ2ksgsTtyC_AvRuuv-lTVArXiLsSTjigkpQKAVuCSvIxQtjbFnHML_oVxmQ6/s320/DSC00887.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The pedestrian zone ended but the shops continued, though they became a little more specialist. A European food store had a graphic in the window informing me that <i>French Hot Dogs Are Available Here!</i> I'd never heard of a French Hot Dog, and having <a href="https://skandibaking.com/franske-hotdogs-french-hot-dogs/">discovered what they are</a>, it's very fortunate that the doctor told me about my high cholesterol <i>before</i> this trip, otherwise I'd be suffering a coronary right now after consuming fourteen of them in a row. I turned off into a side road, past a shop that sold dance wear and a vinyl shop called <i>Nervous Records</i>, and began the descent back down the hill.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixWswfvZ-mx4z4T0b9QXC1nDZ_Bwo5Wr11e4cJi4RguVhI0dwzDIlzLMi6qqarSrekNhZbObJG7gfjZnK7Anw6IS2R7Vodo3ovy6W4Im_5Z6IP0Y7h1gA6oe1hwtr5vr_tyBLdvt9bNiQgtme5jA2b025Nn0f6kgB1zOkwXofeFlZVUEzkBAJ57bgFS1M6/s4896/DSC00893.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixWswfvZ-mx4z4T0b9QXC1nDZ_Bwo5Wr11e4cJi4RguVhI0dwzDIlzLMi6qqarSrekNhZbObJG7gfjZnK7Anw6IS2R7Vodo3ovy6W4Im_5Z6IP0Y7h1gA6oe1hwtr5vr_tyBLdvt9bNiQgtme5jA2b025Nn0f6kgB1zOkwXofeFlZVUEzkBAJ57bgFS1M6/s320/DSC00893.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>This is in no way a slur on the people of Hinckley who are, I'm sure, a fine and proud community of home owners. But as I walked past their houses I noticed there was a certain tendency to flamboyance in their exterior decoration. It was as though the town's residents had a competition among themselves to make their houses as individual as possible. Artex. Coloured paint. Mock-Tudor beam work. Shutters. Up and under garages with fake hinges at the side to try and make a slab of steel look like a wooden gate.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZsLupZzCR3vHpbkUW6LhO85kJajDPlNv1yQzEds95pyF5J5GblWD6Va0uVYoVOIfz4fAQnAS9URfinaU71HtJe55oT5cAT7qtrUNaBYBS7FVo0N0KsDtRcYTOTJLyJE7INhTiIjmUYWFqLN_6S0o8c9IhN_om7MJsgBK1d8q-5p8ie3_jTLZ4N63dK-i/s4896/DSC00895.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZsLupZzCR3vHpbkUW6LhO85kJajDPlNv1yQzEds95pyF5J5GblWD6Va0uVYoVOIfz4fAQnAS9URfinaU71HtJe55oT5cAT7qtrUNaBYBS7FVo0N0KsDtRcYTOTJLyJE7INhTiIjmUYWFqLN_6S0o8c9IhN_om7MJsgBK1d8q-5p8ie3_jTLZ4N63dK-i/s320/DSC00895.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Every other home seemed to have a twist on it. It certainly gave me something to spot as I walked parallel to the railway line. A long row of homes had been squeezed in here, but they looked like good, decent houses, even if their view was a train line on one side and factories on the other. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1X9twUZ-lQM1Xe18bzZ-G9tZuBmO3_MpAbdmcqW02Adrt77yj4CWLSoXVXV3wTqOz7r5BYRJQ22IszILvkBGJn0CllXYZRDrj6rbyoiQ4qtCU_ZQWP4MNf0gca7yDfDaomCifCJvY07WA2u84IpJCJU_5oYbpMe3sdmy0QF9CaV_5irGBm6XgF_5FI525/s4896/DSC00898.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1X9twUZ-lQM1Xe18bzZ-G9tZuBmO3_MpAbdmcqW02Adrt77yj4CWLSoXVXV3wTqOz7r5BYRJQ22IszILvkBGJn0CllXYZRDrj6rbyoiQ4qtCU_ZQWP4MNf0gca7yDfDaomCifCJvY07WA2u84IpJCJU_5oYbpMe3sdmy0QF9CaV_5irGBm6XgF_5FI525/s320/DSC00898.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It was a bit of a surprise to find myself back at the station; I'd not really taken in that I'd done a complete loop. I took it as a sign that I should go to the next town and, after a change in Nuneaton, I was alighting at Atherstone. I was pleased to have reached here via London North Western; after a few Cross Country's it was good to return to the actual purpose of this blog.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnAFgjDvc4iJbAq2k5tFnm_zRJH7hms5xEGNe9a-PHVtGFl6nxfphUBNXSXEjnN3l6AaTR73X6L14UycpiL482NrPaUioJRCkOuD6LGZvGwacwzcZQ8T8vm3O5LKb3DARlnQClmq6b8KmvGmsTroL9pIjviT6kuO71LUZreqynMMRp5n6TUbqiYRE9qa3w/s4896/DSC00899.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnAFgjDvc4iJbAq2k5tFnm_zRJH7hms5xEGNe9a-PHVtGFl6nxfphUBNXSXEjnN3l6AaTR73X6L14UycpiL482NrPaUioJRCkOuD6LGZvGwacwzcZQ8T8vm3O5LKb3DARlnQClmq6b8KmvGmsTroL9pIjviT6kuO71LUZreqynMMRp5n6TUbqiYRE9qa3w/s320/DSC00899.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Across, on the opposite platform, was another fine railway building, with a little more pomp than the one at Hinckley. I was on the Trent Valley Line now, the section of the West Coast Main Line that avoids Birmingham, so it was unsurprising to me that it had a little more <i>zhush </i>than its predecessor. The boarded up windows were a disappointment, mind.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg14h-dVojUnu7bwfbNw4xZubSpfzssjeDwGRfndZ2xHXWdNcQXhdS_WgX2MADTZFGDIzWBpApXQOupK94wgORIgqBpehN1JpGD2lEit8NwOfsdD2eJoj13IQAU9ceMrYgiQiLwgST1TsrYJl7MnHjgV6As07neS7LzjThnpcDzYQD3yd6hFT6GhDVgyJjT/s4896/DSC00901.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg14h-dVojUnu7bwfbNw4xZubSpfzssjeDwGRfndZ2xHXWdNcQXhdS_WgX2MADTZFGDIzWBpApXQOupK94wgORIgqBpehN1JpGD2lEit8NwOfsdD2eJoj13IQAU9ceMrYgiQiLwgST1TsrYJl7MnHjgV6As07neS7LzjThnpcDzYQD3yd6hFT6GhDVgyJjT/s320/DSC00901.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I left the platform and ducked under one of the lowest railway bridges I've ever walked under; the clearance was 6' 3" according to the warning notice, but even I, at a lowly 5' 9", felt like the top of my head was grazing the ironwork.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbupdYyc4U59JkqNLVed7Y9tIxT_UB8PS7Q_C5FUE2jJUcJ8k7wYRWTFMWtpDfhaBJtUnYt0dIwTTDmJSfrodAI8d6eV61l8xCXob8gbhRAn9tZJKbNafR7iAXtaxHkXQ4oqsyo8OGBUTFwWVHFyRQMt3A8gMrTYQeIxbPsjHVbn4wwMyiwma7ObXmjQow/s4896/DSC00903.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbupdYyc4U59JkqNLVed7Y9tIxT_UB8PS7Q_C5FUE2jJUcJ8k7wYRWTFMWtpDfhaBJtUnYt0dIwTTDmJSfrodAI8d6eV61l8xCXob8gbhRAn9tZJKbNafR7iAXtaxHkXQ4oqsyo8OGBUTFwWVHFyRQMt3A8gMrTYQeIxbPsjHVbn4wwMyiwma7ObXmjQow/s320/DSC00903.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I emerged on the other side, mad keen to take a look at the station itself, but was disappointed. It turned out the building was no longer used for railway purposes and was instead a vet's surgery. The access to the platform was via a narrow alleyway at the side rather than through the far grander building. What a let down.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNtG1foHczuBYLwFKHVFmtlpb7UGJJfRBlli9N4rQ373WnsMmLOFmLkF0TwNtg5GoV8DMlTBuJqP4JI9WpeFdAmCnrocKmbKETEsnW7SM9FMQBgRakN1effcljgVexuqw9FqDWbjJZ7_e_HwoANlrEyV9-3J6wD0S0nOTInULXgNu_b_PLOC_HRamnA9XP/s4896/DSC00910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNtG1foHczuBYLwFKHVFmtlpb7UGJJfRBlli9N4rQ373WnsMmLOFmLkF0TwNtg5GoV8DMlTBuJqP4JI9WpeFdAmCnrocKmbKETEsnW7SM9FMQBgRakN1effcljgVexuqw9FqDWbjJZ7_e_HwoANlrEyV9-3J6wD0S0nOTInULXgNu_b_PLOC_HRamnA9XP/s320/DSC00910.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>On the plus side, the station is a lot closer to the town than Hinckley, and soon I'd reached the appropriately named Long Street. Atherstone was a convenient spot to stop on Watling Street, the route from London to Wales, given that it's virtually at the centre of the country, and the sheer number of pubs along Long Street would attest to this. The sad thing - particularly for an old alcoholic like me - was that none of them looked very welcoming. One in particular had a tranche of old men sat in the window giving the kind of looks to passers by that could technically count as a hate crime. There was also a pub called <i>The Clock</i>, which was all well and good, except the clock was showing the wrong time; I cannot support such behaviour, even if I was gagging for a pint at that point.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5vQ8wYk2VWosvzmtnCglA0JIBRouQjmq-yUV1XsJLcw5GAoSiM1Mr6wCeS5qLBYoCMSI8aLkp1oh0ZQ0QI3Y0MCiW3Kb97nGkl2cVuNARp9d_tO5o6jjjlZchXw4KHqMoerIYvT6MiI2KgS0y9MRyLPxaJt8hEmJuVE-4wvkBMzuE2AbGuhghfnhUz10p/s4032/IMG_6218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5vQ8wYk2VWosvzmtnCglA0JIBRouQjmq-yUV1XsJLcw5GAoSiM1Mr6wCeS5qLBYoCMSI8aLkp1oh0ZQ0QI3Y0MCiW3Kb97nGkl2cVuNARp9d_tO5o6jjjlZchXw4KHqMoerIYvT6MiI2KgS0y9MRyLPxaJt8hEmJuVE-4wvkBMzuE2AbGuhghfnhUz10p/s320/IMG_6218.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Beyond that were plenty of other shopping options, though Atherstone didn't have the breadth of Hinckley. The constant traffic down the centre of the street detracted from the atmosphere too - I dread to think what it would've been like if they hadn't built a bypass - but I still found myself charmed. It was another busy, thriving little community, and I felt as though people would enjoy living here.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQmLuDEc2mGIUm74m45VrE2pqBXDlmKikgY_RtbK6ayg7KPXmVB_wDehiGWBZZU2k_M3yCvXfVSyhwqiZh_JftAZrf7hfCxfRSEXWwoGL8P-7oiqTuMv-f-40AOVIyJNcL8W5FAI6B_OaTVWB_mssG72dVzGz13Cl4bQ-gjT_yrFPrNIkjpV__KJNxNDO/s4896/DSC00915.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQmLuDEc2mGIUm74m45VrE2pqBXDlmKikgY_RtbK6ayg7KPXmVB_wDehiGWBZZU2k_M3yCvXfVSyhwqiZh_JftAZrf7hfCxfRSEXWwoGL8P-7oiqTuMv-f-40AOVIyJNcL8W5FAI6B_OaTVWB_mssG72dVzGz13Cl4bQ-gjT_yrFPrNIkjpV__KJNxNDO/s320/DSC00915.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The market square, with the church at one end and a tavern on the corner, was a classic of its type. The scrawled chalk paintings by the local kids on the flagstones added to its appeal. I went back down Market Street ("formerly Butchers Row") and tried to ignore the strong smell of fish and chips wafting over me. High cholesterol, remember. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1qeWBpP98N2exXWxc8kzZ6XhqWf94-7urasYtlkh_mq8eaLYWBNNxFEu3F26zGFr9fhX6LjIPc-VdDiQ3xOTV6XrV2PfRgCWG3gsLtgDMSV7Lk2jtrNBhA9o7bRIBu5EfyUs1PUMIuLalSrJDq2pf0f7Qi5yihDeSDSxzc0hWdGcLmcs0A0W1EptfJIv/s4896/DSC00918.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1qeWBpP98N2exXWxc8kzZ6XhqWf94-7urasYtlkh_mq8eaLYWBNNxFEu3F26zGFr9fhX6LjIPc-VdDiQ3xOTV6XrV2PfRgCWG3gsLtgDMSV7Lk2jtrNBhA9o7bRIBu5EfyUs1PUMIuLalSrJDq2pf0f7Qi5yihDeSDSxzc0hWdGcLmcs0A0W1EptfJIv/s320/DSC00918.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I walked as far as the Conservative Club (or the "Connie Club" as it called itself on a chalkboard, giving it a chumminess that no doubt dissipated the second you saw a framed portrait of Margaret Thatcher) then turned and walked back. On one corner, there was a sudden scream from a woman with two friends; she dropped her shopping bags and began thrashing at her head in a panic. <i>"It went in me bag!"</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Her two pals watched with a mix of amusement and mild horror. Clearly something had fallen on her and then plummeted into the carrier. They backed away from it, then slowly approached, before gingerly feeling around for whatever terrifying wildlife had launched itself at her. The first woman burst out laughing. <i>"It were a bit of grass, you twat!"</i></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivMNE1K9_xFI921QpaX-6OiPp7Mj0PpJUf4oqg-oY1aIyVRQ8soAp8BOxAUekqJWKBB-wBu42SHqn91tsTVyHaw0ourygV4nPAaaez2Gm4xk6NbEupCR4ZYdUJTYqMc9J90Aw-WUMHDKH-8rMWDEHNI4uDsM8Yts_VuFJwbAQaW-babtj5az_vtT0icvjt/s4896/DSC00923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivMNE1K9_xFI921QpaX-6OiPp7Mj0PpJUf4oqg-oY1aIyVRQ8soAp8BOxAUekqJWKBB-wBu42SHqn91tsTVyHaw0ourygV4nPAaaez2Gm4xk6NbEupCR4ZYdUJTYqMc9J90Aw-WUMHDKH-8rMWDEHNI4uDsM8Yts_VuFJwbAQaW-babtj5az_vtT0icvjt/s320/DSC00923.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I veered off the main drag for a little wander, spotting the constituency office for the local Tory MP (there was a To Let sign on it, but that seemed to be for the shop underneath; give it time). The bus exchange sat opposite some more modern flats, and there was a 1970s bulk of red brick council offices.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2vQsuNUbeI7xFxyLQPaGPtuZu92FPpYOtCkr0LlIMziaMahlh8KlXb1f3xHSjbzoliqngOZdOKtRvC1pz36Fv7HVKpNF6X8VhiSGDncaEiNtY2RgNCoGhq9SnLuCjABQeeeiLugq-YvH8JSKJPGzaHZxer2_b9M-x8ssBP6lH0-STfkFVHZj10rQsBG4q/s4896/DSC00927.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2vQsuNUbeI7xFxyLQPaGPtuZu92FPpYOtCkr0LlIMziaMahlh8KlXb1f3xHSjbzoliqngOZdOKtRvC1pz36Fv7HVKpNF6X8VhiSGDncaEiNtY2RgNCoGhq9SnLuCjABQeeeiLugq-YvH8JSKJPGzaHZxer2_b9M-x8ssBP6lH0-STfkFVHZj10rQsBG4q/s320/DSC00927.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Once again, I had the feeling that the town was "done". It was pleasing, inoffensive, probably lovely to live in, but I couldn't see myself rushing back. I wandered back towards the station, annoyed that I'd not been more inspired, annoyed that I'd not found a decent pub. Then I noticed an A-board by the entrance to the station: <i><a href="https://www.thekingsheadatherstone.co.uk/">The King's Head</a> - A Warm Welcome To Customers Old And New</i>. It turned out Atherstone did have a decent pub; it just wasn't with all the others, but instead sat by a canal with a pleasing outdoor terrace and a nicely refurbished interior.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25Ao_-zfIx5Vcx1zRt8u5yJq5ynyi6tpxhgD_V7xfY2Ta9LlfE3iAYG-zAqn-Ir5hRvFIBlwmpLlD07eGwn-tWoRSBX6uPRPcfOQV4A9cVEqvjaXrA7YDLxbeVU4Ja1AkWIrcdRAQycQzthKryleR3vbp_dYPeKDJXg22ssa_5sGqBoN9HZ9vNhPFTS5-/s4032/IMG_6225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25Ao_-zfIx5Vcx1zRt8u5yJq5ynyi6tpxhgD_V7xfY2Ta9LlfE3iAYG-zAqn-Ir5hRvFIBlwmpLlD07eGwn-tWoRSBX6uPRPcfOQV4A9cVEqvjaXrA7YDLxbeVU4Ja1AkWIrcdRAQycQzthKryleR3vbp_dYPeKDJXg22ssa_5sGqBoN9HZ9vNhPFTS5-/s320/IMG_6225.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Let's not dwell on the fact that there were only two people in there, and one of them was me, shall we?<div><br /></div><div>I had my pint - then another one, to be sure - then rolled back for my train. That was the last station of the day, but there was one more to visit on this trip. It would just be a bit more difficult to collect.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMif8GXuens6AEWIwA5g9qQVVc7jhj0JMhOXJbkNv7xtwQwiMiAxAGJPPIssy2HDSye7gmYak_O3sIoUt2lgZX2yAonvPdVDdY4ZADSUaaKHkwUCjVn-3MCLSeXvCosiNWPmPHbOqWuv-Hg7MHTBkuhMm32SOBXZKAzTpBRfCEZx36a2SFWqo49weJKSv/s4896/DSC00905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMif8GXuens6AEWIwA5g9qQVVc7jhj0JMhOXJbkNv7xtwQwiMiAxAGJPPIssy2HDSye7gmYak_O3sIoUt2lgZX2yAonvPdVDdY4ZADSUaaKHkwUCjVn-3MCLSeXvCosiNWPmPHbOqWuv-Hg7MHTBkuhMm32SOBXZKAzTpBRfCEZx36a2SFWqo49weJKSv/s320/DSC00905.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-44288555383997718902024-03-13T12:52:00.002+00:002024-03-13T12:52:56.367+00:00Rambling Thoughts<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMVKdELpIlU2wVAv2udeaMn96_OaWXzcMlLA1c7yL1RBQP03wHYZDJzrQxwyg9q7O7DuBdMQJmMqaYlNrBrn_XHvy30niseJebbB0-PS8avPA667l0czXmjhwcg3uP-Sg5NKyWnSJqLuNfaRCiIPUytCIB97oXrlWpLz-sf63vIAKszCvjcJdQO8MiRqwS/s4896/DSC00792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMVKdELpIlU2wVAv2udeaMn96_OaWXzcMlLA1c7yL1RBQP03wHYZDJzrQxwyg9q7O7DuBdMQJmMqaYlNrBrn_XHvy30niseJebbB0-PS8avPA667l0czXmjhwcg3uP-Sg5NKyWnSJqLuNfaRCiIPUytCIB97oXrlWpLz-sf63vIAKszCvjcJdQO8MiRqwS/s320/DSC00792.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>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 <a href="https://tenor.com/view/jennifer-lawrence-ok-whatever-gif-5333452">Jennifer Lawrence OK GIF</a> state.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZHPCt1hmgGkyAmLI22Kr4_Gso3XF8G3f-WCvQtVBldeN5oWUXAxVc2UdYaYlAvDy_hpGBLfDT3o7zaXiyQRDsAQswLXptwHdcopKq124DeQJJAR9phGSmXYLxLbS0o7TpDGgegk0XZsE3X4d13mvk7tSXiXR-jdOBDFseEnSHgCOUUJEqC_YGKX-Wm3N/s4896/DSC00795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZHPCt1hmgGkyAmLI22Kr4_Gso3XF8G3f-WCvQtVBldeN5oWUXAxVc2UdYaYlAvDy_hpGBLfDT3o7zaXiyQRDsAQswLXptwHdcopKq124DeQJJAR9phGSmXYLxLbS0o7TpDGgegk0XZsE3X4d13mvk7tSXiXR-jdOBDFseEnSHgCOUUJEqC_YGKX-Wm3N/s320/DSC00795.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>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.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiinr5oPio1O_9_AzlxsH5VWL5iJJ7LKk9T5o3WHjuVwao42dQfH89bR46CaoQFvxib3Zva2kT7VpuVKCTT6eLtZWDIviBulbqRp2EfGW9mtDkXbuwd0aTsrHP0ffRhzoOaxZpqCEZ5AxwIY97spBmY55rssKfIYg_yIOgDQRS-BNNDsoFe7ZTQePsx9DCd/s4896/DSC00794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiinr5oPio1O_9_AzlxsH5VWL5iJJ7LKk9T5o3WHjuVwao42dQfH89bR46CaoQFvxib3Zva2kT7VpuVKCTT6eLtZWDIviBulbqRp2EfGW9mtDkXbuwd0aTsrHP0ffRhzoOaxZpqCEZ5AxwIY97spBmY55rssKfIYg_yIOgDQRS-BNNDsoFe7ZTQePsx9DCd/s320/DSC00794.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>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.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBSfNZsr16AUup1W9uM1pLquWMJ37O2zSUnkQFQz89416y3JoIvTIYzHWV9__WihFrRvBkifdpmqaRoa6eBTNSgRxi2kXs-eUv1LChUYt_qvG_KIfswuQTCMsfR1IiIQ1Z945mHhH4U_cnQN9tZvoOGK3D1X9O21uldyaqCGDLg1Wr77Jgaz0RDD63eqKo/s4896/DSC00800.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBSfNZsr16AUup1W9uM1pLquWMJ37O2zSUnkQFQz89416y3JoIvTIYzHWV9__WihFrRvBkifdpmqaRoa6eBTNSgRxi2kXs-eUv1LChUYt_qvG_KIfswuQTCMsfR1IiIQ1Z945mHhH4U_cnQN9tZvoOGK3D1X9O21uldyaqCGDLg1Wr77Jgaz0RDD63eqKo/s320/DSC00800.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>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, <a href="https://www.leicester.gov.uk/your-council/policies-plans-and-strategies/planning-and-development/levelling-up-projects/leicester-station-gateway/">with a new entrance to the side and a pedestrianised plaza and, yes, a proper station sign,</a> so maybe things are about to change. (Please see the earlier paragraph about the Midland Main Line).</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZqjtu4v1_EWUCGkbzfU4tzzdGBSyBHQJA95lJNS1WYiMpjH-mGJRCZAkK8VOh6U4Ltas9VrDmRz_NvwneCfsGo1wkzxiQpYBt9b0DP8BeV_p2dRWUG17XbAKNwCb_57SXYDdJJDdzr0gx7T17WinSXa-ScedMyeeq-wLTOwNGHg1-mu3ShnlRya3rN4d/s1121/Screenshot%202024-03-13%20102147.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="1121" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZqjtu4v1_EWUCGkbzfU4tzzdGBSyBHQJA95lJNS1WYiMpjH-mGJRCZAkK8VOh6U4Ltas9VrDmRz_NvwneCfsGo1wkzxiQpYBt9b0DP8BeV_p2dRWUG17XbAKNwCb_57SXYDdJJDdzr0gx7T17WinSXa-ScedMyeeq-wLTOwNGHg1-mu3ShnlRya3rN4d/s320/Screenshot%202024-03-13%20102147.png" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>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.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuy4tXd_VXT7J9R-I5QfjzztHg5hsy_6n5cSG4xrd0pYER8FWX58gc3hXjirs2ioU29MjedP2y3N4VgCI14E1FWAnAkOJK4P0Hz8nHPlVNO06TSdPCCe6F3Yiwr0b5yz2RLaWF8jcbJ3CJjT94xGkpw15lr9AQ8WJOq9JChZ4nQYpioMBChCjLx0TuZ-GK/s4896/DSC00807.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuy4tXd_VXT7J9R-I5QfjzztHg5hsy_6n5cSG4xrd0pYER8FWX58gc3hXjirs2ioU29MjedP2y3N4VgCI14E1FWAnAkOJK4P0Hz8nHPlVNO06TSdPCCe6F3Yiwr0b5yz2RLaWF8jcbJ3CJjT94xGkpw15lr9AQ8WJOq9JChZ4nQYpioMBChCjLx0TuZ-GK/s320/DSC00807.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><div><br /></div><div>My first stop was... hmmm, where was it again?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMazlN4zP8DEvuLNkWZ9EgBsLYUi3KSOc5nByk_ES8igj8ikFVJoMaMFfc747Prnd6rwjnTErQSYU2720Xq1MuuRczUjLfWL5BEbBPa6hN0ERPQBsHgIofB3oDIi09DS72B5Hn5-kM1BgIA9lvk1ILV7bppNC0N-utNKjj1ALVV5sNXJuoxhL0ZSE9gRyW/s4896/DSC00808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMazlN4zP8DEvuLNkWZ9EgBsLYUi3KSOc5nByk_ES8igj8ikFVJoMaMFfc747Prnd6rwjnTErQSYU2720Xq1MuuRczUjLfWL5BEbBPa6hN0ERPQBsHgIofB3oDIi09DS72B5Hn5-kM1BgIA9lvk1ILV7bppNC0N-utNKjj1ALVV5sNXJuoxhL0ZSE9gRyW/s320/DSC00808.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>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>"I was going to murder someone today, but thanks to that child's picture I've decided to embrace happiness instead". </i>I suppose it stops the local youths from layering the brickwork with obscene graffiti, so there's that.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEfIOI-vKRKdDDVQvYN2fWEmrNfk9O3UWSod9W_l9Fv3JmS14JShwGrS-6ATgbF9Wi3xV_SkuTZElw01gwX8cgkELTxLcL7kbOI23PoDcgKnprnS9k-iFfBQ_fXrmTBAur4q1vdzPs9f8Ual28PzDNp9tc_oEqktzDjVOK3GspLap8f_q6YzpoI1zH1i7w/s4896/DSC00812.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEfIOI-vKRKdDDVQvYN2fWEmrNfk9O3UWSod9W_l9Fv3JmS14JShwGrS-6ATgbF9Wi3xV_SkuTZElw01gwX8cgkELTxLcL7kbOI23PoDcgKnprnS9k-iFfBQ_fXrmTBAur4q1vdzPs9f8Ual28PzDNp9tc_oEqktzDjVOK3GspLap8f_q6YzpoI1zH1i7w/s320/DSC00812.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpote8QUo0hLe4XjIfIBA5xMLi6XhYkZxqmrS6qByaeolCCAEDfwWEos4P9u-eqq5ozLx0sKZXcLaA6lERLQeNDPqVIK1Qubcar1usS-X1_O9TEvnZgEomcTf-B5Qnr4nvddg3qDkUVYlrf3E86QADib0UDgS7t8Rv0VvxXoOvg6JS9x2jmIHSuoVN3Sh6/s4896/DSC00814.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpote8QUo0hLe4XjIfIBA5xMLi6XhYkZxqmrS6qByaeolCCAEDfwWEos4P9u-eqq5ozLx0sKZXcLaA6lERLQeNDPqVIK1Qubcar1usS-X1_O9TEvnZgEomcTf-B5Qnr4nvddg3qDkUVYlrf3E86QADib0UDgS7t8Rv0VvxXoOvg6JS9x2jmIHSuoVN3Sh6/s320/DSC00814.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3_HwBP95o3OkeMOzsBf0LS5Zu7nIbQon_kRcCyk1CUUKLiE_TF-vq_nACJcUgHYCwdG97JfcJSN85rHd9-jmTzvkWx_4yl2H9BD7ZuftPh_92PNylipAOmVa2-HRGVIP6CiH42Qcu23Kaw0eWr_mArFvfmA1mQ_8xs2NW4por5Nom4XgJfwFQSk_M3qTN/s4896/DSC00816.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3_HwBP95o3OkeMOzsBf0LS5Zu7nIbQon_kRcCyk1CUUKLiE_TF-vq_nACJcUgHYCwdG97JfcJSN85rHd9-jmTzvkWx_4yl2H9BD7ZuftPh_92PNylipAOmVa2-HRGVIP6CiH42Qcu23Kaw0eWr_mArFvfmA1mQ_8xs2NW4por5Nom4XgJfwFQSk_M3qTN/s320/DSC00816.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>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. <br /> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlgcYSfpx9VPcQeN_YDx8wAEFJGW2iISccN_LIdSWz0ssplAENlcHgbxrGvGII0Ixx3fRkJzVOqsuOh7unRSniucLHW-UD2Ay_S7UapPRo3o6XoDByumQdvzFft98EI9T0FF8NGmzebr2e9kpku0WMWNNWHmVNKV-mbxSruaNoHfPxLg5WLLPpGh6GJdar/s4896/DSC00817.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlgcYSfpx9VPcQeN_YDx8wAEFJGW2iISccN_LIdSWz0ssplAENlcHgbxrGvGII0Ixx3fRkJzVOqsuOh7unRSniucLHW-UD2Ay_S7UapPRo3o6XoDByumQdvzFft98EI9T0FF8NGmzebr2e9kpku0WMWNNWHmVNKV-mbxSruaNoHfPxLg5WLLPpGh6GJdar/s320/DSC00817.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrj58Ap0FOh1qsOSOrb-jkbTMuTkikoctcplzFS6_SrRcDlwhHSUMM8FN175PJxaYyS0F2rMP2FdnXPZGpOoFlxvlboexbZYZfrPAVN2p8U5jT9DKKcsMNDY1tMqJqWb0xDtm_V_sba5DrsLxoDB_gE7x3euvDZqGPS4Wm4X1jg7022TtJcrNTH0Z92r_L/s4896/DSC00823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrj58Ap0FOh1qsOSOrb-jkbTMuTkikoctcplzFS6_SrRcDlwhHSUMM8FN175PJxaYyS0F2rMP2FdnXPZGpOoFlxvlboexbZYZfrPAVN2p8U5jT9DKKcsMNDY1tMqJqWb0xDtm_V_sba5DrsLxoDB_gE7x3euvDZqGPS4Wm4X1jg7022TtJcrNTH0Z92r_L/s320/DSC00823.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic9TuXmrO8P7Dqk8GDS9-eLdoBUYo3PS44mX7CmhCwfp5znRsYMo2dmH1ybIPjkCjKGwlAaFodJ5mzsFSQk3QP_030FKKjxqk8J-X2g_DHTuugfIpXcCmMggvFCCXE-nrrcWHiQ-q6tllA91y_mKuwTIriApK9QIgj1ppwK_KfQLa0pID4BZyBypIli6U7/s4896/DSC00825.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic9TuXmrO8P7Dqk8GDS9-eLdoBUYo3PS44mX7CmhCwfp5znRsYMo2dmH1ybIPjkCjKGwlAaFodJ5mzsFSQk3QP_030FKKjxqk8J-X2g_DHTuugfIpXcCmMggvFCCXE-nrrcWHiQ-q6tllA91y_mKuwTIriApK9QIgj1ppwK_KfQLa0pID4BZyBypIli6U7/s320/DSC00825.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>The firm in question was <i><a href="https://kingindustries.co.uk/">King Industries</a></i>, 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 <i>The World Is Not Enough</i>. 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. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizM6XDfN1J1ON3QabhCDTctEWr1bnCy8i-FZ1Jd2FRRLeNU41JOfHdTLAWcttN6AMxMe3VDAHhPksxYsA6Qqtuo_4UXlvHwJX01mXw6dupwJ_xSgJrMQb9t0BEypMEXzCUdd0Nt3IeWa2Xqspqovr5E2BvG6CxBmG464cXnOq5Fak_F0X5eItGYiKdY9NR/s2532/IMG_6298.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="2532" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizM6XDfN1J1ON3QabhCDTctEWr1bnCy8i-FZ1Jd2FRRLeNU41JOfHdTLAWcttN6AMxMe3VDAHhPksxYsA6Qqtuo_4UXlvHwJX01mXw6dupwJ_xSgJrMQb9t0BEypMEXzCUdd0Nt3IeWa2Xqspqovr5E2BvG6CxBmG464cXnOq5Fak_F0X5eItGYiKdY9NR/s320/IMG_6298.PNG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>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 <i>The World Is Not Enough</i> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Who knew that a blog about railway stations could somehow get even nerdier and more tragic?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1QkSNvb1x_wlzxwvm8rcx2Gxq5CaZ9-JE9JXPzssJZXmQFgIV2kP6k5PqUTPk28eMiFHffk9IbsET3xsvugScsxbti8qzMdn1L3-aJ0JutgQYYPM723Zss4_eQDH88QAoTl9F5cYcArKeDrSML4SQ4e4uUQ6wrlM7yIFCRloujs1m-H1skGNK7rtGrKWS/s4896/DSC00826.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1QkSNvb1x_wlzxwvm8rcx2Gxq5CaZ9-JE9JXPzssJZXmQFgIV2kP6k5PqUTPk28eMiFHffk9IbsET3xsvugScsxbti8qzMdn1L3-aJ0JutgQYYPM723Zss4_eQDH88QAoTl9F5cYcArKeDrSML4SQ4e4uUQ6wrlM7yIFCRloujs1m-H1skGNK7rtGrKWS/s320/DSC00826.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>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 <a href="https://preservedbritishsteamlocomotives.com/w-g-bagnall-works-no-2370-0-6-0f/">"WG Bagnall Works 2370 0-6-0F"</a>, and therefore sound a little bit like I know what I'm talking about for once.</div><div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP76qroynKzBR2gbIVniow3bVNzcJMGFQgteNFzWiifnZMz-mXiqitqaxuw2BmFc3adhnuq6ZF-NTED1GUyh4g50mRBjhr1LYMALNvpZIbCcSxx_iZIlJuxSSY_A1eLjdekMRDEykpGdntUw3VLbNIO9d_eG2cRTCUm-kbQylwxiX65D42-8oBGXyiu-OI/s4896/DSC00828.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP76qroynKzBR2gbIVniow3bVNzcJMGFQgteNFzWiifnZMz-mXiqitqaxuw2BmFc3adhnuq6ZF-NTED1GUyh4g50mRBjhr1LYMALNvpZIbCcSxx_iZIlJuxSSY_A1eLjdekMRDEykpGdntUw3VLbNIO9d_eG2cRTCUm-kbQylwxiX65D42-8oBGXyiu-OI/s320/DSC00828.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQkWBkpeZovcmQPBb3flXxRRmDugP9LP20kedhn9b5DZyuUUEc7KWrXQ7TK-kkbbEB5g92sSusC3C8giMdvB5v-DQye0HCTlSWx4qX_jr9_8Edb-An5vYjS-aRqLQIYG2jbPRNeBRAIC4lU98n4olwSe_YRVHAFAWJWu7nUAHN2E1tA4KQ3gDbUUq3NKhV/s4896/DSC00829.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQkWBkpeZovcmQPBb3flXxRRmDugP9LP20kedhn9b5DZyuUUEc7KWrXQ7TK-kkbbEB5g92sSusC3C8giMdvB5v-DQye0HCTlSWx4qX_jr9_8Edb-An5vYjS-aRqLQIYG2jbPRNeBRAIC4lU98n4olwSe_YRVHAFAWJWu7nUAHN2E1tA4KQ3gDbUUq3NKhV/s320/DSC00829.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>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 (<a href="https://handmadesofas.co.uk/">Bott Handmade Sofas</a> and <a href="https://www.barrybott.co.uk/">Barry Bott Jewellers</a>). There is of course nothing amusing about this whatsoever.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrtbNfwHwjoaChQCzjY_jWZSPvQ_8-vrlDXH0CRGeBMDjeGKXUnN4rhbwDK3rQkONgZZFHPBGQcI6B3E7cNQ9wtr3J6J8muwPwZ8fQMgrdrPo9op497GjoSHZ8XvPr0ZgP9TRoJABSWq7SN_SgtEpyVizjW-vZGFAqwk1AfEWXBzO_NEfnAZ6tBSyC7eDF/s4896/DSC00832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrtbNfwHwjoaChQCzjY_jWZSPvQ_8-vrlDXH0CRGeBMDjeGKXUnN4rhbwDK3rQkONgZZFHPBGQcI6B3E7cNQ9wtr3J6J8muwPwZ8fQMgrdrPo9op497GjoSHZ8XvPr0ZgP9TRoJABSWq7SN_SgtEpyVizjW-vZGFAqwk1AfEWXBzO_NEfnAZ6tBSyC7eDF/s320/DSC00832.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>At the centre I turned right, passing a Chinese restaurant called <i>Double Dragon </i>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.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8N1SXWAz93XyMkrOxDKit3yAQmqttyLHaLX_J5Oo_5SvhFCMhAOn0qJXneq9xmMvOhcRVlCi2ES7FOgAaXj24-7y_UamdEWQ6HWEnj1isASoNt8emV4Ln3jEHYe-yX7U2yUd1JSKq2DDRw6kGPPf4eapFt3C8XcgFzlyFMwWEA3XEaxBt4enxvW1MHakn/s4896/DSC00839.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8N1SXWAz93XyMkrOxDKit3yAQmqttyLHaLX_J5Oo_5SvhFCMhAOn0qJXneq9xmMvOhcRVlCi2ES7FOgAaXj24-7y_UamdEWQ6HWEnj1isASoNt8emV4Ln3jEHYe-yX7U2yUd1JSKq2DDRw6kGPPf4eapFt3C8XcgFzlyFMwWEA3XEaxBt4enxvW1MHakn/s320/DSC00839.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>My plan had been to follow this road all the way to the next station, but my attention was grabbed by a <i>Public Footpath</i> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEPUx64mx_oBBrlFij6hzpNAuMGlY9S3_mSwMNP7C0YvVPdl1r-ZSW0iebRMsbD6PnqU6coaazngDNp-cfysP3pTsuXcnMpoSHybsWSqCN3oXy_b58v3AdS4q_jD_hQiiBRuNcpZIYJG5U0yOq6anwcHxs-VM6Uskx_hsc3tvopW6qGn3-0zQ5d_RhACju/s4896/DSC00844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEPUx64mx_oBBrlFij6hzpNAuMGlY9S3_mSwMNP7C0YvVPdl1r-ZSW0iebRMsbD6PnqU6coaazngDNp-cfysP3pTsuXcnMpoSHybsWSqCN3oXy_b58v3AdS4q_jD_hQiiBRuNcpZIYJG5U0yOq6anwcHxs-VM6Uskx_hsc3tvopW6qGn3-0zQ5d_RhACju/s320/DSC00844.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivZ-FRTmUkz2Lafjihi-HFa5VHGyr-g9C0HqEeBj_YHUHe7Mch4SuciAToQAhPIete78pHQh_488f72XQVy0pQdCSTI4OiFhqVQDIOkfCiX54oTkzk_H6t9T0tbzDHGNBW2yefG0FAKh858zdR_2rpeBBsNvcrr4zF3iOtTc7RM3s-vT-LcLmd6yx8L7jc/s4896/DSC00845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivZ-FRTmUkz2Lafjihi-HFa5VHGyr-g9C0HqEeBj_YHUHe7Mch4SuciAToQAhPIete78pHQh_488f72XQVy0pQdCSTI4OiFhqVQDIOkfCiX54oTkzk_H6t9T0tbzDHGNBW2yefG0FAKh858zdR_2rpeBBsNvcrr4zF3iOtTc7RM3s-vT-LcLmd6yx8L7jc/s320/DSC00845.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>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 <i>"what if I'm hurt or killed?"</i> but was instead <i>"what would I do about the blog if they nicked my camera?"</i> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjokbSPfV2NMe1DktrhmWW63CZjY1Mx5Mm5DCjurlNof4H9Nj3HH9Ny93pMaEFwxS7tZyifDqf1VpKWqVMu3u6V-_k9V0lyOq70Cj6elcdN_w2Sg7zNDuNTof17y0YAy2Nhxeiv1Gqb-OZm6-10QSly6wPCrB27j5_Td2xrqQqB07UByJ_OfDeJMgZhjvVw/s4896/DSC00846.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjokbSPfV2NMe1DktrhmWW63CZjY1Mx5Mm5DCjurlNof4H9Nj3HH9Ny93pMaEFwxS7tZyifDqf1VpKWqVMu3u6V-_k9V0lyOq70Cj6elcdN_w2Sg7zNDuNTof17y0YAy2Nhxeiv1Gqb-OZm6-10QSly6wPCrB27j5_Td2xrqQqB07UByJ_OfDeJMgZhjvVw/s320/DSC00846.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>There was a printed notice on a lamp post asking me to <i>Snub the Hub</i>. 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 href="https://www.enderbyhub.co.uk/"> a new logistics hub in Enderby</a> 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 <i>actual</i> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxPlRSGyViGKnWJcKE9eQYWcqVDgR8m1BGZNqVLlXV20mSK2LI7MVMhNHfSUeeZ3pF31ZIYYX5VklFobh1dfQCjp_iP2AWZD1BZZtawK2JqCYP5et-fXWtV3NGJNXl1wPjoWQ9HYVq8x1S0lJ3Ra2Ow5Y4OL1EfdeTXZAzaijuuudjhvwe_oJhfeSWAav/s4896/DSC00850.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxPlRSGyViGKnWJcKE9eQYWcqVDgR8m1BGZNqVLlXV20mSK2LI7MVMhNHfSUeeZ3pF31ZIYYX5VklFobh1dfQCjp_iP2AWZD1BZZtawK2JqCYP5et-fXWtV3NGJNXl1wPjoWQ9HYVq8x1S0lJ3Ra2Ow5Y4OL1EfdeTXZAzaijuuudjhvwe_oJhfeSWAav/s320/DSC00850.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Walking under the motorway brought me to Narborough, as evidenced by a pretty village sign.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3PnV8ThO7m-nEhpA2ilHJxZmNFDkXo7Q7mbszf9RiCOC6wAQPXs_ASe6DQz8NAjW9s5sl8zKdI8qs_1jYFc0WdIfCjNaRNpaBQck9M99HDNIcT1dDmPCLiVAs6YTeqLWA3l5pyV6aOHyDNBUqSbeHR_gpYGhOe-favXljPfetc7qi8BAY_n93kY4h9x2/s4896/DSC00851.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk3PnV8ThO7m-nEhpA2ilHJxZmNFDkXo7Q7mbszf9RiCOC6wAQPXs_ASe6DQz8NAjW9s5sl8zKdI8qs_1jYFc0WdIfCjNaRNpaBQck9M99HDNIcT1dDmPCLiVAs6YTeqLWA3l5pyV6aOHyDNBUqSbeHR_gpYGhOe-favXljPfetc7qi8BAY_n93kY4h9x2/s320/DSC00851.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I'm embarrassed to admit that I initially thought those reeds at the bottom were sausages.</div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>did</i> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ryqu5opwp0Wh6_C6jxhI4oJHr0R9hdZanXLS7rKqX59KwB2MV2FQY6ubl_HR5XGYHjU8rnNGznEjiNf2Ru0IwTiOmhoj34TUoQ22NDh0Myy8f-eNEABueyQiHdQeSuKKw9MwmABgzq7PBtaH8wgeIIJBUrY9U03X_tftFSvbb6sGFJEcBF_J8RehO5z-/s4896/DSC00858.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ryqu5opwp0Wh6_C6jxhI4oJHr0R9hdZanXLS7rKqX59KwB2MV2FQY6ubl_HR5XGYHjU8rnNGznEjiNf2Ru0IwTiOmhoj34TUoQ22NDh0Myy8f-eNEABueyQiHdQeSuKKw9MwmABgzq7PBtaH8wgeIIJBUrY9U03X_tftFSvbb6sGFJEcBF_J8RehO5z-/s320/DSC00858.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>At the centre, past the village hall and pub, was another crossroads, and then the road lead to a level crossing. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYXT3VACG1BY2vRVHlpPq3arnX6AaHkVWLFaEyW9g7sH20Yw2eBpCKC6KPBalgpRH-yvwk5K4L-mkHnG08ca4uXcTFVfxtUXaI0ZEi4WTYuBJdxmsd81lGnNg-7-M1ZbV_-i0KRCPINzW0yiswTv7zw4NJJZFdnFMMYzaq8DpEOsWY37_U2-4_LqzV_xZ/s4896/DSC00867.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYXT3VACG1BY2vRVHlpPq3arnX6AaHkVWLFaEyW9g7sH20Yw2eBpCKC6KPBalgpRH-yvwk5K4L-mkHnG08ca4uXcTFVfxtUXaI0ZEi4WTYuBJdxmsd81lGnNg-7-M1ZbV_-i0KRCPINzW0yiswTv7zw4NJJZFdnFMMYzaq8DpEOsWY37_U2-4_LqzV_xZ/s320/DSC00867.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>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). <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYwPxDtigTe42bUYr9BiSbdD55-vE9tNS36JTqUcvnluzYYo3VF9RofNOl6VKXcjnjFyam3l-LSBmI-G-I7-uZFcuSzNliFMh5a-tnN3gv4FYJtSNq-XiVOedCLR_mJ4B8lgQ47OxIDZe9ZzjXGHITTDD3rc6kkTl7zaQFfxeqCw10GCoH9p2Aq5-3kTDT/s4896/DSC00866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYwPxDtigTe42bUYr9BiSbdD55-vE9tNS36JTqUcvnluzYYo3VF9RofNOl6VKXcjnjFyam3l-LSBmI-G-I7-uZFcuSzNliFMh5a-tnN3gv4FYJtSNq-XiVOedCLR_mJ4B8lgQ47OxIDZe9ZzjXGHITTDD3rc6kkTl7zaQFfxeqCw10GCoH9p2Aq5-3kTDT/s320/DSC00866.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQUlVgpl2kRYAWUZwIq-68WpgZtSK2ao54rL0Ad4YszHMBTzXLtBr0w-c_wuG-DnBFXqSYBsxXINr2DqAiP0XZ9SB13MQaVJ1sj_uuhJpdlUT8bMFN6RbV8d4UJu9_tzymUu8sCzipmhHBR2zjypHjU3uf19DnSwVv26u9FC_MZQZ28rUfNLRDa9ruI-s8/s4896/DSC00861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQUlVgpl2kRYAWUZwIq-68WpgZtSK2ao54rL0Ad4YszHMBTzXLtBr0w-c_wuG-DnBFXqSYBsxXINr2DqAiP0XZ9SB13MQaVJ1sj_uuhJpdlUT8bMFN6RbV8d4UJu9_tzymUu8sCzipmhHBR2zjypHjU3uf19DnSwVv26u9FC_MZQZ28rUfNLRDa9ruI-s8/s320/DSC00861.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-50457455141633339022024-03-12T10:58:00.000+00:002024-03-12T10:58:53.843+00:00The Leicester Square<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4hzmasobS67I5a7LZxtvH2BPhG58cdrSX_vwYmVU5fHqZO7FHZLkFI83FPM6dYq4CcqPs3EHm1eMiukQrMPMJYVcmna3hOM0j4WgEf-ahCzWWGt8YHkiSYnHDAoQh38lNDnhREELJYlC3pJ4Y9w6Kh_rBEVUMQdsjyGmKK65OqEQEFqx2au7q-k7nXhG3/s4896/DSC00710.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4hzmasobS67I5a7LZxtvH2BPhG58cdrSX_vwYmVU5fHqZO7FHZLkFI83FPM6dYq4CcqPs3EHm1eMiukQrMPMJYVcmna3hOM0j4WgEf-ahCzWWGt8YHkiSYnHDAoQh38lNDnhREELJYlC3pJ4Y9w6Kh_rBEVUMQdsjyGmKK65OqEQEFqx2au7q-k7nXhG3/s320/DSC00710.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>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 <i>Lester</i>, then realising Americans could probably say that, so they shoved in a whole invisible syllable <i>ice</i> so that British people could feel superior every time a foreigner asked for directions. <i>"Lie-chester? Never heard of it. Oh, you mean </i>Leicester<i>?"</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK5flZ0abk9sCYmi25bb1OVjUsP7vwDLkofPvVYasyLU0nTEXxrNyTfQNL4Fvha2O6dvcjMXNNL7SxiikluDOPdCPeeXctGYm5qzlJj0BzHYgiCSgUQAzPgcFYnS3aF-nsqXf_hMAaPUMQRYhSxeZvjaCczXqtbEpLGSTbzIrO-ozWlF8cnByOhtk8gGZQ/s4896/DSC00715.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK5flZ0abk9sCYmi25bb1OVjUsP7vwDLkofPvVYasyLU0nTEXxrNyTfQNL4Fvha2O6dvcjMXNNL7SxiikluDOPdCPeeXctGYm5qzlJj0BzHYgiCSgUQAzPgcFYnS3aF-nsqXf_hMAaPUMQRYhSxeZvjaCczXqtbEpLGSTbzIrO-ozWlF8cnByOhtk8gGZQ/s320/DSC00715.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiy49NpOmi8HdpczKZSi-jpaLAB2mRac3Su02mlKiOoiCvfGnN8nwXtSNtXsnBd2hKD-9ZonkNIbWRiz4Ff6AkTV2yETtEOFDGnUBHj2MlwDMt6Hnhp5UfL-huJLfqxOhk2pos0HuIeldeE97ydl9qPaRu3Ru5AmEAlb_slcTyuARSD8xKZjTJPtBeCBtF/s4896/DSC00720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiy49NpOmi8HdpczKZSi-jpaLAB2mRac3Su02mlKiOoiCvfGnN8nwXtSNtXsnBd2hKD-9ZonkNIbWRiz4Ff6AkTV2yETtEOFDGnUBHj2MlwDMt6Hnhp5UfL-huJLfqxOhk2pos0HuIeldeE97ydl9qPaRu3Ru5AmEAlb_slcTyuARSD8xKZjTJPtBeCBtF/s320/DSC00720.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB8qGlZPi-Y3pHlTt75zq0RjdKNKUJcHl1Sw6WQRlX6itvv-xfFHl-0bwAjAdapLDaf0Sf-2-ejzqHEigWVi5qT1VoVVaN-ctlKPcvyyQvHHorb9f8HXFkFP_Y3ruGTY2Z4A-WkMhTmPKVaIZdie_hhZ9WsMIkLvWXxL80pw9ilvSvpIy8NPkcRSvKMnts/s4896/DSC00723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB8qGlZPi-Y3pHlTt75zq0RjdKNKUJcHl1Sw6WQRlX6itvv-xfFHl-0bwAjAdapLDaf0Sf-2-ejzqHEigWVi5qT1VoVVaN-ctlKPcvyyQvHHorb9f8HXFkFP_Y3ruGTY2Z4A-WkMhTmPKVaIZdie_hhZ9WsMIkLvWXxL80pw9ilvSvpIy8NPkcRSvKMnts/s320/DSC00723.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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 <a href="https://kriii.com/">King Richard III Visitor Centre</a> without anyone muttering about the Princes In The Tower.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqE14yx091ejvpjBxsA_lvwwdyrjyMNBP5rtbKC-8PO355OHSRyOggk35I85P34-QLo1uqAGh4ztpmunP1rdqHAer5Diure27hKf5PPYVRhNM-oFNmG0DFNX3HSZe7BxfMfUhdEApsJBKkhQ4-kVfHS7fvAvVa9rwtJt_mFsthwC1r_uMUuTLiyJpnKSn/s4032/IMG_6185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqE14yx091ejvpjBxsA_lvwwdyrjyMNBP5rtbKC-8PO355OHSRyOggk35I85P34-QLo1uqAGh4ztpmunP1rdqHAer5Diure27hKf5PPYVRhNM-oFNmG0DFNX3HSZe7BxfMfUhdEApsJBKkhQ4-kVfHS7fvAvVa9rwtJt_mFsthwC1r_uMUuTLiyJpnKSn/s320/IMG_6185.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>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 <i>Of York</i> 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? <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6mMY92bFs5BIqt2tY_GfsW7ng1q21TdgmkiMuJciIZ-3jm8jePzhiq8BNzW7n965L1J7fU8Ugs8a8xEIX47N_Ahgr2zj80-jhcyh6_xpeDzupNqEW75qDwSm09DLENEo2x7D0YxJEnsOcS_YVPU0mkGTXi6woOUOC3H3CBP_YuKg8xMSYbUkVTSICeMUY/s4032/IMG_6186.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6mMY92bFs5BIqt2tY_GfsW7ng1q21TdgmkiMuJciIZ-3jm8jePzhiq8BNzW7n965L1J7fU8Ugs8a8xEIX47N_Ahgr2zj80-jhcyh6_xpeDzupNqEW75qDwSm09DLENEo2x7D0YxJEnsOcS_YVPU0mkGTXi6woOUOC3H3CBP_YuKg8xMSYbUkVTSICeMUY/s320/IMG_6186.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>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 <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2024/02/the-big-questions.html">Lichfield Cathedral</a>. Perhaps it's because I've spent most of my life living in the shadow of not <a href="https://liverpoolcathedral.org.uk/">one</a>, but <a href="https://liverpoolmetrocathedral.org.uk/">two</a>, 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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6nKiNhahuqlpmzNGIFTO2bBuvbeuyx_pA4jKufhoXuGZRsKtxlbQTx3GgpXd4IqizzZqLNPqJv93grSUQ1VFxsW4g9htCVHycDGZvKwsLR14vV2gmxOmNru3E_p270TnbQ343oQmWckZ3jpKpK1p4-pRnuEJGvMn2rXF2Kbvc92M23VmAfyz4-5OEA9z/s4896/DSC00739.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6nKiNhahuqlpmzNGIFTO2bBuvbeuyx_pA4jKufhoXuGZRsKtxlbQTx3GgpXd4IqizzZqLNPqJv93grSUQ1VFxsW4g9htCVHycDGZvKwsLR14vV2gmxOmNru3E_p270TnbQ343oQmWckZ3jpKpK1p4-pRnuEJGvMn2rXF2Kbvc92M23VmAfyz4-5OEA9z/s320/DSC00739.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>Incidentally, I've just realised that I wrote <i>the Twenties</i> 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.</p><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiskZIDGCES88AlVhNFw6Oy7MXD2TQy5ID0I8vnJ_STm5cjaSl1v9oW3eR_nhQvrw6lhNYJ7n_ju3t9NSFxkGtlkXRGTNaA1RgeFdnKTw6pvOGwmgIWvRuX3YWkVS9b_UEIVRqJhWMPYyvNM4egqhoZQ6a7zP2CIB28qNiCPf6O8ButV8Df7KTE1MQiYIP4/s4032/IMG_6181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiskZIDGCES88AlVhNFw6Oy7MXD2TQy5ID0I8vnJ_STm5cjaSl1v9oW3eR_nhQvrw6lhNYJ7n_ju3t9NSFxkGtlkXRGTNaA1RgeFdnKTw6pvOGwmgIWvRuX3YWkVS9b_UEIVRqJhWMPYyvNM4egqhoZQ6a7zP2CIB28qNiCPf6O8ButV8Df7KTE1MQiYIP4/s320/IMG_6181.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbd8fwO0CFCm7kCYk06uT-gk5f9Oivfsp8Rj1pOhmk5E0tcMrjJ59cuR3FfuyhuZJ7mq2p4Gs1im-lKQcFlNQIWly_Q-DM2Sq3zakvsnxYqRaoNA7G3h8hDn2UwFy5yxW7-CVLujIBBxbWsIZmh5-aU7MEcNZdN3egGfsK7ahcsjRSU6gMLyPjR1yuPY-n/s4896/DSC00721.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbd8fwO0CFCm7kCYk06uT-gk5f9Oivfsp8Rj1pOhmk5E0tcMrjJ59cuR3FfuyhuZJ7mq2p4Gs1im-lKQcFlNQIWly_Q-DM2Sq3zakvsnxYqRaoNA7G3h8hDn2UwFy5yxW7-CVLujIBBxbWsIZmh5-aU7MEcNZdN3egGfsK7ahcsjRSU6gMLyPjR1yuPY-n/s320/DSC00721.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">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.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxnqfLg_6T111diaNtdX8Qs1pTZHR4O3oGREHFzPunS5nRkU-4WZYW-ug2W3Ea5ufenNTBrHEl9GPUd3Y83hz6zvy7iNtLq-2Ojubx1QKDVHjrQDhG-VwW64-aEyJoHbxCHP_bXroMYVbt-0jfbc26KnNt6syOtrxnooWWK0wETlJ7E8g_l2oO1B4cOz_/s4896/DSC00786.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfxnqfLg_6T111diaNtdX8Qs1pTZHR4O3oGREHFzPunS5nRkU-4WZYW-ug2W3Ea5ufenNTBrHEl9GPUd3Y83hz6zvy7iNtLq-2Ojubx1QKDVHjrQDhG-VwW64-aEyJoHbxCHP_bXroMYVbt-0jfbc26KnNt6syOtrxnooWWK0wETlJ7E8g_l2oO1B4cOz_/s320/DSC00786.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGrLMtV0VBAYYBsnBRqL1hZq4zLRs5tOVA26P0T82mwhBBMRJo8a8Coo_GnoRZYictWOfF1UfePZedWXaeFl2UdwzaqSFut4ubMiaLZYPavY9_ycNXvmaKT61fX1qTOLAwduGGlZmK0hefVxOncGsV_mtY8uEqY6nNvZ75eqN8X28ElpMKTf8NLwbi0J0l/s4896/DSC00790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGrLMtV0VBAYYBsnBRqL1hZq4zLRs5tOVA26P0T82mwhBBMRJo8a8Coo_GnoRZYictWOfF1UfePZedWXaeFl2UdwzaqSFut4ubMiaLZYPavY9_ycNXvmaKT61fX1qTOLAwduGGlZmK0hefVxOncGsV_mtY8uEqY6nNvZ75eqN8X28ElpMKTf8NLwbi0J0l/s320/DSC00790.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg222kZaYJg-CM1Fxpi9lWziOI-AYig-ca8Xx7_Ne7EFZ3EE4G5pYsyushYp5jCUQ5Q4suzAhqA62omm4bp_k9k5cAy2MTJhaxL_lxLQiBvS3XBRLU0ZbXAkTOQRTJxaeCUR_SkqXaK9QNFsaGtKOCALl9k0gyS0ZIqz6KpH2dOXgrTCUY9bTzSE-foxj25/s4896/DSC00732.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg222kZaYJg-CM1Fxpi9lWziOI-AYig-ca8Xx7_Ne7EFZ3EE4G5pYsyushYp5jCUQ5Q4suzAhqA62omm4bp_k9k5cAy2MTJhaxL_lxLQiBvS3XBRLU0ZbXAkTOQRTJxaeCUR_SkqXaK9QNFsaGtKOCALl9k0gyS0ZIqz6KpH2dOXgrTCUY9bTzSE-foxj25/s320/DSC00732.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ9CU_lekyEtFwNj13aycN0i9TvaZJDS0y39fEOkfhE1amNU0Y2UV51SqhevKybAHbwu1rR25eVGjQGbJdcgBSQzJDffMCCTHTsVA2I0lpu_w1h50aeKOHxMwidCpzh2SH6nOs2U-JVex8XEFRjw9RhGx3HAPFgMl3R7PylHN2ZH2FAYLgJu4k4YV2bMQq/s4896/DSC00731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ9CU_lekyEtFwNj13aycN0i9TvaZJDS0y39fEOkfhE1amNU0Y2UV51SqhevKybAHbwu1rR25eVGjQGbJdcgBSQzJDffMCCTHTsVA2I0lpu_w1h50aeKOHxMwidCpzh2SH6nOs2U-JVex8XEFRjw9RhGx3HAPFgMl3R7PylHN2ZH2FAYLgJu4k4YV2bMQq/s320/DSC00731.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>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 <a href="https://www.leicester.gov.uk/business/start-up-and-growth/leicester-market/market-redevelopment/">CGI images</a> 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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaOesbvqr5kqOOfJfsZfgKPb0nO_xtZgPpytMvYrtnkE0AY2uBNxjKo8pdCRqZtQ39V0RwDsiQ3QKLsOEY0rbRbJ7ItD1v6bjHwVmPNkHYeTkh3XR3L2yGLLeTvDOpDOKacoCVUGUIyK8iBsHypk5DnM3CMetR0dltvNf9oGkRfIfz_WTwl68UBe8klQcy/s4896/DSC00762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaOesbvqr5kqOOfJfsZfgKPb0nO_xtZgPpytMvYrtnkE0AY2uBNxjKo8pdCRqZtQ39V0RwDsiQ3QKLsOEY0rbRbJ7ItD1v6bjHwVmPNkHYeTkh3XR3L2yGLLeTvDOpDOKacoCVUGUIyK8iBsHypk5DnM3CMetR0dltvNf9oGkRfIfz_WTwl68UBe8klQcy/s320/DSC00762.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRMW8KwdxJojYXQtQDWjYk3r40tKJRlFRhwgh68_o0sCT0xPTXeLhaNIoOIwxJSN11-Ks8ehBH1vf_Y66YuPqI1ij_chxZ4oA0amgcRzBBhQayP_iUQDhGfsoiL6mded87mUFWWHlo7mZMM7UoztmVcUmhnkCF13jV0hWe4ozt-J43pHytJFX42zizkB0_/s4896/DSC00751.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRMW8KwdxJojYXQtQDWjYk3r40tKJRlFRhwgh68_o0sCT0xPTXeLhaNIoOIwxJSN11-Ks8ehBH1vf_Y66YuPqI1ij_chxZ4oA0amgcRzBBhQayP_iUQDhGfsoiL6mded87mUFWWHlo7mZMM7UoztmVcUmhnkCF13jV0hWe4ozt-J43pHytJFX42zizkB0_/s320/DSC00751.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>The New Walk takes you to Leicester's <a href="https://www.leicestermuseums.org/">Museum and Art Gallery</a>, 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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Meel0MeDIh8kMkli6q6YFl9XHIBuqbS1D_Sbxk-_a-sXVMp3oLQO_rzcMixMPqg5_2ybKAF3wluqDO_lrj1TKrlb_M-spcP8YQWVyR8tpJSULYz1TloGUbufXujBeTwnfGJELpMCbAmZj8wkvi2r36tpc_9rxXYA-_R7QCm0sBCPBzhrkk2en03hymHc/s4032/IMG_6192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Meel0MeDIh8kMkli6q6YFl9XHIBuqbS1D_Sbxk-_a-sXVMp3oLQO_rzcMixMPqg5_2ybKAF3wluqDO_lrj1TKrlb_M-spcP8YQWVyR8tpJSULYz1TloGUbufXujBeTwnfGJELpMCbAmZj8wkvi2r36tpc_9rxXYA-_R7QCm0sBCPBzhrkk2en03hymHc/s320/IMG_6192.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqH6K8BHmUcXxyIOwOCkF_4DS_hfr1HIfcs1FrskdGeVopWxu98g4OAzBwNjozwWAp_yAmzGLe8nswoZn4ruDP0BCP9l-4V5_iuAcPiZEqzZk3L68FynDtdizdXb-tgohtU42hPvhRGrAOKevm1OYoBS3K8aIntDinwLx0A2SMYgGz8cLQSVqt_BXXpIp/s4896/DSC00754.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiqH6K8BHmUcXxyIOwOCkF_4DS_hfr1HIfcs1FrskdGeVopWxu98g4OAzBwNjozwWAp_yAmzGLe8nswoZn4ruDP0BCP9l-4V5_iuAcPiZEqzZk3L68FynDtdizdXb-tgohtU42hPvhRGrAOKevm1OYoBS3K8aIntDinwLx0A2SMYgGz8cLQSVqt_BXXpIp/s320/DSC00754.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>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 <i>heterosexual</i> 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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuKKV4BkqxHL9D-KPsLGXkoTBmtUJngoWdqeQ8gNspUNO794Nunwh5CZ3-rAEZMUbtYj507q9AVOvZFxO7eMMKLl4FEC6qsrqRYLt7rRWZW_OyViEJvjUhsFCvBQOI3ts_Bh-5R1sJ-kTtIIyWQVnDdb1tdOCCoZzSZB73bPm37gjrrz5zWIykTNuF69-0/s4032/IMG_6200.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuKKV4BkqxHL9D-KPsLGXkoTBmtUJngoWdqeQ8gNspUNO794Nunwh5CZ3-rAEZMUbtYj507q9AVOvZFxO7eMMKLl4FEC6qsrqRYLt7rRWZW_OyViEJvjUhsFCvBQOI3ts_Bh-5R1sJ-kTtIIyWQVnDdb1tdOCCoZzSZB73bPm37gjrrz5zWIykTNuF69-0/s320/IMG_6200.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>I paused for a pint in <a href="https://www.theglobeleicester.com/">The Globe</a>, 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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANyxZYiB5FhPmvPXsGEB8hI5PBcQfchoSnfU0eiK7-paWSaaKjOJmRxfpwYSmtkk80kPYGD5EqCWIUExHA12zkjp91_0K7O5cMdATxIw485UOc6EhU93l-fVAprZ46SG5bc252m_eNiSVnXoqC2yvf-aFL6T4lh9qfp3_v5rqyZv3oFWPE8d2Ildrzkfv/s4896/DSC00768.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjANyxZYiB5FhPmvPXsGEB8hI5PBcQfchoSnfU0eiK7-paWSaaKjOJmRxfpwYSmtkk80kPYGD5EqCWIUExHA12zkjp91_0K7O5cMdATxIw485UOc6EhU93l-fVAprZ46SG5bc252m_eNiSVnXoqC2yvf-aFL6T4lh9qfp3_v5rqyZv3oFWPE8d2Ildrzkfv/s320/DSC00768.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLToCTnpmnytHWZQLgBmJRK3lKp5E_U9QGiDCvDyV5HfYz4mDAirlgXUek2kXj3oTlG_wiU1gAFtsJEuw_TPa1Nn5V8EC1vjHnoMQDAyaZbjvSXavVudJ2ZAL_ErhSb_ZL94wrFVer2z9YJJxsGbG6kD9Q9A1NdrMVYVY7OXKa1_GNv82KiqvyQRrSwPa8/s4896/DSC00771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLToCTnpmnytHWZQLgBmJRK3lKp5E_U9QGiDCvDyV5HfYz4mDAirlgXUek2kXj3oTlG_wiU1gAFtsJEuw_TPa1Nn5V8EC1vjHnoMQDAyaZbjvSXavVudJ2ZAL_ErhSb_ZL94wrFVer2z9YJJxsGbG6kD9Q9A1NdrMVYVY7OXKa1_GNv82KiqvyQRrSwPa8/s320/DSC00771.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>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 <i>Lane 7</i> which implies a bowling alley, but when I looked at their <a href="https://lane7.co.uk/venues/leicester/">website</a> 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. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Qc9K9oaJoTOGL1_hklQYyy8TezaZEcCTDZRNb-BmcVR4c4y6y030FxKqutu_xeU_tlEbokaCkyvToRtli4_EYsme__6F1IJGqPdvOrTJJ_69PiGLNbsi8iuKtNKrdArI-l6FXvcW-Fn3y6eACHlMhLD33YEf4S_BXaya1ZnFI8xLfVncSWoqAyYqIsqI/s4896/DSC00774.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Qc9K9oaJoTOGL1_hklQYyy8TezaZEcCTDZRNb-BmcVR4c4y6y030FxKqutu_xeU_tlEbokaCkyvToRtli4_EYsme__6F1IJGqPdvOrTJJ_69PiGLNbsi8iuKtNKrdArI-l6FXvcW-Fn3y6eACHlMhLD33YEf4S_BXaya1ZnFI8xLfVncSWoqAyYqIsqI/s320/DSC00774.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuyZk-MuwKQ-DqfAXKo9hDimzYK-SfznOxRsHJXLhcjjBZUvFuhrNLeSsJe7JPgBP7ieWViZNXuBWXd6awz5mULu-xDx-rtpt7IDnrQilj2kQd_eJpu9umX-NioeScJK4csojGSUDRb5n2efi2G7r-NvsobmGv_f58tJIxJoK22oKkhyphenhyphenCOGkOPzoRu6l4b/s4896/DSC00780.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuyZk-MuwKQ-DqfAXKo9hDimzYK-SfznOxRsHJXLhcjjBZUvFuhrNLeSsJe7JPgBP7ieWViZNXuBWXd6awz5mULu-xDx-rtpt7IDnrQilj2kQd_eJpu9umX-NioeScJK4csojGSUDRb5n2efi2G7r-NvsobmGv_f58tJIxJoK22oKkhyphenhyphenCOGkOPzoRu6l4b/s320/DSC00780.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>Ah, I had found my kin.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcjosNjntIAppzc7WjbjKJUmHtyNV3jMVNwh_NYRBAgVcBXJnvWQOe8CM81weVYcwlEoWYodxKCU0CklmM1E_1IE9A29QjwEKNoQEiMYRepjNgjLZbMwDGe0gNH_tkisrW2TxUrmX5DL3g_QuOeiBmKSwNc4W1EKdcsXW_rMlm-_-38aANfPDafHoq-Gt/s4896/DSC00741.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzcjosNjntIAppzc7WjbjKJUmHtyNV3jMVNwh_NYRBAgVcBXJnvWQOe8CM81weVYcwlEoWYodxKCU0CklmM1E_1IE9A29QjwEKNoQEiMYRepjNgjLZbMwDGe0gNH_tkisrW2TxUrmX5DL3g_QuOeiBmKSwNc4W1EKdcsXW_rMlm-_-38aANfPDafHoq-Gt/s320/DSC00741.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>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.</p><p></p>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-36839009407226312142024-02-28T10:51:00.001+00:002024-02-28T10:54:45.064+00:00Pub Crawl<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjObEKuOhytmMYGkjWDAnZSn_6IgcknOArn08dIewq6WeuXiLFn21ZsIpAgB0d4ZRNtT7DXL5hgzUT0M90Svi4uYdX_3AEFo7dtfeOgS9IVfC9A9dOuCPnDUjiXWeP4WRRV0IPLdpgdl2fa4QQJPYAVMmfjJmnREbGjj40cw-t9CcWT7-F-5qEdtKm8Wd9C/s4032/IMG_6101.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjObEKuOhytmMYGkjWDAnZSn_6IgcknOArn08dIewq6WeuXiLFn21ZsIpAgB0d4ZRNtT7DXL5hgzUT0M90Svi4uYdX_3AEFo7dtfeOgS9IVfC9A9dOuCPnDUjiXWeP4WRRV0IPLdpgdl2fa4QQJPYAVMmfjJmnREbGjj40cw-t9CcWT7-F-5qEdtKm8Wd9C/s320/IMG_6101.JPG" width="320" /></a></p>This is not a blog about trains. I know I keep saying that, and nobody ever believes me, but it's true. I know nothing about trains. I don't know numbers, classes, nothing. I <i>do</i> know when a train doesn't look right, and that was the feeling I got when a green and blue train scooted into Lichfield City station.<p></p><div>Was this... from the past?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61i7W-nlnhUhhHkrHnyS9ypwkjUQq-7JtrpeWe3OWVNw-Enj-l6-jD6gX45voENoM99vygvUpfM732iJclbrm0JpHZTJ9qR7JC1mN7Vj1Q8NKBI_E3cnm5IiRWDCJGTrQRsai-L28H-_Zcg6U7GzZohNtiGZhcWl1AAqhzQG0EHaUDj2sDuJkndI-Begn/s4032/IMG_6105.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi61i7W-nlnhUhhHkrHnyS9ypwkjUQq-7JtrpeWe3OWVNw-Enj-l6-jD6gX45voENoM99vygvUpfM732iJclbrm0JpHZTJ9qR7JC1mN7Vj1Q8NKBI_E3cnm5IiRWDCJGTrQRsai-L28H-_Zcg6U7GzZohNtiGZhcWl1AAqhzQG0EHaUDj2sDuJkndI-Begn/s320/IMG_6105.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Regional Railways? Centro? Had this train been scooting round the network for decades and nobody had thought to give it a quick refurb? On board, it seemed modern, dot matrix displays, that sort of thing. I turned to WhatsApp, where I am in a group of Men Who Like Trains, and I am very much the simple cousin who's been allowed to sit at the table with the grown ups because sometimes he does something funny. I decided to pretend I knew a little, and referenced <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/12/the-shock-of-old.html">the Merseyrail train I'd seen in British Rail colours</a>:<div><blockquote><i>I assume this is West Midlands Railway doing the "old livery" thing?</i></blockquote></div><div>Ten minutes later, <a href="https://bsky.app/profile/rincew1nd.bsky.social">Paul</a> replied:</div><div><blockquote><i>Yup</i></blockquote></div><div>See? That's a little pat on the head for me from the clever boys, a "bless, you tried". These trains are also about to be hauled off for scrap, <a href="https://www.modernrailways.com/article/regional-railways-repaint-323">so they've done a little paint job to say goodbye</a>. I like the Merseyrail one better. That British Rail blue and yellow? Iconic. This mishmash? Not so much. I expect locals are flooded with nostalgia but it's not very pretty.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtbT8Q0q5oPeDw1wxwCEjmos7t5qLfTVYwYJd4WbwBMsiBr__Gs_wFOv0MhTP4uBOWWKowQmYAJ74xLdUqwxUMWhUCXUhyphenhyphenaQ8PoU_poya-jB9OpZMDYf890j5NpZjJqoPekW5hfvoyBXlCbJURkM050374-H8LCTdENaFxVGuUF3V7WJ7aoMJkHiYJHKOE/s4032/IMG_6102.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtbT8Q0q5oPeDw1wxwCEjmos7t5qLfTVYwYJd4WbwBMsiBr__Gs_wFOv0MhTP4uBOWWKowQmYAJ74xLdUqwxUMWhUCXUhyphenhyphenaQ8PoU_poya-jB9OpZMDYf890j5NpZjJqoPekW5hfvoyBXlCbJURkM050374-H8LCTdENaFxVGuUF3V7WJ7aoMJkHiYJHKOE/s320/IMG_6102.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I was taking the train to Shenstone, where I had a wait until the next train. Shenstone is a small village more or less equidistant from Sutton Coldfield and Lichfield. It was a walkable distance to the next station but it would be along the side of an A road, and I really wasn't in the mood for that. That's no fun, swallowing diesel and hoping nobody drives through a puddle.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqVBdDhaxM8GAEUbdPCuAdA6u8sMPJ9aCfB393AgQ1fg3LWtSOI5kd5SIbyFBDCisB5y7dfpm40tCbaHID_E7O4OFOSS3TzMz5SatNxU2gkWeoWUc0XH7fvFDleg8Qb4v7WBdC8ydM04SWBKhFE0OzH-CovvzcDO1VVtEIuKZ2G2Pi_lFFtpAKpaVNWAo/s4896/DSC00664.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnqVBdDhaxM8GAEUbdPCuAdA6u8sMPJ9aCfB393AgQ1fg3LWtSOI5kd5SIbyFBDCisB5y7dfpm40tCbaHID_E7O4OFOSS3TzMz5SatNxU2gkWeoWUc0XH7fvFDleg8Qb4v7WBdC8ydM04SWBKhFE0OzH-CovvzcDO1VVtEIuKZ2G2Pi_lFFtpAKpaVNWAo/s320/DSC00664.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>There was a decent sized station building at Shenstone, nicely kept, although the ticket office and waiting room were closed. I headed to the main road for the sign selfie and a strong waft of manure drifted across from the fields. As I positioned myself, there was a sharp crack, and I wondered who was letting off fireworks in the middle of the day. Then I realised - that wasn't a firework, it was a gun. I was in the countryside now.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW4nKESYT3k7DquYxOSrUo6nO4oh2WX1qwuVfoEWLGNZLvCxK2Ht2aWzZeLAiFXEWB4noj6fnO7fBWtOpibFl9Uc4Gpku-pUirbjfHCCfQag8DY8_NYU0ibGW7RF4lPuNctLvm5KNhvBsAw_mKfhPJBPO6oC-wntv-Fp7rGFgA7PtK5ZzeoJ5gtesATM-9/s4896/DSC00667.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW4nKESYT3k7DquYxOSrUo6nO4oh2WX1qwuVfoEWLGNZLvCxK2Ht2aWzZeLAiFXEWB4noj6fnO7fBWtOpibFl9Uc4Gpku-pUirbjfHCCfQag8DY8_NYU0ibGW7RF4lPuNctLvm5KNhvBsAw_mKfhPJBPO6oC-wntv-Fp7rGFgA7PtK5ZzeoJ5gtesATM-9/s320/DSC00667.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Shenstone itself was delightful... what there was of it. This is in no way a criticism. It's a small village, it's not going to be full of endless distractions and a heady nightlife. It's a place where folk live and maybe work and raise kids. It's pretty.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJsQMFDB8VDEnNoVR7He-KdWO07X2XjC9r5CJGHKGfFK_DMZGoFeCw4VUcgl6N4JHVJmlhT9f1Nc4ggD3EjaB0IulMbpZCIds7sMdzh7KZSa6TXpiaqsVa8B_hvTfcLiJib1ErzN7qrsFsHHILU34aDrbUMq0mL0u-QRy_-kRGgRgkp79VErbpLFyVZof1/s4896/DSC00668.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJsQMFDB8VDEnNoVR7He-KdWO07X2XjC9r5CJGHKGfFK_DMZGoFeCw4VUcgl6N4JHVJmlhT9f1Nc4ggD3EjaB0IulMbpZCIds7sMdzh7KZSa6TXpiaqsVa8B_hvTfcLiJib1ErzN7qrsFsHHILU34aDrbUMq0mL0u-QRy_-kRGgRgkp79VErbpLFyVZof1/s320/DSC00668.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Main Street seemed to be the place to go. It was a mix of farmhouses and cottages, darting in and out of view, some so close to the road the pavement disappeared altogether. A 20th century parade of shops with flats above brought a butcher and a dentist and a pharmacy, with a Costcutter doubling as the post office. There was also a clock tower.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNuxlVewKVxUEVCEHToThLi6Ad6saQbjEKRbJpnj9nGSiMDkp23WHc_7TXu43omUPxXbBKhMyPfJNql8mu1zdkt9HvLJ54WBnFIusBex1_aXPbh-G75NL46WQ7G57bM6FKORLGtKk8GP62Exb_1zY6uRXALmlp4_25Fknv2nCJ4OaF95bHXPJHx68cSN3T/s4896/DSC00670.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNuxlVewKVxUEVCEHToThLi6Ad6saQbjEKRbJpnj9nGSiMDkp23WHc_7TXu43omUPxXbBKhMyPfJNql8mu1zdkt9HvLJ54WBnFIusBex1_aXPbh-G75NL46WQ7G57bM6FKORLGtKk8GP62Exb_1zY6uRXALmlp4_25Fknv2nCJ4OaF95bHXPJHx68cSN3T/s320/DSC00670.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I love a commemorative clock tower. This one was the <i>Queen Elizabeth II Coronation Diamond Jubilee Clock</i>; note they specified the <i>Coronation </i>jubilee, because the date on the side was June 2nd 2013. I imagined the villagers deciding to do something for the actual Jubilee in 2012, then they didn't raise enough money or there was a delay putting it up, and so they pretended it was to celebrate the anniversary of the coronation instead. I was pleased it worked. Ten years is a long time to keep a clock going, particularly with local government cuts and the cost of electricity. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqLR07Z9cKG2R5_dpbyY4RhkxFgFx2SLIB1dA1XJ6cf_0If5b9qYZHWzO7vG8HmPAAnVJ8hvgP6knvBKQOmI2bP57StPmzmRv6NajqdXVQCXDMUi_rhFgDluidRiEtMKpwLu9mItAolX3Vx1VXDmdLt9coobQ8tOc_ROVxEa-ewAJjCUjv6Pt8obDH5cj/s4896/DSC00673.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqLR07Z9cKG2R5_dpbyY4RhkxFgFx2SLIB1dA1XJ6cf_0If5b9qYZHWzO7vG8HmPAAnVJ8hvgP6knvBKQOmI2bP57StPmzmRv6NajqdXVQCXDMUi_rhFgDluidRiEtMKpwLu9mItAolX3Vx1VXDmdLt9coobQ8tOc_ROVxEa-ewAJjCUjv6Pt8obDH5cj/s320/DSC00673.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>The noticeboard across the way was a bit too polite for me; I like the gossipy ones, particularly if they've got the minutes of Parish Meetings <i>("the Chair once again reminded Councillor Havering that egg mayonnaise sandwiches were not to be eaten during the proceedings")</i>. There was a course of bible studies (<i>five evenings of prayer, worship and teaching delving into the Book of Jonah and exploring the depths of our hearts), </i>the usual pre-printed Slimming World flyer, a notice for half term art activities for young kids. There was a card for "Holiday Italian" and I wondered if that was a euphemism like "French Lessons". Probably not; Shenstone seemed far too respectable for that sort of thing.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRogv1nxX4MgQv3YAsQ_htA_Rnp6pgNAYFykJINAWPSKi7SbS3bWd_qIkG43r3gqUxJxenWl-Dv33lAgFnMYmfvi25SKPVQwiqIEnlzLGG2dlrq_fMfy193weSthc-gk6SR43p9hBg9v2dnsICraihuGIrpTbZqcJy9LmYQJETQOPw3VWyFVy9eTjZuQyS/s4896/DSC00675.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRogv1nxX4MgQv3YAsQ_htA_Rnp6pgNAYFykJINAWPSKi7SbS3bWd_qIkG43r3gqUxJxenWl-Dv33lAgFnMYmfvi25SKPVQwiqIEnlzLGG2dlrq_fMfy193weSthc-gk6SR43p9hBg9v2dnsICraihuGIrpTbZqcJy9LmYQJETQOPw3VWyFVy9eTjZuQyS/s320/DSC00675.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I realised I'd reached a dead end, with cul-de-sac signs indicating the end of Main Street. So I turned round and moments later I was back at the War Memorial. Oh, I thought. I still had time to kill until my train. What to do?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8B4589w76_Bxt7SGPPn9_wTF-AZDVlhPmh7_tsZqJZTHRsQLsMjHM9iqV1CGlbvBsJfjB0TgNv9Qv0Gd201PS9LMMCGYKXCxg3cIPQk7qhC28nyLhjolqhvVh_EIoy5lGGjAM9XNDQmjW0xarLM9zs4TFYbjkCDIGaVJSrqDtj38KBYlbnvyYAjJcdiI3/s4896/DSC00676.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8B4589w76_Bxt7SGPPn9_wTF-AZDVlhPmh7_tsZqJZTHRsQLsMjHM9iqV1CGlbvBsJfjB0TgNv9Qv0Gd201PS9LMMCGYKXCxg3cIPQk7qhC28nyLhjolqhvVh_EIoy5lGGjAM9XNDQmjW0xarLM9zs4TFYbjkCDIGaVJSrqDtj38KBYlbnvyYAjJcdiI3/s320/DSC00676.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>There was a pub called <i><a href="https://www.railwaypubshenstone.co.uk/">The Railway Inn</a>.</i> Ignoring it would have been criminal. <div><br /></div><div>It didn't actually feel much like a pub that lunch time. It was being used as a creche, apparently; one side of the bar was filled with soft toys, and every now and then a toddler would wander by and eye the strange old man sipping a pint. The TVs, instead of showing Sky Sports News, were tuned into CBeebies. Being a childless man in his forties, I've never watched CBeebies, but I'm happy to report it's delightful. I got the end of a programme with Bernard Cribbins (RIP) reading a story, then one of the cutest little boys I have ever seen drew a little map so his Auntie could find buried treasure in the garden, then an episode of <i>Andy's Dinosaur Adventures</i> where an overexcited man travelled back in time to paint a Stegosaurus. Another story but with Justin Fletcher and a smaller version of Hacker T Dog this time. I was absolutely charmed, and this should be rolled out on pub tellies across the nation. The sight of Cribbins smiling gently would stop at least 80% of pub fights before they started.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhixRYVHC4Ldh8bQ85QOShw5qSqGnLGUeLtMMQwFRY6MGnR87WJqsx1mRE6O7gI2LxF2fl6atLtphMvDLdCNuqSgUqPuhHAGRKSONwSMAaNXUiSISFPJ3FqXrC1_1XLuKCHMrunDnDbl3RQOIpyCIJcdiB5rOU26BTDmIZ3k2HvniLVTKgCKzU9DEPFV9-g/s4032/IMG_6106.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhixRYVHC4Ldh8bQ85QOShw5qSqGnLGUeLtMMQwFRY6MGnR87WJqsx1mRE6O7gI2LxF2fl6atLtphMvDLdCNuqSgUqPuhHAGRKSONwSMAaNXUiSISFPJ3FqXrC1_1XLuKCHMrunDnDbl3RQOIpyCIJcdiB5rOU26BTDmIZ3k2HvniLVTKgCKzU9DEPFV9-g/s320/IMG_6106.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I dragged myself away in case I got sucked into a particularly exciting episode of <i>Yakka Dee!</i> and returned to the station platform to eat my sandwich and await the train south.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqQRWY8Dfxwjhr-imxeGBPBQaiEwbA8rhUB7GU2xDQbONnhNLUDzTAJMJfpjpoEmNpgMWPTJcNsXzq61Jzk2IfwShkrrZtTONKo9gJb57fshBT2JK-yaXGIvl_S4ZVH2wsD8tkjBNdTdM-J39G23nOa_ZflGLDHvUKwMdF_I_VcqBz68WhypHZRBA-icfw/s4896/DSC00678.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqQRWY8Dfxwjhr-imxeGBPBQaiEwbA8rhUB7GU2xDQbONnhNLUDzTAJMJfpjpoEmNpgMWPTJcNsXzq61Jzk2IfwShkrrZtTONKo9gJb57fshBT2JK-yaXGIvl_S4ZVH2wsD8tkjBNdTdM-J39G23nOa_ZflGLDHvUKwMdF_I_VcqBz68WhypHZRBA-icfw/s320/DSC00678.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>A moment of applause for the mural in the bike storage area on the station, by the way. The angle of the walls and the background makes it almost 3-D. It's arresting and fascinating.<br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg684u2OArTNbd7pfCShMEYcZ5LH959Lh5YHw-n4AoijSqrq8e332iemDVWoKtVtOCJZIveoxxPmlbAA1778QGYMBBupU8isvbYWXPad9p_3PJGo67c3Oz8lJBd2GzvRYPoTyZJHmgOqE5iQiSWggAMkeDWDHWr946sHrwHbJ50SYVqkWNpC56jN5hRGfWn/s4896/DSC00679.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg684u2OArTNbd7pfCShMEYcZ5LH959Lh5YHw-n4AoijSqrq8e332iemDVWoKtVtOCJZIveoxxPmlbAA1778QGYMBBupU8isvbYWXPad9p_3PJGo67c3Oz8lJBd2GzvRYPoTyZJHmgOqE5iQiSWggAMkeDWDHWr946sHrwHbJ50SYVqkWNpC56jN5hRGfWn/s320/DSC00679.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>While Shenstone was country air and Victorian majesty, Blake Street was very much late Seventies. I walked down the staircase from the platform beneath a gleaming roof of varnished wood. It was louche and moustachioed; I expected it to offer me a brandy and tell me not to worry about a taxi home. The orange handrails just added to the air of Brut for Men. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDw9JPaF_LC04sE2IKXx6I8jJnFWyy7wv9CYdAvaDiGr51PMlkERuFLSCniQgHa3YKReELF4adNlMsbuv5emK7QEBaAw1NJkEFA9UPci3sDuQL943-2moEMItSddES_gt_oGjCDkl4yLclQjYIQfv1Uh1ZAjXqgFJQ_DEAxRVSphf6x3wymlfAhAteqYTB/s4896/DSC00680.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDw9JPaF_LC04sE2IKXx6I8jJnFWyy7wv9CYdAvaDiGr51PMlkERuFLSCniQgHa3YKReELF4adNlMsbuv5emK7QEBaAw1NJkEFA9UPci3sDuQL943-2moEMItSddES_gt_oGjCDkl4yLclQjYIQfv1Uh1ZAjXqgFJQ_DEAxRVSphf6x3wymlfAhAteqYTB/s320/DSC00680.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>The station building itself was no looker, very definitely from a time when British Rail was running on fumes, and in need of a bit of paint. A long ramp took the less able up to the platform without using the stairs; in fact the ramp was so long I could imagine a load of disabled people taking one look and deciding to go home. It would be less effort.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOpthXQgiyxIprlOVIQMWktPcfYCEQMVGVtDrnF3GMIlsnPCB1zdYqcfDfPYaQU0NsnFxFtKMw3o9AJ9917I96-U6NtVGrByMP5iyBrePUJ3wCrHsdw2tBWRILAOUwLG5jBnXjliJdxqe0p-a6IDAEsxOPVRWpum1hEkgre-6V73QYaNdY-742Xn4zMRM5/s4896/DSC00682.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOpthXQgiyxIprlOVIQMWktPcfYCEQMVGVtDrnF3GMIlsnPCB1zdYqcfDfPYaQU0NsnFxFtKMw3o9AJ9917I96-U6NtVGrByMP5iyBrePUJ3wCrHsdw2tBWRILAOUwLG5jBnXjliJdxqe0p-a6IDAEsxOPVRWpum1hEkgre-6V73QYaNdY-742Xn4zMRM5/s320/DSC00682.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I crossed the car park and posed. I say posed; I actually mean "tried not to look too gormless".</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFFLhzVxVO-pAdxrK54sIeotAvAVBzzYAE3C6uH3d-gg3pz4hrNRWNuFPSzFkMzL_U2k08YiP5XRH6X2WqkSdlUqmJIOsMUJ18Zfj_ZVtkhEE2XaOkqIMdn_O5F3wG5tExpd8JQF2ISciDSctpemwFrfdFoDQOzCTIqVP7h27o5vwK0GdD130hYPkUQ1t/s4896/DSC00685.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhFFLhzVxVO-pAdxrK54sIeotAvAVBzzYAE3C6uH3d-gg3pz4hrNRWNuFPSzFkMzL_U2k08YiP5XRH6X2WqkSdlUqmJIOsMUJ18Zfj_ZVtkhEE2XaOkqIMdn_O5F3wG5tExpd8JQF2ISciDSctpemwFrfdFoDQOzCTIqVP7h27o5vwK0GdD130hYPkUQ1t/s320/DSC00685.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Fail.</div><div><br /></div><div>The estate beyond the station dated from round about the same era as the station building. It seemed incredibly familiar to me, and after a few minutes I realised why: it was like being in Brookside Close. The houses, the way they were arranged, the look of everything - it was Manor Park all over again. At any moment Heather Haversham could've come round the corner in her 2CV, ready to tut at all the rusty ovens on the lawn across the way.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQpEyB1YdajN2iEfPGh1FrxvZXCa7nXPAxvJIkLEKcXd-m4RFERWD5vS4zie-rkhMCszXV9E8s7AEBXff9usDljQTDFxrWFxeMH7XQuMG9djhLERVKqi7Nt4-5fu6YogTEjmEXjjPm55d6b3_iq7WV-ZyX1CUZR93h29aXlXkXBx2OBoWltgpjfTMYb7lS/s4896/DSC00687.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQpEyB1YdajN2iEfPGh1FrxvZXCa7nXPAxvJIkLEKcXd-m4RFERWD5vS4zie-rkhMCszXV9E8s7AEBXff9usDljQTDFxrWFxeMH7XQuMG9djhLERVKqi7Nt4-5fu6YogTEjmEXjjPm55d6b3_iq7WV-ZyX1CUZR93h29aXlXkXBx2OBoWltgpjfTMYb7lS/s320/DSC00687.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Time had changed the houses, of course. A large portion of them had extensions on one side - proper extensions, not converted garages, <i>Billy Corkhill</i> - and electric car chargers had sprung up by the driveways. The Sutton Coldfield television mast, meanwhile, towered in the distance, slim but still menacing somehow, a shard of technology watching over the locals.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnp2WBdcSFbzICRnGl7bTzBckrGbTKPv_Nv-Qr7zhrCvfj1Fe40Tyr-DfC6upbfssS9YXRd4evP7kLQtDUXgClDLha46sJrJq6YURu7GXFyL-WGl4LSXKqV3lkCNSlElwhdQv__fKsPNI9MzkFISM8wuqYsCAibzVW2fRR6eCjIETmv49Jt7q0sCk0myRO/s4896/DSC00689.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnp2WBdcSFbzICRnGl7bTzBckrGbTKPv_Nv-Qr7zhrCvfj1Fe40Tyr-DfC6upbfssS9YXRd4evP7kLQtDUXgClDLha46sJrJq6YURu7GXFyL-WGl4LSXKqV3lkCNSlElwhdQv__fKsPNI9MzkFISM8wuqYsCAibzVW2fRR6eCjIETmv49Jt7q0sCk0myRO/s320/DSC00689.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>The road twisted this way and that, taking me through suburban sprawl, until I ended up on an older road with a set of railway cottages. It took me to the main Lichfield Road past a sprawl of red brick apartments, set among grassy embankments and parking. When did we stop building these, by the way? Every new development is fifty detached houses, three or four bedrooms, with no apartments. Flats are left for city centres when actually, there are single people and couples who'd quite like to live in a new home on the edge of town. It's like we've forgotten how to mix types of building together.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWyBbBv4BQRtsPAhOsS4oqcFe28_bTIZ6P6flouq3hiuXtmpeOWCeNU4F_78ArRNVtrkbPcSjOlEfdVJLactL23sFSvRH5jD_L74Hb8OsMwyfpoYo2viYRwX4w2X9fs8C_vZTSd2KrVCURGl61Lcpf8FGZo-np6ZDfjMMGliiqTku9XHoaJFSZUcBhlx-J/s4896/DSC00693.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWyBbBv4BQRtsPAhOsS4oqcFe28_bTIZ6P6flouq3hiuXtmpeOWCeNU4F_78ArRNVtrkbPcSjOlEfdVJLactL23sFSvRH5jD_L74Hb8OsMwyfpoYo2viYRwX4w2X9fs8C_vZTSd2KrVCURGl61Lcpf8FGZo-np6ZDfjMMGliiqTku9XHoaJFSZUcBhlx-J/s320/DSC00693.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I'm going to struggle now. The Lichfield Road was long and straight and really, quite dull. Half a mile of main road. The only features of interest:<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqWkUbxu9-KLdwIC9GrAGWwA3bILzwYddw00WL6tywmZAuvJhEu50R9vrdDt_RPRy1fNw_6tpmy-cb9e2JqpenQHz-DFVnt-P12MVWwxIQgFbP-FvC8LHzOFUc1JsJZAmu53XSsf_qdh7zTAWNfuDvYwaTBf7U3Hu0fZmDtEFRnUakCQSBXckCiwrBp9nb/s4896/DSC00696.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqWkUbxu9-KLdwIC9GrAGWwA3bILzwYddw00WL6tywmZAuvJhEu50R9vrdDt_RPRy1fNw_6tpmy-cb9e2JqpenQHz-DFVnt-P12MVWwxIQgFbP-FvC8LHzOFUc1JsJZAmu53XSsf_qdh7zTAWNfuDvYwaTBf7U3Hu0fZmDtEFRnUakCQSBXckCiwrBp9nb/s320/DSC00696.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>(a) an abandoned Christmas tree (plastic)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizE6TylxHH1DcYyOPC88BzwjCIufuW3lXkh7pcsLaIN3TeRDFNh7UarMAH4nztouOIy663_HXXsc1x-jmMHaRfyG1gIgwJBYmdOWs6uIbmlGX-heyi9gJqamwGTdmetjRRAY90CTFDhnQ58RDmL4YcnbNtlEI5lhB839VFX7Tx6Mf-WPbbcJ0jFTkK8HkK/s4896/DSC00698.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizE6TylxHH1DcYyOPC88BzwjCIufuW3lXkh7pcsLaIN3TeRDFNh7UarMAH4nztouOIy663_HXXsc1x-jmMHaRfyG1gIgwJBYmdOWs6uIbmlGX-heyi9gJqamwGTdmetjRRAY90CTFDhnQ58RDmL4YcnbNtlEI5lhB839VFX7Tx6Mf-WPbbcJ0jFTkK8HkK/s320/DSC00698.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>(b) houses set back from the main road so you could back out of your drive without interrupting the traffic flow, another design feature we seem to have forgotten how to do;<div><br /></div><div>(c) a bus stop that wasn't in use, which was so dull I didn't even take a picture of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Look, I tried, but the distance between Blake Street and Butlers Lane stations is basically a fifteen minute walk. There was nothing for me to do except...</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitsMlFFDaAABiPxhX1u6c-C24nseFcyzJM03XtWLCAQ0oeBHWspc3pwPxfy8lmodLFBuxEB5Z_G8p9Wf6JGJJjeRfcmYdU2EqqMruUJgaKjhnfzPMJWUkbXugnFnAqhg-s-Vc0Fc59rys4kgQH6Ms2KZFTwMfWURWgMKJS2NfVIFYX4bOED_H7_mmCGxxG/s4032/IMG_6109.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitsMlFFDaAABiPxhX1u6c-C24nseFcyzJM03XtWLCAQ0oeBHWspc3pwPxfy8lmodLFBuxEB5Z_G8p9Wf6JGJJjeRfcmYdU2EqqMruUJgaKjhnfzPMJWUkbXugnFnAqhg-s-Vc0Fc59rys4kgQH6Ms2KZFTwMfWURWgMKJS2NfVIFYX4bOED_H7_mmCGxxG/s320/IMG_6109.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I know, I do drink too much. If it's any consolation I'm writing this totally sober. Yes, it's 10:30 on a Wednesday morning, but it's a start. Besides, I had to visit the <a href="https://butlersarms.co.uk/">Butlers Arms</a> after I read the website and it mentioned their eclectic taste in furnishings. This mainly manifested itself in a lot of very colourful chairs, but there was also a flamingo made out of tools:<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBbhN-7pJQl4Qmel4kYgxHYN1RCPfhufnJDGwvqG5eOW6Y4Uif2fpLj5fpab-OTaDqRiW4khmZxf304STsucvRkBOOpQh2YgO2MIgbC4BApN2ZuPE9ibMkMR6rCYtkEocp8JJKETrGX4NWPY5u2SzbD31kE6_8TKGZheyWbe1hBo-rLchDBGv9en3kc699/s4032/IMG_6108.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBbhN-7pJQl4Qmel4kYgxHYN1RCPfhufnJDGwvqG5eOW6Y4Uif2fpLj5fpab-OTaDqRiW4khmZxf304STsucvRkBOOpQh2YgO2MIgbC4BApN2ZuPE9ibMkMR6rCYtkEocp8JJKETrGX4NWPY5u2SzbD31kE6_8TKGZheyWbe1hBo-rLchDBGv9en3kc699/s320/IMG_6108.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>After a pint - possibly more than one, who can say - I walked to the station round the corner. It was school chucking out time and a load of rowdy boys bounced and careened off one another outside the station. Fortunately they headed to the Birmingham bound platform, no doubt to cause havoc in the Bullring. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvQIZs_O_w46NmPhp-zRTFNR0qKDbtyd9DmPCT-DXYbnJUhSdIRGYybaOmGnEika8envRXofwp1fBDFzwKf2VMbKMkIa-v9VRunfXFZpz95VPjgBqF9OqSfRyLg4kDQ9AbPKDdC0vTfeU2C7zkfBdVNQsTJxkY6YVGxz2MfJGac9YvZ91VvhQHUmniRjZ/s4896/DSC00706.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvQIZs_O_w46NmPhp-zRTFNR0qKDbtyd9DmPCT-DXYbnJUhSdIRGYybaOmGnEika8envRXofwp1fBDFzwKf2VMbKMkIa-v9VRunfXFZpz95VPjgBqF9OqSfRyLg4kDQ9AbPKDdC0vTfeU2C7zkfBdVNQsTJxkY6YVGxz2MfJGac9YvZ91VvhQHUmniRjZ/s320/DSC00706.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Butlers Lane was a simple halt for much of its life, until the electrification of the line caused a rebuild in the Seventies. For some reason British Rail didn't think that huge amounts of sparking electricity and platforms made of wood was the greatest combination on earth. It still feels a little tucked away, a little redundant; that incredibly dull name doesn't help. Blake Street and Butlers Lane is a one-two punch of Ronseal station names.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCuXfKI874AgQY9u9CR6J2T3xSHABJhHin1QdWJ0aFl_U752DZtrasRkSpxjXqRC1yJqv_0T7HB_1E62mFWnuo-I99Zbxe-vSa345F5CaljNoUYZCnYwQOYUDFFtCCnONCJz4BDbO7rpq5XvEYGn_WIrEI-I-VXo8QqrhCjb8cAtyJEOtgt73LcKX1Opfj/s4032/IMG_6112.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCuXfKI874AgQY9u9CR6J2T3xSHABJhHin1QdWJ0aFl_U752DZtrasRkSpxjXqRC1yJqv_0T7HB_1E62mFWnuo-I99Zbxe-vSa345F5CaljNoUYZCnYwQOYUDFFtCCnONCJz4BDbO7rpq5XvEYGn_WIrEI-I-VXo8QqrhCjb8cAtyJEOtgt73LcKX1Opfj/s320/IMG_6112.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>This little jaunt crossed off the last few stations on the northern part of the Cross-City Line; everything between New Street and Lichfield has now been collected. The map is slowly disappearing. Perhaps it'll be done by the end of 2024?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYx6R5Zcou0yA-tMQuf8NXVYzQiU3qJV-Tdra3sKOXdEbWoGNrrw-_pLcba4ukjYbvyk1lflvj5lyzt6d7Dc7DoHfwHv_H-aYjQZsXg8ddSv-SHbKRXQyuE15OEw3sVrdpcd6KXz7tll0xKh7YSDFYQsHe5Imczifb7fU2bk9TxbJJZFlc4Gl-lbIZShbM/s4896/DSC00705.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYx6R5Zcou0yA-tMQuf8NXVYzQiU3qJV-Tdra3sKOXdEbWoGNrrw-_pLcba4ukjYbvyk1lflvj5lyzt6d7Dc7DoHfwHv_H-aYjQZsXg8ddSv-SHbKRXQyuE15OEw3sVrdpcd6KXz7tll0xKh7YSDFYQsHe5Imczifb7fU2bk9TxbJJZFlc4Gl-lbIZShbM/s320/DSC00705.JPG" width="240" /></a></div></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-83415425636913284132024-02-25T16:53:00.000+00:002024-02-25T16:53:22.777+00:00The Big Questions<p style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9mutqUBXCYTlvyhJQXWRfwieoX9A95faCsxwGb0_rXBIeKmszsq-zFSZTQHKnGUVFOm4Djk796pakRBTiu3moKSMfm4W8X4rDe-5uM_INVi3LtENbwvIpKilvxsPD02NX-lYLZbu7OWNQll_9bbyhuZcNRLRkyM0_YXhfFn9i6tWzCkRAyRX4JT8AaUH6/s4896/DSC00575.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9mutqUBXCYTlvyhJQXWRfwieoX9A95faCsxwGb0_rXBIeKmszsq-zFSZTQHKnGUVFOm4Djk796pakRBTiu3moKSMfm4W8X4rDe-5uM_INVi3LtENbwvIpKilvxsPD02NX-lYLZbu7OWNQll_9bbyhuZcNRLRkyM0_YXhfFn9i6tWzCkRAyRX4JT8AaUH6/s320/DSC00575.JPG" width="320" /></a></p>What is art?<p></p><div>You can make a lot of arguments about it. You can define it in all sorts of ways. To me, art is something that serves no practical purpose. It doesn't feed you or clothe you or put a roof over your head. It's merely there to make your life a bit better. It might educate you as well, tell you something about the world or human beings, but at its core art is one of those wonderful things mankind evolved to do purely to make our existence a little more tolerable.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's why I'm always keen to see artworks at railway stations. You're stood on a platform, waiting for a train that might be delayed, to take you to a job you hate. And there's a small mosaic, or a mural, or a painting, and it lifts you briefly. It makes you a bit happier. (Please note: this does not extend to pictures painted by local schoolchildren, which I really despise, because I am a miserable old git). </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEgwZhxwYNFKYGndfdFRcasP6xQQETtyFNio-paOit9i6611qDWupEvGUIcYXsTKzcls2tFM2ZGsdpXDCMB7JD3kRnA9iCg3QduK7gWag-zQpLiJUBaPYXQHeOix_Hr54JDGbHKGN7xGmZIKZgqgVajfwo_IKRw2f3be6v1r6FuU526PmiFfmL5-WyyQXU/s3640/DSC00574.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3640" data-original-width="2815" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEgwZhxwYNFKYGndfdFRcasP6xQQETtyFNio-paOit9i6611qDWupEvGUIcYXsTKzcls2tFM2ZGsdpXDCMB7JD3kRnA9iCg3QduK7gWag-zQpLiJUBaPYXQHeOix_Hr54JDGbHKGN7xGmZIKZgqgVajfwo_IKRw2f3be6v1r6FuU526PmiFfmL5-WyyQXU/s320/DSC00574.JPG" width="247" /></a></div><br /><div>The southbound platform at Lichfield Trent Valley has a large sign inlaid in a crazy paving wall. It tells you how far you are from Glasgow and London in miles. It's not a glistening nude in a Hockney or a thought provoking Whiteread but it's a little bit of pep on the platform. British Rail spent money it didn't have to putting in a tiny extra. It's art. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which is why it's annoyingly poorly treated. A picture from the other platform will make it clear why.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7j0uiYSNnHz8BiGFGs4em6pltKWLclhFuE3jZZMjZwJVN-nBSTcBHNUsPuGjbsw6XkfiZK0OjHJfH6udDzK1Jcq4fwQESEfdkaLZHzFpAD65r-YIIRvVIXVCZ-QA-NW4ianGVoYOuqdio_k6UBJU8g6bOf_SXyBk1JEIevLoIqcVwKLpIeWt9iY97H_2/s4032/IMG_6114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7j0uiYSNnHz8BiGFGs4em6pltKWLclhFuE3jZZMjZwJVN-nBSTcBHNUsPuGjbsw6XkfiZK0OjHJfH6udDzK1Jcq4fwQESEfdkaLZHzFpAD65r-YIIRvVIXVCZ-QA-NW4ianGVoYOuqdio_k6UBJU8g6bOf_SXyBk1JEIevLoIqcVwKLpIeWt9iY97H_2/s320/IMG_6114.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I would estimate there is something in the region of eight hundred and forty thousand other spots on the platform you could've put those benches. Anywhere else for a seat. But no: right in front of the Glasgow portion of the artwork, blocking it from view to all passengers and rail users. It's disrespectful and it's plain annoying. No wonder the Scots are so desperate to leave the Union.</div><div><br /></div><div>I left the station via a convoluted route that took me up onto the Birmingham bound platform then down some stairs to the northbound platform. Spoiler: over the course of the day I will use every one of these platforms, a fact that delights me way too much. It dropped me into the station car park, alongside a silver box that served as ticket office and coffee bar.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNRA_da04VJhDwl6GSNcyPhcKfClRZzhqWP1bQfUi7zuQDVTC2jg0_Xs8008gP_mvII46HRJTEGZ_fV1dhvMHEv5QTrPu3m666XrTp7Cg4v49InLVImeheSQNHTDHQjXKOnjP7HApggDYZMSqV47BorSfJwXHg7WD-BdDXZ9_TSpV_bEHL_Im6DVHptoMm/s4896/DSC00577.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNRA_da04VJhDwl6GSNcyPhcKfClRZzhqWP1bQfUi7zuQDVTC2jg0_Xs8008gP_mvII46HRJTEGZ_fV1dhvMHEv5QTrPu3m666XrTp7Cg4v49InLVImeheSQNHTDHQjXKOnjP7HApggDYZMSqV47BorSfJwXHg7WD-BdDXZ9_TSpV_bEHL_Im6DVHptoMm/s320/DSC00577.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I hate leaving a station through the car park, even more so when there's not even a path and you have to hop from one painted walkway to the next. It makes you feel second rate. <i>You're going to walk from here? What kind of loser are you? </i>I walked up to the road and took the sign selfie, much to the amusement of a gaggle of road workers across the carriageway.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaqBZq-wrfStw8HkFrlpsJGg6iEC_7rO_ORacYcWj3HtEKYZzo0He4YnW3x7JgYHxqXMQUnXHGOZY_XAVQAnlwqcnJtQeu_nYsnxKb03TVTR24ibTv1I-lAZv-xhVzw3wA4f1oZnXxIqd-r5xFYsfB6BbZrg7tBhXTaBnrH7qjuSKJMD2TIo8oPEIamlF_/s4896/DSC00579.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaqBZq-wrfStw8HkFrlpsJGg6iEC_7rO_ORacYcWj3HtEKYZzo0He4YnW3x7JgYHxqXMQUnXHGOZY_XAVQAnlwqcnJtQeu_nYsnxKb03TVTR24ibTv1I-lAZv-xhVzw3wA4f1oZnXxIqd-r5xFYsfB6BbZrg7tBhXTaBnrH7qjuSKJMD2TIo8oPEIamlF_/s320/DSC00579.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>In short, Lichfield had started badly for me. I walked towards the city centre, past a sign welcoming me to the birthplace of Dr Johnson ("a Fairtrade city") and past grass verges dotted with crocuses, purple and yellow and white. The early hint of spring. Seeing a phone box at the side of the road was retro enough; its bottom half, though, was covered with an advert for London Midland trains, the small print underneath warning me that the offer may change in 2014.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2bO_qgwhZtPoL5EMcqOBesNAEUAan6gg9u3iEdNDHMAKRs-45UuAGXem1TTEjuSeNMjurpo0WnqcYKcmY2V7qDAbUV-QH7nNNecToiwRj_x56slGkblI6hyphenhyphenv-btkwshd_pbZCcbl-ishVQZwm7Buy9nUZqLE-jsHlmjlL3UnaVgVjV5jsw9tcXJBbksC/s4896/DSC00583.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2bO_qgwhZtPoL5EMcqOBesNAEUAan6gg9u3iEdNDHMAKRs-45UuAGXem1TTEjuSeNMjurpo0WnqcYKcmY2V7qDAbUV-QH7nNNecToiwRj_x56slGkblI6hyphenhyphenv-btkwshd_pbZCcbl-ishVQZwm7Buy9nUZqLE-jsHlmjlL3UnaVgVjV5jsw9tcXJBbksC/s320/DSC00583.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The road was lined with buildings from all eras. Georgian town houses ran alongside Victorian villas and then, constructed on what used to be their gardens, modern terraces and blocks of flats. One particular row of 1970s homes was all twisted angles and living rooms above the garage, deliberately quirky, deliberately modern. Lichfield's an ancient city and the architecture showed its development.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4J3kDDKhZms0JuUNdv5LuyLrSgIMTRTU35RJw2TpIl_YQ6Ztrc8Iju5NT6i5aBz2Ikszp-q5QAtLwkZyYhkk6DKqHeyuOro_n-6m4lJs1iLgrFFJy0VNyLItNIsT3VsaZRtxFGw1WJpZAbkjaCzsJSVOBMBUmm2GsxTPSyGnCAuLIirYX3EH_yrVEvBx/s4896/DSC00586.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4J3kDDKhZms0JuUNdv5LuyLrSgIMTRTU35RJw2TpIl_YQ6Ztrc8Iju5NT6i5aBz2Ikszp-q5QAtLwkZyYhkk6DKqHeyuOro_n-6m4lJs1iLgrFFJy0VNyLItNIsT3VsaZRtxFGw1WJpZAbkjaCzsJSVOBMBUmm2GsxTPSyGnCAuLIirYX3EH_yrVEvBx/s320/DSC00586.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>The Samuel Johnson Community Hospital appeared on my right and I sighed, knowing I was going to see that name a lot more over the course of the day. The man was a genius and an incredibly important figure, of course, but you know guys, less is more. (And before anyone complains, yes, I do also think there is way too much Beatles stuff in Liverpool). </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDQ2Quz71cQnmmBbPDhB7ZhO-IeGEaV1mAKvNdoSbN4paQiaP_6JYjmr9JiL3BoWxxO1wfb-akK1ho7oZlvK4gem94R_hAeAI78Yq6gGsTKm0hrPgU76MUqNMAL03tVcL5U9c4wUKfi1DwDSQXEkvTCvILevAVROYqiVNsGxwRZnyIwTGqjCSh4rWVaOJ/s4896/DSC00589.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDQ2Quz71cQnmmBbPDhB7ZhO-IeGEaV1mAKvNdoSbN4paQiaP_6JYjmr9JiL3BoWxxO1wfb-akK1ho7oZlvK4gem94R_hAeAI78Yq6gGsTKm0hrPgU76MUqNMAL03tVcL5U9c4wUKfi1DwDSQXEkvTCvILevAVROYqiVNsGxwRZnyIwTGqjCSh4rWVaOJ/s320/DSC00589.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I'd reached the edge of the centre now, the road splitting off the traffic so I could descend the hill into the town. A man passed me talking into his mobile phone, holding it at a distance from his face so he could bark into the loudspeaker. Can I ask why this has caught on? He wasn't the first or last person I saw doing this. Is it because of <i>The Apprentice</i>? Have people decided that bunch of weird, socially inadequate money obsessed losers are somehow also role models and we should all copy their amazing calling skills? I wouldn't mind but these people are never having an interesting conversation. If you're going to make your chat publicly available, at least have the decency to be discussing a dirty affair or something.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_18fAXAiHDKp54XsCmhsDoZtrBik30vfLx01I1tJfk_UyTTQ3iA8de68q8y9-1giJXEM9H2Ry11drWSPHs2FxQcdguQiwGCNZf4q4KQNnc8Xy8KtnRQaJCs1KoaO6HKw92FhnAd4jA0mdi-5Ne3yrBWSsXeJYFb_xlWudkQuGj2WnZ2Pms5bHzCdKu1s-/s4896/DSC00592.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_18fAXAiHDKp54XsCmhsDoZtrBik30vfLx01I1tJfk_UyTTQ3iA8de68q8y9-1giJXEM9H2Ry11drWSPHs2FxQcdguQiwGCNZf4q4KQNnc8Xy8KtnRQaJCs1KoaO6HKw92FhnAd4jA0mdi-5Ne3yrBWSsXeJYFb_xlWudkQuGj2WnZ2Pms5bHzCdKu1s-/s320/DSC00592.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I could tell I was approaching the heart of Lichfield because there was a shift in the stores. One minute it was a firework shop and a takeaway, the next there was a store called Paraphernalia and a place offering Beginners Tassel Making Workshops. I was getting into fancy, aspiration land, and that was before I'd reached the private dining restaurant and the wood-timbered branch of Boots. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdeuumCcabaTJINDYNSFZXwglDjhQO_9yZW59pUc_w-z8CzxSyzG-joHLlUqTKeCKlt1bJwzV2nhXVYyGwpmwNg0CMwqSSQgs00vkQ-PkqHGEoLMuHQFZk9iaiNoH1yLomOmM5gpdD-obTm15yfE_Re2hdQgjE3CCR5cVqAJg5dQ6P3se4U11T1UqIr1Qr/s4896/DSC00597.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdeuumCcabaTJINDYNSFZXwglDjhQO_9yZW59pUc_w-z8CzxSyzG-joHLlUqTKeCKlt1bJwzV2nhXVYyGwpmwNg0CMwqSSQgs00vkQ-PkqHGEoLMuHQFZk9iaiNoH1yLomOmM5gpdD-obTm15yfE_Re2hdQgjE3CCR5cVqAJg5dQ6P3se4U11T1UqIr1Qr/s320/DSC00597.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I was being charmed by Lichfield, and if you're a regular reader (hello you!) you'll know that doesn't happen often. It was historic but still felt alive, not an open air museum. I turned into the Market Square, home of the Samuel Johnson Birthplace and, of course, the obligatory statue:<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglIF8ycirnNm5x7p9F8KnMRQ5NVdbfaUbniFucn38a9fnHIiuX4QkAqjulh7huz41901tziwccxDWZzZJDcMkjvIIrpCuIWrICixVABc6MPnfNAJTqjBJr7jTAcFZS3LgNH7pe97jboj6cpfO3nNGklseSujglef_IpKL494YRjYyW5EZmeSEhylgI4DgF/s4896/DSC00603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglIF8ycirnNm5x7p9F8KnMRQ5NVdbfaUbniFucn38a9fnHIiuX4QkAqjulh7huz41901tziwccxDWZzZJDcMkjvIIrpCuIWrICixVABc6MPnfNAJTqjBJr7jTAcFZS3LgNH7pe97jboj6cpfO3nNGklseSujglef_IpKL494YRjYyW5EZmeSEhylgI4DgF/s320/DSC00603.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>...but also the home of a load of banks, and people bustling about. It was a market square I could imagine hosting a market, which is often a rarity, as local authorities seem far more keen to turn them into car parks. I felt like this had been the hub of the city for centuries.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgywVNBGtoPIGp4_jW9oip11vVDkQ9Xk3C-CQjkpS2bzkDtXQJoHgiB4EaVzJR3C3BaiOdmP4oGDZpAXN9cmfMY83qmvv7h53XENkZPkwvO3ryDCMh_e_1J6sVU-NE1DQ05LGnDAbhavute4AWdgnJQLYXqAXyTuXn2jugyDrpe7tOfzX92zv3NU8vLIc_v/s4896/DSC00607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgywVNBGtoPIGp4_jW9oip11vVDkQ9Xk3C-CQjkpS2bzkDtXQJoHgiB4EaVzJR3C3BaiOdmP4oGDZpAXN9cmfMY83qmvv7h53XENkZPkwvO3ryDCMh_e_1J6sVU-NE1DQ05LGnDAbhavute4AWdgnJQLYXqAXyTuXn2jugyDrpe7tOfzX92zv3NU8vLIc_v/s320/DSC00607.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>From there it was a gentle stroll past a man cutting carpet in the street to the Minster Pool, the city's former mill pond that divides the cathedral hill from the city. Even on a cold February it was a centre for walkers and families, taking in a little break amongst the ducks.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtgXtY0OkHi2VqB4NVDtpglPFndTASjXH5qy47Om9wr4HtKUnaXLsJ_L-twG2pMaWbQ_Vs7lT7BddvadylGR7iI0Qm_24fMc_0R-0B4h7qRpOqYLvvzb-eI8QpUzgHcjaX7Wp8w02C7-x3rPColCMdYG0Hk-3AiSNvv6XCTxBYN0V8NZS6znJRcS7CrmQ8/s4896/DSC00609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtgXtY0OkHi2VqB4NVDtpglPFndTASjXH5qy47Om9wr4HtKUnaXLsJ_L-twG2pMaWbQ_Vs7lT7BddvadylGR7iI0Qm_24fMc_0R-0B4h7qRpOqYLvvzb-eI8QpUzgHcjaX7Wp8w02C7-x3rPColCMdYG0Hk-3AiSNvv6XCTxBYN0V8NZS6znJRcS7CrmQ8/s320/DSC00609.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I walked over the dam that created the mill pond and into the cathedral close, a cobbled street that curled past the kind of houses that turn up in period dramas. I imagine the BBC has been here a few times, spraying fake snow in the road and having Martin Chuzzlewit wander about blowing into his hands even though it was actually June. <br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghdN43lpkvoqwwoOtJeri8ZsKAzt64eFYJ3bgdFFZha9BWSyvHkrGzumLQWNr8vh-0PslMEzmeUO02BDnZAtc8ObNjE1iGcDN7wapZk9Lj53JuCUtAvXs5Xr675ntWSgOZC78XT8Pn8pfGG92GZ6NaZzgIXAv_U61uM_x-GTs2xush7u34PqUO0yliNrss/s4896/DSC00612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghdN43lpkvoqwwoOtJeri8ZsKAzt64eFYJ3bgdFFZha9BWSyvHkrGzumLQWNr8vh-0PslMEzmeUO02BDnZAtc8ObNjE1iGcDN7wapZk9Lj53JuCUtAvXs5Xr675ntWSgOZC78XT8Pn8pfGG92GZ6NaZzgIXAv_U61uM_x-GTs2xush7u34PqUO0yliNrss/s320/DSC00612.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Obviously, the cathedral was undergoing refurbishment works when I arrived, because this is my curse. Still, it didn't prepare me for the West Front.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2DBIVI7n0QKPlfLfqFATJUGRtfSH67Tr12yrIK27-qKAiNPSDuokS_PJYblANov3YeprpOTTkmbOgzxEM6acrKykZAyDqhi5ojZK_Zqdfauj1HqBdJGMD3Tdwa4w8QX0FJAgHT2tRRgLDryGc0Pf1U_SJJClelV7u5qitYgm23DraZ64Zg66aTIA5pnd/s4896/DSC00614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2DBIVI7n0QKPlfLfqFATJUGRtfSH67Tr12yrIK27-qKAiNPSDuokS_PJYblANov3YeprpOTTkmbOgzxEM6acrKykZAyDqhi5ojZK_Zqdfauj1HqBdJGMD3Tdwa4w8QX0FJAgHT2tRRgLDryGc0Pf1U_SJJClelV7u5qitYgm23DraZ64Zg66aTIA5pnd/s320/DSC00614.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I actually gasped when I turned the corner and saw the main part of the cathedral. Dozens of figures filling niches across the end, each carefully crafted, intricate and stunning. I stood there for a few moments, staring, taking it in. I'd been in two minds whether to visit the cathedral, as a dyed in the wool heathen, but that view convinced me I'd have to go inside.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheo4h_XLc8Wm3EZlo20mYNIIP4gVnY452j9N9WcH2tMGIZIEVkPYHF3krLvGzswQCp7Y7L-SEy_POWtBh9P2DTG8FA17vXxtFMPS8PkAJSgT9F62mKuvpPk-h8ZnucR74Wlu4u___0HMRC6NR-gfvNunslB3Oruot9TazEzpUlK4NeL5uNBrQbRPF6S3Ee/s4896/DSC00618.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheo4h_XLc8Wm3EZlo20mYNIIP4gVnY452j9N9WcH2tMGIZIEVkPYHF3krLvGzswQCp7Y7L-SEy_POWtBh9P2DTG8FA17vXxtFMPS8PkAJSgT9F62mKuvpPk-h8ZnucR74Wlu4u___0HMRC6NR-gfvNunslB3Oruot9TazEzpUlK4NeL5uNBrQbRPF6S3Ee/s320/DSC00618.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Of course, it didn't disappoint. There's been a place of worship here for over a thousand years and every inch of it resonated with history and pride. A cathedral in a smaller city doesn't get lost amongst the mass of people outside - it stays a focal point. I wandered the aisles, reading the plaques, glancing at the statuary, listening to the blunt honk of the organ as they tested single note after single note. <br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-D7I_YBkqyj6EErAE_eFu41XhluVn6V8Gy2IJdBYVLtLt_t_N-YCpLJCHmQSwRnBKZuhJ1LjNM4qSxwBRqsBMyfNHfkprLN6Vw6jCGr6xNw8rdX8ivEVdpyNn7j7eyNHNVIf47VzawgJ9B0TKiE3l_HsVXVQ9qV4L8MyqiRkB8A2FOuJk7GM93SByOPL/s4896/DSC00629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH-D7I_YBkqyj6EErAE_eFu41XhluVn6V8Gy2IJdBYVLtLt_t_N-YCpLJCHmQSwRnBKZuhJ1LjNM4qSxwBRqsBMyfNHfkprLN6Vw6jCGr6xNw8rdX8ivEVdpyNn7j7eyNHNVIf47VzawgJ9B0TKiE3l_HsVXVQ9qV4L8MyqiRkB8A2FOuJk7GM93SByOPL/s320/DSC00629.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I don't believe in God, never have, apart from a weird period aged about six when I became obsessed with Jesus as a sort of ancient Paul Daniels who could turn up on a cloud and practice magic. Walking in the cathedral though I could see how it worked. Imagine being a tiny medieval peasant and stepping into this house of the Lord. You'd be overawed and overwhelmed by its size, its magnificence, its sheer power. I felt tiny and I've been inside much larger structures. (Insert joke here). </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiexr6slaAmuULE_EYYvJ_qrvrAShcGiV8Z1pl0SywfW7cYGmvlsH8lKpPwz0jrs20Gh1WW97gBQhOnQzeK_HNKNy_eHI2lBz_MwkjOGKslccinGwutXbJbi5zAp-1Zo80LRSTIBXOD191wFJdNYRZbK8FIAbySaxjs-t4YAPzov-E1Odd-MFilMEkPo-pN/s4896/DSC00625.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiexr6slaAmuULE_EYYvJ_qrvrAShcGiV8Z1pl0SywfW7cYGmvlsH8lKpPwz0jrs20Gh1WW97gBQhOnQzeK_HNKNy_eHI2lBz_MwkjOGKslccinGwutXbJbi5zAp-1Zo80LRSTIBXOD191wFJdNYRZbK8FIAbySaxjs-t4YAPzov-E1Odd-MFilMEkPo-pN/s320/DSC00625.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>The most awe-inspiring element for me, however, was to one side, in the Chapter House. Housed in a glass case, open to show a couple of pages, was the St Chad Gospels. This is a religious text that has been in the possession of the Cathedral since at least the Tenth Century, and was probably written a couple of hundred years before that. It contains some of the earliest written Welsh, as well as inked illustrations.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6JjfMQT5z9c5vPgjD3hjk9xlD7DUZ3i1_m4oHJOBaOTWUSPeYjNHUe-Gb5L7bg7excuKTyCT8UqOAsL4ft1d8bZjNdyUVjUS4i744k98XtNt2XVMAJ684ZH7zS-U7bESTNShLqAAFB3v7j88xNsBcm6HjlElXf22esCLWdZSYuUYWfSLNkcA5Yy54k7o/s4896/DSC00632.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6JjfMQT5z9c5vPgjD3hjk9xlD7DUZ3i1_m4oHJOBaOTWUSPeYjNHUe-Gb5L7bg7excuKTyCT8UqOAsL4ft1d8bZjNdyUVjUS4i744k98XtNt2XVMAJ684ZH7zS-U7bESTNShLqAAFB3v7j88xNsBcm6HjlElXf22esCLWdZSYuUYWfSLNkcA5Yy54k7o/s320/DSC00632.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I stood and stared at the book for longer than was polite. That book predated the Norman Conquest; it came from a time we know very little about. It was there, in front of me, a piece of human history from 1300 years ago. It had passed through thousands of hands, almost all of whom were now long dead. We're a speck of nothingness on the planet, a fraction of its existence; each life is fleeting and insignificant. This book transcended us all.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOq2jThcCDrnf_WExchoKrZhavGKYUMyLzMm-ssEIsLIlqUUvJ5ZMT3EkY6hhoDTGZHSW-Ff-OGGXo_U_iDZrf4-DZTVCpjwzdTJhouYOxjKMdU8ZpSiqR0X1EltjjEwVPFyEz0P5yGDzTpWtn7zuaTh66uie9GmgaFfdi8jyE0wLWNUadfrXDcTJT_7B/s4896/DSC00637.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOq2jThcCDrnf_WExchoKrZhavGKYUMyLzMm-ssEIsLIlqUUvJ5ZMT3EkY6hhoDTGZHSW-Ff-OGGXo_U_iDZrf4-DZTVCpjwzdTJhouYOxjKMdU8ZpSiqR0X1EltjjEwVPFyEz0P5yGDzTpWtn7zuaTh66uie9GmgaFfdi8jyE0wLWNUadfrXDcTJT_7B/s320/DSC00637.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I stepped back out into the garden at the front of the cathedral, a little annoyed. Why had nobody ever told me about Lichfield? I'd known it as a name, in passing. I'd seen it on signs. Nobody had ever told me it was so charming, so pretty, so eminently visitable. It was like a less pretentious Chester.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilV376-umPjgu_zrlIYaXKYc9PNmBW9um6H93JyxOiN5s1NhL3gdQZnhXORDEl9JT2KI22CL9eNmB3ij5RU9rVm7aIIuJQVu1KDszyAOGUCl1KU9PKGQBGBKxii4SDLPrdES3lopfE7XzqibG8nFTdo8R9IgAzF5RG8AGpkWFt6esR2x9sS7tP4Dx1_jjq/s4896/DSC00640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilV376-umPjgu_zrlIYaXKYc9PNmBW9um6H93JyxOiN5s1NhL3gdQZnhXORDEl9JT2KI22CL9eNmB3ij5RU9rVm7aIIuJQVu1KDszyAOGUCl1KU9PKGQBGBKxii4SDLPrdES3lopfE7XzqibG8nFTdo8R9IgAzF5RG8AGpkWFt6esR2x9sS7tP4Dx1_jjq/s320/DSC00640.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Back past the foot of the Minster Pool, into the centre again, to what seemed to be the nightlife part of the city, with restaurants and pubs trying to tempt me in. There was that man again:<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGIo8fl05SXp1hT4Rt968yflkBbNB-EuitAAELMy3NnYRbs7EAqXBcFy6elANFh0S6HRjRsmNfIhQ8VWRAQY1juDzpecWzDso8INpvr2xcHyTuDl0xi1zbmogw0XZEuKmcrR3SE5pGMVa6vlg4J-ny_w0pIQv6LWrGPbHFQEwIHnUdQkDUcJmJ1xcSHaI/s4896/DSC00641.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGIo8fl05SXp1hT4Rt968yflkBbNB-EuitAAELMy3NnYRbs7EAqXBcFy6elANFh0S6HRjRsmNfIhQ8VWRAQY1juDzpecWzDso8INpvr2xcHyTuDl0xi1zbmogw0XZEuKmcrR3SE5pGMVa6vlg4J-ny_w0pIQv6LWrGPbHFQEwIHnUdQkDUcJmJ1xcSHaI/s320/DSC00641.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Samuel Johnson seems to look vaguely baffled in every single picture. It's as though he thoroughly disapproves of whatever you're getting up to in several centuries time.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWOYoHg16vFWo6ybNw6wCivQcOi16cO4xAMbnhyGO_UQGmO3imOaxSS9kxAMj-QCYuuV9PTwTf1pS7OlrDYr9ZF7LcLWvix0p-W6krmvbP1k6s_ztMIAcEpgHHQ_OuQ8goAJzIYb3QKyNTIk5xYXXkYmW7I6W2pL35Lz9_mg6QtgKThuP_qPePs_2f736j/s4896/DSC00644.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWOYoHg16vFWo6ybNw6wCivQcOi16cO4xAMbnhyGO_UQGmO3imOaxSS9kxAMj-QCYuuV9PTwTf1pS7OlrDYr9ZF7LcLWvix0p-W6krmvbP1k6s_ztMIAcEpgHHQ_OuQ8goAJzIYb3QKyNTIk5xYXXkYmW7I6W2pL35Lz9_mg6QtgKThuP_qPePs_2f736j/s320/DSC00644.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Eventually I reached the edge and the spell was broken. The cars returned. The buildings became more basic and prosaic. The hustle came back. I reached the station, and was initially impressed with it: a stout red brick building from 1882.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF81EWmLqw8-2oJiW9kPR6jNqUNUPdSl3qOyQHMnSIHB0Vo1ybqOb0_IFHhLok9_vJVCUHlMDZE_rMqGbkbMQKGj_uBSG7h7q7LxPG0jIZYZ6D5zJIauGM6kayNNICfIpiu_6Zxe-wat59KwBZTWpLkEazaDit5nH5BoZ6xUHceotBXHE1DgEdgOhoOAWE/s4896/DSC00650.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF81EWmLqw8-2oJiW9kPR6jNqUNUPdSl3qOyQHMnSIHB0Vo1ybqOb0_IFHhLok9_vJVCUHlMDZE_rMqGbkbMQKGj_uBSG7h7q7LxPG0jIZYZ6D5zJIauGM6kayNNICfIpiu_6Zxe-wat59KwBZTWpLkEazaDit5nH5BoZ6xUHceotBXHE1DgEdgOhoOAWE/s320/DSC00650.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>In close up, though, it disappointed. The facilities for passengers were a tiny ticket office - the rest of the building was sealed away from sight. I walked past the waiting cabbies and down a subway to the steps to the island platform.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVilZO3euBDUH-JUpLTqVgi720V46q03DbQwQzLN98qJpju_hwWw-WlnjKxynAewAL1IbkDVzAs5DiwiepXLcLN6BHJ5Ryb16jOHUAoajZOO4ndHW-j0kcAZ1tt2VJkU2lk3ffnXZn0XLHqQP2Wri7NbpeBFG2Mgte37CcBFRWUeUblTakUmYxJcd_0Sel/s4896/DSC00655.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVilZO3euBDUH-JUpLTqVgi720V46q03DbQwQzLN98qJpju_hwWw-WlnjKxynAewAL1IbkDVzAs5DiwiepXLcLN6BHJ5Ryb16jOHUAoajZOO4ndHW-j0kcAZ1tt2VJkU2lk3ffnXZn0XLHqQP2Wri7NbpeBFG2Mgte37CcBFRWUeUblTakUmYxJcd_0Sel/s320/DSC00655.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>At least here they'd maintained the historic look, with period-appropriate painting and nicely restored awnings. The waiting room was locked up tight but still, if you squinted, you could just about pretend you was waiting for a steam train.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgheAMU4qV1JXU67XkrDzM0-7Vg-fSOyAZYlKmggZy8qr764pz-9xd0DYbNYObTU-mFZAeDdVtGgY1u0ykC2OgH1pPL5Oneg9Lfn9r6S3L1KaaClNPqACXRY3sMRs3XaVauPLWFYcf6-x0wn459A-IJj8fZFh_z9lyJl4cLv6utk0Byn1iQJFJK4jTPoXi9/s4896/DSC00657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgheAMU4qV1JXU67XkrDzM0-7Vg-fSOyAZYlKmggZy8qr764pz-9xd0DYbNYObTU-mFZAeDdVtGgY1u0ykC2OgH1pPL5Oneg9Lfn9r6S3L1KaaClNPqACXRY3sMRs3XaVauPLWFYcf6-x0wn459A-IJj8fZFh_z9lyJl4cLv6utk0Byn1iQJFJK4jTPoXi9/s320/DSC00657.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Lichfield in short then: nice city. Shame about the stations.Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-19631632929162290992024-02-02T23:17:00.000+00:002024-02-02T23:17:56.452+00:00Strangers On A Train<p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Wednesday, 31st January 2024</i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i>22:37 Wirral Line train from James Street to West Kirby</i></b></p><p>Late train. Happy train. The arena's emptied, the football's ended, Liverpool won handsomely. People, voices, joy. Excited chatter all around me. I slide into the single seat, my favourite seat, crammed between a set of four and the doors. </p><p>Across from me is a girl, 20s, leaning against the window and eating a sandwich slowly. Each bite is tired and deliberate. Her hair is pinned behind her, her flat shoes tucked beneath the seat, a black apron dangling down over her black skirt. Her puffa jacket covers the expected plain white blouse. She's been working all night, a restaurant, a bar, and now she's finally got time for food and herself. In front of her, on the set of four, two nice ladies in big fake fur coats and leopardskin scarves analyse the show they've just seen - <i>"I thought that was Craig but it was Anton. He must've got changed." </i>Wedged alongside them is a girl of about ten in her best dress and her best hair looking giddy. She's a dancer, you know she is, a little starlet bouncing around in a leotard on a Saturday morning, and the evening of <i>Strictly</i> has thrilled her into silence. Her mum has unzipped her ankle boots now that the evening has come to an end.</p><p>There's the shift of sound as we leave the tunnel after Conway Park. The new trains don't rattle, don't crash in the tunnel, so the burst into the open air isn't as dramatic; the wheels aren't fighting with the tunnel walls any more. Instead there's a gasp, a let out of breath, as it hits Birkenhead Park. The station is blue in the night light with specks of white from high LEDs. </p><p>A bald football fan, earbuds in, staring at his phone, doesn't raise his eyes. He's alone and taking in the win. <i>Four one! </i> We're all on our way home. Nobody is passing elsewhere, not at this time; we all boarded in Liverpool and now we're being distributed, scattered. At North, Mum and Daughter disembark with a kiss for Auntie, and I see that the girl is wearing an impeccable red dance frock, a red handbag slung across her front. She's made up to look grown up but it somehow makes her look even tinier. There's a burst of laughter from behind me, another group of nice ladies, their giggles tired. They've enjoyed themselves and loved it but now they want that cup of tea.</p><p>I'm in the front of the train, behind the driver's cab, and so Bidston looks even more silent and deserted than normal. Nobody wants to come this far. There's a strange buzz in the background that seems to come from all around us. I smell burning. A cigarette? Maybe. It's thicker, dirtier, without the tang of nicotine. I think of the buzz and wonder if it's an alarm.</p><p><i>"Oh my God that is so funny!"</i> says someone without laughing. The voices are dying down now. We're far enough from town for the chat to have run out. The post mortems are over. Now it's companionable silence, a look out the window into the black.</p><p><i>"The next station stop will be mmmmppphhhh." </i>Something's happened to the computer voice; she can't say Moreton. A little couple get up to disembark, the first person to leave this part of the train since Birkenhead North. They wear the same blue anoraks with their hoods pulled up and smile broadly as they pass. He pauses to hold her hand as she steps off the train. As we start again the bald man stands up and walks to the doors for the next station, never raising his eyes from his phone. It doesn't seem to be playing a video; he's using it as a defence, an avoidance tactic.</p><p>Something's gone wrong with the computer voice. She can't say Meols now, the same muffled gurgle, like someone has gagged her with chloroform. The scrolling info is still telling us Moreton is next even as we pull into the station. The waitress and Auntie get off at Meols too, the waitress having tucked her empty sandwich wrapper into her handbag to take to a bin.</p><p>A single, bright <i>ding</i> of somebody's text alert. The computer voice thinks Manor Road is Meols but no, hang on, here she is again; she's caught up. She's sorted. We're at Manor Road and she's saying Manor Road. Now we're emptier I can hear a woman in the very front set of seats. A fortnight in Majorca soon and then September in Pattaya and David's going to Cambodia. <i>"Nice," </i>says her friend. <i>"Amazing."</i> The sheds behind Hoylake slide into view and the train becomes more hollow still. Barely a dozen of us left.</p><p>We are now approaching West Kirby, where this train terminates, and another train speeds past us on the other track, helpfully vacating the platform for us. The buzzing noise comes back as I watch the orange circle of a signal recede into the distance. Slowing, slowing, slowing, then the primary colours of the Aldi logo behind the station, and the white lights under the canopy flooding into the carriage. Uncurl yourself. End of the line.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw8t2NfRws7lIxWWX3KSUVPEHqRMkX3gyaju8QER8uXhujELTRVjzULYmU2LEMSK05KuJigz7084HuFGhmhB5V2C_NuJC7Uza87CWHojLtjIDOMLPR7L2saC4QgsCg4yc1HYTorO8g8-KVfpHZDWSvqA51obWUdQz0P2AnKlYr3yW4n533CRhAzl2vzYeK/s4032/IMG_5802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw8t2NfRws7lIxWWX3KSUVPEHqRMkX3gyaju8QER8uXhujELTRVjzULYmU2LEMSK05KuJigz7084HuFGhmhB5V2C_NuJC7Uza87CWHojLtjIDOMLPR7L2saC4QgsCg4yc1HYTorO8g8-KVfpHZDWSvqA51obWUdQz0P2AnKlYr3yW4n533CRhAzl2vzYeK/s320/IMG_5802.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p></p>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-22893038283102646432024-01-25T11:58:00.003+00:002024-01-26T17:25:14.841+00:00All I Need To Please Me<p><i></i></p><blockquote><p><i><b>"How far does your expertise extend into the field of diamonds?"</b></i></p><p><i><b>"Well... Hardest substance found in nature. They cut glass, suggest marriage - I suppose they replaced a dog as a girl's best friend. And that's about it."</b></i></p></blockquote><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjbPJmu6sCLmUH7XO1B8CemJlNADGw6FP5VLuHNisv2Q5pUpo6mx-trvmywGiw7fYChbCT-3k2l93HnY-H-dClHqmlMPbigapgwKTF-3VsexIrVMrd5WPCR9r0aL5pre0hr3OlvYRSguH-dBoC9AYX21sYq2FXNBbn2ZrNWfhdvH0GsJKW7cZyflA29sUq/s4896/DSC00479.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjbPJmu6sCLmUH7XO1B8CemJlNADGw6FP5VLuHNisv2Q5pUpo6mx-trvmywGiw7fYChbCT-3k2l93HnY-H-dClHqmlMPbigapgwKTF-3VsexIrVMrd5WPCR9r0aL5pre0hr3OlvYRSguH-dBoC9AYX21sYq2FXNBbn2ZrNWfhdvH0GsJKW7cZyflA29sUq/s320/DSC00479.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Not every station has to have a unique USP, but it's nice when they do. The Hawthorns has two. The first is that it is a train and a tram stop. The Hawthorns is the point where the line to Smethwick and the tram line diverge, and a station was built to take advantage of this. This means that - for the first time in the history of this blog - there's a station sign with both the West Midlands Railway and Midland Metro logos on it.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4eys9H5uFFGdm5xl35dbSigma1l7KGhm45nlOtKby9xA-nwBAdoQelbyygSduOpBnsUV8BioaBQj6NO7jr29AO3uslQPy9um00keXyFs_D_uZmMfPfNX5p98D9ji66872qMeIYoPlVB1s8dbeHaXK_N4aFdGqL9mooj3WLUXm_R3J_ZlpA_NoL4o-oxbc/s4896/DSC00487.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4eys9H5uFFGdm5xl35dbSigma1l7KGhm45nlOtKby9xA-nwBAdoQelbyygSduOpBnsUV8BioaBQj6NO7jr29AO3uslQPy9um00keXyFs_D_uZmMfPfNX5p98D9ji66872qMeIYoPlVB1s8dbeHaXK_N4aFdGqL9mooj3WLUXm_R3J_ZlpA_NoL4o-oxbc/s320/DSC00487.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div>OK, <i><b>I</b></i> was excited.</div><div><br /></div>The Hawthorns' other selling point is that it's a stadium station. There was a halt here for a while for football specials, but only in the 90s did a proper station arrive giving access to the West Bromwich Albion ground round the corner. As you'd expect, the station puts this right up front on the station signs:<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcc1gRTB1ypI6HImvRTeGW2bE1YQGZ2_CfE8g6-NGq4HffluN2SS_YQ1numwg_3fERiA9oR9W4Qv_yYz27bbgj5vL8sIXUhHAjtfTQ-6qVaTlny7j6N4xpmtDOG1zuoz7f66mIVj3gBj3RIkSr97hpLOa4YJVOvBbhCQwMh_BAkDmdaxS6FGg9E5kZ9JYH/s4896/DSC00477.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcc1gRTB1ypI6HImvRTeGW2bE1YQGZ2_CfE8g6-NGq4HffluN2SS_YQ1numwg_3fERiA9oR9W4Qv_yYz27bbgj5vL8sIXUhHAjtfTQ-6qVaTlny7j6N4xpmtDOG1zuoz7f66mIVj3gBj3RIkSr97hpLOa4YJVOvBbhCQwMh_BAkDmdaxS6FGg9E5kZ9JYH/s320/DSC00477.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It's the West Brom stadium that gives the station its somewhat delicate and countryfied name; if you didn't know better, you'd think it served an elegant cul-de-sac of semis. As it is the station is wedged behind factories and a Park and Ride car park. I came out of the wrong entrance, and realised I was walking away from the actual football ground, so I took a side alley to get back on track. It was named Roger Horton Way, after a former local councillor - a slightly ostentatious name for what's basically a cut through between back gardens and the railway tracks.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiEIpiVsC7oKJswW6ywr2xKw_YbDi5nTlKG9nfE8ugQn3iVIzPXMxnzVQwlPnFw73dAAdCfXbLcP9fOUimGqzD-FowvnWoPLpSEis6JO5XTNBzlRpHzrdTZs24RdfrmA-Amd3rGe1fFfQ-xNT3WUZK0HX1qNXNttZdPoLpXZstmGNN02peFcAubqI6WHp0/s4896/DSC00490.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiEIpiVsC7oKJswW6ywr2xKw_YbDi5nTlKG9nfE8ugQn3iVIzPXMxnzVQwlPnFw73dAAdCfXbLcP9fOUimGqzD-FowvnWoPLpSEis6JO5XTNBzlRpHzrdTZs24RdfrmA-Amd3rGe1fFfQ-xNT3WUZK0HX1qNXNttZdPoLpXZstmGNN02peFcAubqI6WHp0/s320/DSC00490.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Long term readers (hello you!) will know that I love a good sports stadium. I'll go out of my way to have a look at one. And West Brom's ground is... not a good sports stadium. It gets the job done, don't get me wrong. But while other grounds feel like modern, futuristic venues, gleaming with money and entertainment options, West Brom harks back to the days of football hooligans and kettling.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wC0p_vXYdffUPXjW65gytcvYTMho_iUyLx4a5c05CRjuOpx-DBZJpoPlEn9xym0x5IvKW_42jsHq9oG_B2fSUV-W8XNkNBNyFfiD_Rv8_50tI46PcRD5KV27K2OvYiWOQk67wKdJ2fCFELF5R_Ctj8sCH5UccJrmFg0bF1R1Vb_DLGbUIuWpy4nAh1aO/s4896/DSC00491.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wC0p_vXYdffUPXjW65gytcvYTMho_iUyLx4a5c05CRjuOpx-DBZJpoPlEn9xym0x5IvKW_42jsHq9oG_B2fSUV-W8XNkNBNyFfiD_Rv8_50tI46PcRD5KV27K2OvYiWOQk67wKdJ2fCFELF5R_Ctj8sCH5UccJrmFg0bF1R1Vb_DLGbUIuWpy4nAh1aO/s320/DSC00491.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Walking round The Hawthorns was like walking around a fortress. Hard brick walls butted right up against the pavement, with gate after gate ready to eject unruly patrons. This was a tough, working class football ground, not a fancy pants all purpose stadia. (Obviously, as someone who grew up with <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/09/dart-to-past.html">Kenilworth Road</a> as their local ground, I have absolutely no legs to stand on and criticise). All of Birmingham's football teams have this slightly chippy, unglamorous air to them, ducking in and out of the top flight, mainly arguing with their local rivals. As I write this, Aston Villa are fourth in the Premier League, and yet nobody's really taking them seriously as a threat; they're getting a pat on the head for doing well and then the Liverpool and Manchester and London clubs are turning away to have a chat among themselves over who's actually going to win this thing.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-JkfhOmUmETDXnj5eD3A9cGJuzIvJu_l5MOoOp9F4FfSaIRTuyAvlsZpaHlU20-HH8jjNUza0e2_YzttBhPfv39zSE3y-E8Km_q_Qrya30gwtKngYga8GcIMJpylg51rOGb9UGpIo8I5HovWTJ5I1FV9oagyb84pgeio9BaPbaWOpPE5eEN4OLZ9fkY1/s4896/DSC00492.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD-JkfhOmUmETDXnj5eD3A9cGJuzIvJu_l5MOoOp9F4FfSaIRTuyAvlsZpaHlU20-HH8jjNUza0e2_YzttBhPfv39zSE3y-E8Km_q_Qrya30gwtKngYga8GcIMJpylg51rOGb9UGpIo8I5HovWTJ5I1FV9oagyb84pgeio9BaPbaWOpPE5eEN4OLZ9fkY1/s320/DSC00492.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I will say, of the four big West Midlands clubs, West Brom is my favourite. First, it's got the best name - <i>West Bromwich Albion</i>. What an interesting confluence of words. That it shortens to West Brom is a bonus. It has a stylish kit, with blue and white stripes. And it has the best famous followers. Aston Villa claims Prince William and David Cameron, so they can sod right off; West Brom on the other hand has Sir Frank Skinner and King of the Random Aside, Adrian Chiles. You can't compete with that, sorry.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvq0JoMYfXprWOTfcDAewmmPT5X1YhyaipnZzVcHrFzj5O9vqf-3xxOLAd-RSwd_BU0bcxNuiPeVw6sGlh9xdqN-GGg3ma9iIj6a1bkLBYfFVZ2dtNw2xG2f5j4mmbpQURf1fvKCn52aXbilZjaGYXMut5BXh0NSyRSZLu7EMxbxo8frt4Gv2E_tHQsPdT/s4896/DSC00494.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvq0JoMYfXprWOTfcDAewmmPT5X1YhyaipnZzVcHrFzj5O9vqf-3xxOLAd-RSwd_BU0bcxNuiPeVw6sGlh9xdqN-GGg3ma9iIj6a1bkLBYfFVZ2dtNw2xG2f5j4mmbpQURf1fvKCn52aXbilZjaGYXMut5BXh0NSyRSZLu7EMxbxo8frt4Gv2E_tHQsPdT/s320/DSC00494.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>A man passed me clutching a WBA calendar, presumably having waited until 2024 to start before he bought it from the club shop - a loyal fan, but also thrifty. I followed the long, wide road towards Birmingham city centre, past large vacant factories and the inevitable McDonalds Drive Thru. A massive branch of The Range appeared, and I wondered yet again where the hell The Range came from. I swear it didn't exist a decade ago and now it's got bigger shops than Tesco. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Lzs5xrclF5q-HReq0_QwrHznKIiopRzXvVgdJW6yNnay8CdUTeXGAr5vir1kZ6nBCSCbHIA6dL_115P2L4-gaZtT03UBSItCNzbUAF-fMuxEBucBn8c3R15fagnp5IivEfXHDO9VwN7Qd5dIXh5-ybr0LFf0HrgafKA70QMNZ40zd0_E2ARxcRBZjEDN/s4896/DSC00495.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Lzs5xrclF5q-HReq0_QwrHznKIiopRzXvVgdJW6yNnay8CdUTeXGAr5vir1kZ6nBCSCbHIA6dL_115P2L4-gaZtT03UBSItCNzbUAF-fMuxEBucBn8c3R15fagnp5IivEfXHDO9VwN7Qd5dIXh5-ybr0LFf0HrgafKA70QMNZ40zd0_E2ARxcRBZjEDN/s320/DSC00495.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I declined the offer of a free sofa and continued down the Holyhead Road. I didn't realise it, but I was slipping away from everyday West Midlands and into something very different. It was the Royal Oak pub that was the big signal. The minute I write "Royal Oak pub", you've got a picture in your mind. Staid. Traditional. Perhaps some exposed beams and a nice picture of a crown and tree on the sign.</div><div><br /></div><div>Instead, I give you a tractor with a dummy on it while someone pumps out Indian music.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblKI6y1kEFqNsdKhnXIWmb2QJqPyI7wf-XKAKNTtahsGHWgcXOPZ9ZhcfxakPiS2NHKRI1k6BvDVxvgMrlkznQC92Sgg3Jk9BX_UTm0W_RoiW7cAIo6-kn9iRbWbDmn0O0NqAu1Yh8pqHyMi88sz7mJSsRV29wICbHOOBt5czbWU60N3WhpgfJNICa4fO/s4896/DSC00498.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblKI6y1kEFqNsdKhnXIWmb2QJqPyI7wf-XKAKNTtahsGHWgcXOPZ9ZhcfxakPiS2NHKRI1k6BvDVxvgMrlkznQC92Sgg3Jk9BX_UTm0W_RoiW7cAIo6-kn9iRbWbDmn0O0NqAu1Yh8pqHyMi88sz7mJSsRV29wICbHOOBt5czbWU60N3WhpgfJNICa4fO/s320/DSC00498.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>This <a href="https://www.theroyaloakbham.co.uk/">Royal Oak</a> has gone full Desi, and it made me laugh out loud. I'm not sure if that was their intent but it certainly made my day. From here on in, I was plunged into a very different world to the white bread one I occupy.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg4qkOMZ94tqz6BUbUPzInHxdWxUO1IyZO0jgpWW2A2XqZUdhXCGIawa45DeGLr13RvCQXBTcfxoqOKcgsjCDiEUoAkdUah_4TsWtmIU57sD3JjNs2eesG4AWfRKAHorOxcI0yuESHiAxKP40XPF2KFhWB2J1NU01gTeqb_oGCMquxbEIPFZ2PcuCrqB6R/s4896/DSC00500.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg4qkOMZ94tqz6BUbUPzInHxdWxUO1IyZO0jgpWW2A2XqZUdhXCGIawa45DeGLr13RvCQXBTcfxoqOKcgsjCDiEUoAkdUah_4TsWtmIU57sD3JjNs2eesG4AWfRKAHorOxcI0yuESHiAxKP40XPF2KFhWB2J1NU01gTeqb_oGCMquxbEIPFZ2PcuCrqB6R/s320/DSC00500.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I'm not entirely culturally unaware. I grew up in <i>Luton</i>. My class at school contained a David and a Sarah, but also a Qaisar and a Hema and a Hina and a Farwaj. I knew when it was Diwali, and what that meant. I saw Asian shops and mosques all the time; admittedly, mainly from the car window as we passed through Bury Park into town, but I wasn't entirely ignorant of cultures other than mine.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCbNzBsyvBcT6nLXFE33FmApJ2LCQdq7k7gRCykoyaNNL378_KTeDiEGwvpcrYTyABikEb5keZc3EmQpcfFpXgCRm5DHPXJwxSt6EWuu9CN0EYh-0e12UlidVJoWUO7nfnNz_FYg0mSZBvhacq0_NDufXrmXLg0pd7ye9qHOfKR4bIwGJDx6MCihvexYF9/s4896/DSC00504.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCbNzBsyvBcT6nLXFE33FmApJ2LCQdq7k7gRCykoyaNNL378_KTeDiEGwvpcrYTyABikEb5keZc3EmQpcfFpXgCRm5DHPXJwxSt6EWuu9CN0EYh-0e12UlidVJoWUO7nfnNz_FYg0mSZBvhacq0_NDufXrmXLg0pd7ye9qHOfKR4bIwGJDx6MCihvexYF9/s320/DSC00504.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Then I moved to Merseyside, and I've lived here for nearly thirty years. And Merseyside is incredibly, overwhelmingly, white. There are pockets of areas for other communities - Chinatown and Toxteth being the most obvious - but the vast majority of faces and histories you'll encounter there are white. So being in this district of Birmingham and being plunged into a Little India was fascinating and thrilling.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBq7UQdf4k4n8bRqlW0cyaMOatGQBHGgppKfR1FJG_M_HXUAYG7wEGqIwhxgPfd4T7k5WFQTZNiK6lz4Y5ZT_ddRJHCCjNXUi43SyqUr85jWd-Yd1nJNEgztTV2dgijQq6_frJOfFrFYzhW_T4MdcVbRaMWyMBefqUyA6UeaxxE8jay_TGf03Jw9ElJsHS/s4896/DSC00510.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBq7UQdf4k4n8bRqlW0cyaMOatGQBHGgppKfR1FJG_M_HXUAYG7wEGqIwhxgPfd4T7k5WFQTZNiK6lz4Y5ZT_ddRJHCCjNXUi43SyqUr85jWd-Yd1nJNEgztTV2dgijQq6_frJOfFrFYzhW_T4MdcVbRaMWyMBefqUyA6UeaxxE8jay_TGf03Jw9ElJsHS/s320/DSC00510.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Every shop front was somehow different. The wares were unfamiliar. Faces on posters, on the moving screens in the windows of opticians and beauticians, were brown, not white. Takeaways and restaurants offered food I'd never heard of at prices that seemed too good to be true. (Homemade filled naan for 75p? What's the catch?) Seeing an "English Nashta" on the menu at <a href="https://karakchaii.co.uk/menu/">Karak Chaii</a> (2 Chicken Sausages, 2 Lamb Rashers , 2 Aloo Tikki, 1 Toast, a side of Masala Beans, 1 Masala Omelette) made me grin, stupidly.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWm4GGrcNkZVlKRJBQtO63U5ObrVldyAlZ8APmNuZ7rKkNDgws345upuWX8o-E8AAdgfwjNbOE8kGbGjF-vF0uKz5YnecnHyk5WF150h0YpWFDROiUjzR6MUEBRMnHrQD02ID_Ms6EXWXCWs9ZK799yKID1S2KDtBRofiNquCDov6b5COh8RX4g7jHOWO/s4896/DSC00506.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWm4GGrcNkZVlKRJBQtO63U5ObrVldyAlZ8APmNuZ7rKkNDgws345upuWX8o-E8AAdgfwjNbOE8kGbGjF-vF0uKz5YnecnHyk5WF150h0YpWFDROiUjzR6MUEBRMnHrQD02ID_Ms6EXWXCWs9ZK799yKID1S2KDtBRofiNquCDov6b5COh8RX4g7jHOWO/s320/DSC00506.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>So much food; you could go to a different eatery every week for a year. Not just Indian, but also Polish, Jamaican, all sorts of cuisines. Sweet shops that presented neon coloured bites that you knew would give you a dozen cavities from three feet away. In between were the jewellers, glittering with too much gold; your eyes took in nothing but gleaming yellow and sparkling gems. Were they real? Costume? I couldn't tell; all I could see was the shine. Then the wedding shops, with the tedious white of the English bride replaced by a riot of colour and glinting sequins. Dresses in the window to tempt you in then, behind, acres of fabric for you to choose from and make your own, personal, dream gown. Sometimes a familiar name would pop up - a Nationwide building society, an Iceland, a Paddy Power - and it would look incongruous among the foreign names and unique storefronts. And yet, there was something so incredibly British about the dome of a Gurdwara rising up over the roof of Farmfoods. A mix of worlds that didn't clash but instead intermingled.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzoqbnNXtqdkEVbe1x6L-situu9MEOAupVTuqTNNLefgA7Lt0FeF5zK-ke0JtPCoXBa-G_DP0eMdD12nI-gZNw7j8yRwTOVz0TcepUQbOp3-iAtovdOhARr0SrkEhEZT3aJC4sqDh6RyFQVaHJka49BBwNzfwSAaO55OLy0QTVjryBqBm6ibVFQvuO-re/s4896/DSC00502.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzoqbnNXtqdkEVbe1x6L-situu9MEOAupVTuqTNNLefgA7Lt0FeF5zK-ke0JtPCoXBa-G_DP0eMdD12nI-gZNw7j8yRwTOVz0TcepUQbOp3-iAtovdOhARr0SrkEhEZT3aJC4sqDh6RyFQVaHJka49BBwNzfwSAaO55OLy0QTVjryBqBm6ibVFQvuO-re/s320/DSC00502.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>It wasn't perfect. Litter was a real problem; I was constantly kicking chip papers and crisp bags and discarded carriers out the way. Parking was a nightmare, with cars seemingly stopping at random, their horns adding to the streetscape. And a little <a href="https://www.birminghammail.co.uk/news/midlands-news/revealed-what-life-really-like-15011165">reading around on the net</a> reveals that it's maybe not the nicest spot to be in after dark, when prostitutes and the drug users mix with the all night stores and the chicken shops. But there, on that Tuesday afternoon, I was entranced. I felt like I'd really travelled to a different world.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVytl3KnqggcyHPo-yTSlneG7bVvFeDPrfdnXwt7lspWsJkPnx8TaT5_1QFiOTOtxpU5_PoFGDHal5colJ8iBeZMEoF5Dx6Wl5aai68-NtwkpN5huLujvXUwdd3LT190xe6GLdJAOtBaO7yPol_rbGHJTPflscp94vSdNLV5LcBbSAkmOqcJx5zhObOqrR/s4896/DSC00515.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVytl3KnqggcyHPo-yTSlneG7bVvFeDPrfdnXwt7lspWsJkPnx8TaT5_1QFiOTOtxpU5_PoFGDHal5colJ8iBeZMEoF5Dx6Wl5aai68-NtwkpN5huLujvXUwdd3LT190xe6GLdJAOtBaO7yPol_rbGHJTPflscp94vSdNLV5LcBbSAkmOqcJx5zhObOqrR/s320/DSC00515.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>The commercial side of Soho Road slowly faded away, replaced by large historic mansions turned into offices and the occasional large factory, its single owner long abandoned for smaller units. It was that strange, liminal space of a city, the demilitarised zone that exists between the bustle of the city centre and the point where people start to live. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5pb8WRNX3cS_Az5Pjvv83IJimX1jIzP1g4UblKsKBxkCgUMJcLJyqRQwQZRocMw9d-Ur6oCywIW5BA7TDtzGmtIfnBNjao54mfrFee0o7PSXa7bIyk5x1F4DjhRkQ871TpjNhJd_MqQujh61G83xjUIBR4V-kBVtRLVhLMKCkY0PhdZGnGjE00psLgnnp/s4812/DSC00519.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3609" data-original-width="4812" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5pb8WRNX3cS_Az5Pjvv83IJimX1jIzP1g4UblKsKBxkCgUMJcLJyqRQwQZRocMw9d-Ur6oCywIW5BA7TDtzGmtIfnBNjao54mfrFee0o7PSXa7bIyk5x1F4DjhRkQ871TpjNhJd_MqQujh61G83xjUIBR4V-kBVtRLVhLMKCkY0PhdZGnGjE00psLgnnp/s320/DSC00519.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>A flyover erupted out of the centre of the road, a conspicuously unpopular flyover; as I approached it the traffic all seemed to turn away, leaving the odd single vehicle to carry on into town. Giant slip roads and concrete pillars divided communities and diverted walkers for one or two vans to carve a few seconds off their journey.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0MfhoKZ3XPQnHejIJ0cQ_sUmWFPgwEwUDrK9BVMdHxmdS2qMb2rBPOBn6XC8wESgyeiuUYmYqQWExbGs62p33mHAZ9ALNnJeP5muVg4M6NcUbKktx_liYuhqO-Aat90UxFweRyZLmZ4kk9mDiYFS8824IN4gzYZg4-MbliepESOPd9GSsbY1cMoIN2QZ1/s4896/DSC00520.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0MfhoKZ3XPQnHejIJ0cQ_sUmWFPgwEwUDrK9BVMdHxmdS2qMb2rBPOBn6XC8wESgyeiuUYmYqQWExbGs62p33mHAZ9ALNnJeP5muVg4M6NcUbKktx_liYuhqO-Aat90UxFweRyZLmZ4kk9mDiYFS8824IN4gzYZg4-MbliepESOPd9GSsbY1cMoIN2QZ1/s320/DSC00520.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Getting across the roundabout, as a pedestrian, meant sinking even further below the surface of the street into underpasses. Dark, forbidden alleyways that most people avoided. I headed down the ramp, then turned into the cold, graffiti coated corridor to the centre of the roundabout.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikjlsJt23o8D6SP7cgmsItln34g0NZGEx0gpPIxui5wumSBGxT3u4xY0xJotbKX7OJM1TuBY0pNDmprFYjG_7EQaNpBLKWYHikI8mtonzaelDQ5fJAP7XPmbXTdluiXMo_ri6HSihHAv-gJrWRU_ioRypktR6wQc073eCEZvGN0ntIAvQeh_mya7huRLlr/s4896/DSC00523.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikjlsJt23o8D6SP7cgmsItln34g0NZGEx0gpPIxui5wumSBGxT3u4xY0xJotbKX7OJM1TuBY0pNDmprFYjG_7EQaNpBLKWYHikI8mtonzaelDQ5fJAP7XPmbXTdluiXMo_ri6HSihHAv-gJrWRU_ioRypktR6wQc073eCEZvGN0ntIAvQeh_mya7huRLlr/s320/DSC00523.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>The other side was an island. As at Five Ways, the space in the middle of the roundabout had been carved out as a public area, but while that had been green and welcoming, this was stark and concrete. The pillars of the flyover burst out of the ground and the sky was covered by the concrete.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivqTaYdc7Q2golY0fYVcBkmuz2jBtQxl5Ex_TwlWH-J9BSbLGi3vt5KhtYOOxSK2NV_E08ZhE-uohoC6y3Slu7vYRHiaaKyBOGbxZ7THVr3XrBKBkOVsLWaK6JGQ2599BFiKe_5BeG_T44D4nSgDH1cqeOfsFMN6vRy1KfodqcsEVel8LfDaNP_Nrz5k23/s4896/DSC00525.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivqTaYdc7Q2golY0fYVcBkmuz2jBtQxl5Ex_TwlWH-J9BSbLGi3vt5KhtYOOxSK2NV_E08ZhE-uohoC6y3Slu7vYRHiaaKyBOGbxZ7THVr3XrBKBkOVsLWaK6JGQ2599BFiKe_5BeG_T44D4nSgDH1cqeOfsFMN6vRy1KfodqcsEVel8LfDaNP_Nrz5k23/s320/DSC00525.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I loved it. It felt like a secret world. I was the only person in this wide expanse of city, away from the cars, away from the people, hidden. It was an island that for a small period of time belonged to me.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFAgugBlPgqFM9srYllIFtmfh8rlCVVMsBJlsBee2FO8hCVih353rXJgIwsqoOu_L2-l-5dKGTzWcaHeTlTKMUM9N9bJVcruma1pbOKeJVRI4oXKpWEMM_xG8fvWqcEv7q2bu_e2tVO0tvgd3zlkCP65SP2sGXfeFH3TBQXX2aSkC4zwofoniAoUbKdUmQ/s4896/DSC00526.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFAgugBlPgqFM9srYllIFtmfh8rlCVVMsBJlsBee2FO8hCVih353rXJgIwsqoOu_L2-l-5dKGTzWcaHeTlTKMUM9N9bJVcruma1pbOKeJVRI4oXKpWEMM_xG8fvWqcEv7q2bu_e2tVO0tvgd3zlkCP65SP2sGXfeFH3TBQXX2aSkC4zwofoniAoUbKdUmQ/s320/DSC00526.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I'll always be drawn to the underground, the concealed, the tucked away. Tunnels and burrows, bunkers and cellars. Disappearing beneath the world. Hockley Circus was that kind of place - buried from public view.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtth3fH_u2oJPj5vuHUElm2nFcbdlOgUjkWXCytkkWTN0TA2tke5cBoOR3HtKukC4eGbmZngI7mylBB_XqXSA3OdPIf90Gl-YBCIAhgHC0Bbgg_lSan24vrtoCM8bQQjO_rcWcv3HpnOoUcy5KMGxMdT81BNp00x2DXNtdMLF5caEZUMffJeDTkEoBPjii/s4896/DSC00528.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtth3fH_u2oJPj5vuHUElm2nFcbdlOgUjkWXCytkkWTN0TA2tke5cBoOR3HtKukC4eGbmZngI7mylBB_XqXSA3OdPIf90Gl-YBCIAhgHC0Bbgg_lSan24vrtoCM8bQQjO_rcWcv3HpnOoUcy5KMGxMdT81BNp00x2DXNtdMLF5caEZUMffJeDTkEoBPjii/s320/DSC00528.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I re-emerged on the other side and trekked back up to street level, where a three metre high beaming Tess Daly tried to sell me vitamins, and Jamie Theakston and Amanda Holden promised me a breakfast show like no other. It was a boring, mainline world.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_ILYTGszKTb8Ps2RFOl3RzMbYVity2dfC0f6ZgeIjCglTYOPiyPlOEcqC98qyxXQ5hTSiPrbGE2za6BIBdRvC7b7RsmBHvPJE5HleWWMoYwGcU-p5Z4payXFJuL2lAyieV8wYlV9v_nPRzxYXVOnc989EaOnEfBh6k2CY599hHmyPQqBkx8iQywtgx6r/s4896/DSC00530.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_ILYTGszKTb8Ps2RFOl3RzMbYVity2dfC0f6ZgeIjCglTYOPiyPlOEcqC98qyxXQ5hTSiPrbGE2za6BIBdRvC7b7RsmBHvPJE5HleWWMoYwGcU-p5Z4payXFJuL2lAyieV8wYlV9v_nPRzxYXVOnc989EaOnEfBh6k2CY599hHmyPQqBkx8iQywtgx6r/s320/DSC00530.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Crossing the ring road by a high bridge, however, reintroduced the city to me. The End Time Ministries Seminary and an Indian fashion store (TRADE ONLY!) were replaced by large, brick buildings, warehouses and workshops. I'd reached the Jewellery Quarter.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPZxgOI4VcPDGTXApGmX0hS9-SaZ9-P64q9lmTTFxtr4PeYDN3XJzxhQv2EHBJ2PWqr0LCwKmapj7a1iL49MKb1H0YvDpC6j9QxLuBbRyhYM5WFEg3llaFkLxF42xPzQDdmByuCSKyjxFQgkpRCKTQDSPfhPDAHJMf_78KbsawoBwQFTYXiR-j-gAp3cK/s4896/DSC00533.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnPZxgOI4VcPDGTXApGmX0hS9-SaZ9-P64q9lmTTFxtr4PeYDN3XJzxhQv2EHBJ2PWqr0LCwKmapj7a1iL49MKb1H0YvDpC6j9QxLuBbRyhYM5WFEg3llaFkLxF42xPzQDdmByuCSKyjxFQgkpRCKTQDSPfhPDAHJMf_78KbsawoBwQFTYXiR-j-gAp3cK/s320/DSC00533.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I will admit to a certain amount of cynicism when it comes to branding areas of a city. Liverpool has about fourteen different "quarters" now, each with its own promotional team and coloured streets on the city map. Every new development signals the beginning of a new "neighbourhood" (<i>"we're the Fabric District, because, erm, there's a <a href="https://tryandlilly.co.uk/">hat factory</a> and a couple of seamstresses here!"</i>). It's a way to market post-industrial spaces and try to create a buzz that'll sell apartments and hey, if it works it's great - nobody called Rope Walks anything other than "those streets behind Bold Street" until the PR men got their hands on it.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7pSyXZVmIPGs3lJEWCBPTq1afvGEMkkAbs7WQrlhblkRduEa8Ua4zUXz3aioqncGyKzu_-eglbuBlyIoWdDmBHk1rw4Hx09cufE6uDCu8tEbEoM0e9BDaYF6nLmv-l9-Zr_4fErdo4h_yOerDzqb_gsTZZ4_AmKq43aAR-1zETHwYzesnH0Z58swRPdnx/s4896/DSC00536.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7pSyXZVmIPGs3lJEWCBPTq1afvGEMkkAbs7WQrlhblkRduEa8Ua4zUXz3aioqncGyKzu_-eglbuBlyIoWdDmBHk1rw4Hx09cufE6uDCu8tEbEoM0e9BDaYF6nLmv-l9-Zr_4fErdo4h_yOerDzqb_gsTZZ4_AmKq43aAR-1zETHwYzesnH0Z58swRPdnx/s320/DSC00536.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><a href="https://th.jewelleryquarter.net/">The Jewellery Quarter</a>, however, is still a living, working district for the manufacture of precious items, and has been for centuries. What is now the world's largest Assay Office attracted silver and goldsmiths to the area in the 18th century, and they stayed throughout the centuries and World War II bombing to form a district that still produces a huge proportion of Britain's jewellery.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJwUd_k9ADRtuP_d3uAvBNQc7bbeVsbZBHHiaqS6td7SE825T8RVCpp0lEo6KhUw4oo8OSxJ6XpBMEREjuJ-6kXABMD29X-T0SEqaaYejgZu1M7N2MrFWm3lyWQzarwC1ZWczxdp3U2WyruyepZUs4tmvpsLxTAEwN1IO4wemuvHmHO70pAgt8DOLJhj2_/s4896/DSC00543.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJwUd_k9ADRtuP_d3uAvBNQc7bbeVsbZBHHiaqS6td7SE825T8RVCpp0lEo6KhUw4oo8OSxJ6XpBMEREjuJ-6kXABMD29X-T0SEqaaYejgZu1M7N2MrFWm3lyWQzarwC1ZWczxdp3U2WyruyepZUs4tmvpsLxTAEwN1IO4wemuvHmHO70pAgt8DOLJhj2_/s320/DSC00543.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I'd prepared myself to be a little disappointed. As a teenager - and in particular, a James Bond-obsessed teenager - I'd developed a keen interest in diamonds. Ian Fleming's two books, <i>Diamonds are Forever </i>and <i>The Diamond Smugglers</i> presented a glamorous world of excitement and intrigue where people would go to any length to acquire these tiny glittering rocks. I don't have any interest in jewellery - I don't own a necklace or a ring or even a watch - but I've always fancied owning a diamond. Just to hold one. It's the Liz Taylor in me.<div><br /></div><div>As such, on a trip up to London aged 16, I headed to Hatton Gardens. I was disappointed. I'd imagined it would be nothing but shining, glistening sparkles, a constant stream of white light bouncing off facets. Instead it was all quite boring. The shops were unappealing - the proper jewellers are over in Mayfair - and it felt rough and downmarket. That was when I learned that industrial districts are pretty much the same wherever they are, whether they're producing spray painted car parts or high end necklaces.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK8sXByBaqv2BG1eWl3qRzid6aTktuVlhErO-fQMM5r8oc4yfy25IV8sUIOTR9r8ncVlXS3f88GKY1G2Gr5zf5IRaR-N56DL8Yj4i2ZaigKZgrrlaLdyseAwhW67GHeKSmcKeY4d0g7rhhGvhrnMeTMSa3OHdnkZweurPCAdBYSrD-OjWRkrlhEsqhRaAO/s4896/DSC00548.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK8sXByBaqv2BG1eWl3qRzid6aTktuVlhErO-fQMM5r8oc4yfy25IV8sUIOTR9r8ncVlXS3f88GKY1G2Gr5zf5IRaR-N56DL8Yj4i2ZaigKZgrrlaLdyseAwhW67GHeKSmcKeY4d0g7rhhGvhrnMeTMSa3OHdnkZweurPCAdBYSrD-OjWRkrlhEsqhRaAO/s320/DSC00548.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I was ready, then, for the Jewellery Quarter's unglamorous side. It was charming, with some beautiful old buildings and narrow twisting streets, but it wasn't the constant bling-fest its name implied. It was a living, working industrial space. I passed the School of Jewellery, still a centre for teaching gold and silversmithing, and walked towards the huge white expanse at the end of the road.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO9QT-pvftB96rwrAo3HT5QH0KoR4H-nV44TA4LejGNGwbnjdZwuJFL22s-nKSeQEDtnhGA0ozVNejF1sAzhPfByPChDwkmpU-KmDjlTDDnu2OQZ2dNCtDbI3MD7q9bbqoq4zUoUVfeXh_X7-tECjmkTJq9cC_pkD15V-7mGY4EYkIhdtd9fKMbp4Xg3DA/s4896/DSC00550.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO9QT-pvftB96rwrAo3HT5QH0KoR4H-nV44TA4LejGNGwbnjdZwuJFL22s-nKSeQEDtnhGA0ozVNejF1sAzhPfByPChDwkmpU-KmDjlTDDnu2OQZ2dNCtDbI3MD7q9bbqoq4zUoUVfeXh_X7-tECjmkTJq9cC_pkD15V-7mGY4EYkIhdtd9fKMbp4Xg3DA/s320/DSC00550.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>The Big Peg, formerly known as Hockley House, was built by the City Council to try and keep jewellery making in the district after the war. Many of the factories had been bombed by the Nazis (in fairness to the Germans, most of them had switched from making rings to armaments) and then rents began to rise steeply. Birmingham constructed Hockley House and its adjacent units as a place for them to continue to operate in the area. (They also chucked in a multi-storey car park, because Birmingham has to Birmingham at all times). </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocJ4wc9gb8kMyXdU-PJqbXt2i5tNd-NTBmDuBzJ9gFnxv4ItFn_Hjapmzalsz_9pWEZ_8HiFhFYSemYYfaj8mTp1g4dqBzVM4lCH4-kIhspoxkeKBOnDmt2aiJCoXThAn4RkV2bjxKz2CtqvtgIcUnd8YnfIWqDQsJjfCVgpo5RcWI8audnO17JcnFhWg/s4896/DSC00553.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocJ4wc9gb8kMyXdU-PJqbXt2i5tNd-NTBmDuBzJ9gFnxv4ItFn_Hjapmzalsz_9pWEZ_8HiFhFYSemYYfaj8mTp1g4dqBzVM4lCH4-kIhspoxkeKBOnDmt2aiJCoXThAn4RkV2bjxKz2CtqvtgIcUnd8YnfIWqDQsJjfCVgpo5RcWI8audnO17JcnFhWg/s320/DSC00553.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>This was where I finally got to see my diamonds, in the windows of the jewellery shops around the Big Peg. They only really appeared in the last few decades, as shopping became more and more of a feature of people's lives, and the idea of buying a ring or a pendant became more accessible to everyday Brummies. <br /><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvEo0USpilHOkKqFHxAFLo8glfaUwixo1ZZ_G_zdgeagTV7H75x0AZEM0ggX4dSfv-HvkSURF8a23F69fze8hfWYG-WaLBpYOBSEdUrKS2szfskRIUQburEA2HvaH02-uoUMHSmTsYrnL2kRnX7o0GT_XR2GPCv7lWYFqeHrLksDu30IXgJMOtvVSeDnRl/s4896/DSC00557.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvEo0USpilHOkKqFHxAFLo8glfaUwixo1ZZ_G_zdgeagTV7H75x0AZEM0ggX4dSfv-HvkSURF8a23F69fze8hfWYG-WaLBpYOBSEdUrKS2szfskRIUQburEA2HvaH02-uoUMHSmTsYrnL2kRnX7o0GT_XR2GPCv7lWYFqeHrLksDu30IXgJMOtvVSeDnRl/s320/DSC00557.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>After all that walking, I felt like I deserved a treat, and where would be better than a pub called the Jeweller's Arms? I took a pint and found a seat right underneath the heater to warm myself back up again. It was a proper boozer, friendly and open, its rooms filled with gruff faced men eating pies and young students playing darts. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoId3UJa8jvW7nWozBrdonq7gLHzP_wZj9VU75dnCmhE8I6VBlFzOpKZuW_b4U2TOR-_cNQPeOZv6vKodfT9MZqQ3KP-Xy0IC2jw45CrDUE2kmKnMlzTVFFes1qQ25MvKdwIdPBI7ekUqj99Pk2UvJFP1F9Ij4TRLk66FvFxTdRBAtlzYeNLeW-dQlAtym/s4032/IMG_5659.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoId3UJa8jvW7nWozBrdonq7gLHzP_wZj9VU75dnCmhE8I6VBlFzOpKZuW_b4U2TOR-_cNQPeOZv6vKodfT9MZqQ3KP-Xy0IC2jw45CrDUE2kmKnMlzTVFFes1qQ25MvKdwIdPBI7ekUqj99Pk2UvJFP1F9Ij4TRLk66FvFxTdRBAtlzYeNLeW-dQlAtym/s320/IMG_5659.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I let it all cascade over me. Sebastian the barman was giving out tourist tips to an American woman, and a couple of the patrons joined in to help. A tatty mongrel poked his head round the corner to stare at me; infuriatingly, he was just that little bit too far to stroke. A couple left together then, twenty minutes after, the husband returned for another. I had a second pint. On a visit to the toilet, I spotted a sign advertising the pub's cheese nights - <i>"we'll supply crackers and butter, you bring the cheese!"</i> I wondered if they'd mind opening a Merseyside branch.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi19HHeswWvyQE57PtLsfFWr5IMFIwJeGtejF-xQM-7ozEfOFMF1f6lUIQv6yOyNnSYyFpaAFxk0H2jR3NZX7NA78dQilps6i6xwYLB424h2SKH7IubP9CaK56CEAJZ2uZ-yxR60XarO_d0QJiCBPiCt-57E6H9cO7VPCj_7pt5ZzvbaHMH8X3RoZzqR1S/s4896/DSC00558.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi19HHeswWvyQE57PtLsfFWr5IMFIwJeGtejF-xQM-7ozEfOFMF1f6lUIQv6yOyNnSYyFpaAFxk0H2jR3NZX7NA78dQilps6i6xwYLB424h2SKH7IubP9CaK56CEAJZ2uZ-yxR60XarO_d0QJiCBPiCt-57E6H9cO7VPCj_7pt5ZzvbaHMH8X3RoZzqR1S/s320/DSC00558.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>By the time I made it out to the station, twilight was descending. The Jewellery Quarter station opened in 1995 and is exactly what you'd expect from a station of that era - clean, functional, efficient. On a cold January night it was a beacon, the high window lighting up the pavement and drawing in the workers headed for home. Outside are two features of interest. First is one of those pieces of art that Centro chucked up all over the place and then absolutely refused to provide any information about; however, in a rare turn of events, I can actually tell you that this one is called <i>Clockwork</i> and is by the artist Mark Renn. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEP9rQllkXqRdnVkrR3ALZnfSdNtDRNv0axk7wIZmfwQK9yUsi_WuVUB-2zMtV6sMA8KbAF0SzgJuhBBL8eMT47hrzK-lo_Y_ufzXtSekn2B7sgxjkWxHyxPztp-WcXadoAK_PqyX2FgZx6WkIU5gV6neFLut_lEIoUPO3XsYAFSns-VuAZsyEwkw1oX0I/s4896/DSC00559.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEP9rQllkXqRdnVkrR3ALZnfSdNtDRNv0axk7wIZmfwQK9yUsi_WuVUB-2zMtV6sMA8KbAF0SzgJuhBBL8eMT47hrzK-lo_Y_ufzXtSekn2B7sgxjkWxHyxPztp-WcXadoAK_PqyX2FgZx6WkIU5gV6neFLut_lEIoUPO3XsYAFSns-VuAZsyEwkw1oX0I/s320/DSC00559.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>More interesting for those of us with a lower sense of humour, though, is a genuine Victorian urinal. You can't use it any more - a shame for those of us with two pints of beer swilling around inside us - but it's a proper piece of cast iron loveliness. Isn't it great that human beings have evolved beyond the need to urinate, and so councils don't need to provide public toilets any more? What a boon.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrsuLmmBrlw9xCBXfxtSsSATvrv_YJ-F_sQLRGic0PdDcnfuUEsHy2EL5_H5so5qdLrRP2svhs4Gr_qqMPjjORc7FiAiXyE2ULUJHwRDZvfCS3lysM4APe-P0UZoO2Qkkja19wvpSFtH0N4LbzUfd3LubO1SlCZh1wspcNWLiV6RAU6uCpRra8en_x-zwm/s4032/IMG_5671.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrsuLmmBrlw9xCBXfxtSsSATvrv_YJ-F_sQLRGic0PdDcnfuUEsHy2EL5_H5so5qdLrRP2svhs4Gr_qqMPjjORc7FiAiXyE2ULUJHwRDZvfCS3lysM4APe-P0UZoO2Qkkja19wvpSFtH0N4LbzUfd3LubO1SlCZh1wspcNWLiV6RAU6uCpRra8en_x-zwm/s320/IMG_5671.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Oh, the things that pissoir has no doubt seen.<div><br /></div><div>I am going to register a complaint. Back at the start of this blog post, roughly eight million words ago, I registered my excitement at getting a station sign that incorporated both the train and tram logos. Jewellery Quarter station, despite also featuring both forms of transport, has only the orange West Midlands Railway logo. What's that about, eh?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hDGsuoReXa7TnYIBXwWnqAWmg74knEkIWF9fJyrspN7FoJsIDFWBSr8xoFHlxHG2hyphenhyphenjrxVq_uG1YG0pBJTyHzYkI7VWoReO159BjD75IcslgMjEBCbVetevdtaq7Yechn78LafAgcamzhpkAqjaoksrA6Lhqw73T1kInn2TrqzRVXeSmMAZ0ihp4GA1_/s4896/DSC00564.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hDGsuoReXa7TnYIBXwWnqAWmg74knEkIWF9fJyrspN7FoJsIDFWBSr8xoFHlxHG2hyphenhyphenjrxVq_uG1YG0pBJTyHzYkI7VWoReO159BjD75IcslgMjEBCbVetevdtaq7Yechn78LafAgcamzhpkAqjaoksrA6Lhqw73T1kInn2TrqzRVXeSmMAZ0ihp4GA1_/s320/DSC00564.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I headed down the stairs, past the sign telling me the station was part funded by the European Regional Development Fund, and onto a platform. It was chocka, not only with passengers waiting for the train south (which was late of course), but also because the railway platform was the only point of access for the tram stop. This seems like a very large design flaw.<br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUd5tYa5ctHVMQl6mbNvH2Eg6c9EqPPZ6gkKsjmTPvW6CygiUk55MuczVxMymjKgNlA445zTiVM1F1CeTlavSL87Ahi4CI8Mn4IgJxJx0G_ZaQVQ8JyAz_WTAkhj71OUVQCOpnFtQineF8eQs5-wRT2BrYRadgBbVPftMwcNM0PTEDq7pCCIuUUcpgfwp7/s4896/DSC00570.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUd5tYa5ctHVMQl6mbNvH2Eg6c9EqPPZ6gkKsjmTPvW6CygiUk55MuczVxMymjKgNlA445zTiVM1F1CeTlavSL87Ahi4CI8Mn4IgJxJx0G_ZaQVQ8JyAz_WTAkhj71OUVQCOpnFtQineF8eQs5-wRT2BrYRadgBbVPftMwcNM0PTEDq7pCCIuUUcpgfwp7/s320/DSC00570.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I waited for my train, filled with beer, a podcast in my ears, a smile on my face. I felt... oh what's that word? Oh yeah.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD8I81mFKHG8b4FEmjZr2PZCxooLKe6otDGAgnwQuhxA71aJv4JZTAWvZNat7gvY7-s2CN_2-f8lUnClmedK-gq_vPxcCWyhopf28qVVcFiaUUfEI0DOCnDmX9r3Ou3Au9CsmtR-4GsetwFRfUzsfONOd2cBmGRHO1T3o5_DOWnozjaXo6azV1m4vpuqBP/s4896/DSC00571.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD8I81mFKHG8b4FEmjZr2PZCxooLKe6otDGAgnwQuhxA71aJv4JZTAWvZNat7gvY7-s2CN_2-f8lUnClmedK-gq_vPxcCWyhopf28qVVcFiaUUfEI0DOCnDmX9r3Ou3Au9CsmtR-4GsetwFRfUzsfONOd2cBmGRHO1T3o5_DOWnozjaXo6azV1m4vpuqBP/s320/DSC00571.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>That.</div><div><i></i></div><blockquote><div><i><b>And Bond suddenly remembered the eyes of the corpse which had once had a Blood Group F. They had been wrong. Death is forever. But so are diamonds.</b></i></div><div></div></blockquote><div><i style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">This trip was entirely paid for by donations to <a href="https://ko-fi.com/merseytart" style="color: #212c6a; text-decoration-line: none;">my Ko-fi</a>. Thank you folks. You're absolute stars.</i></div></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-77554848859466966612024-01-24T15:17:00.001+00:002024-01-24T15:17:36.088+00:00God Botherer<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJTTilOhpb2j_NrYne5xFPFcNFO6_ATSsdM9oCIf2Sy0JXVWYThYQxZh3LxyFJP5qUdAnGQCJCpdwCsqhLXwD60JcJnXtjSeolPLPGG52af84-UIx4yl2ketcgemF6obWd4Q1VCX-X-QvXe25ydSkvwORhYVlepGD5h9GZibpfb9OJgxms-xqFO3ORJA2/s4896/DSC00385.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJTTilOhpb2j_NrYne5xFPFcNFO6_ATSsdM9oCIf2Sy0JXVWYThYQxZh3LxyFJP5qUdAnGQCJCpdwCsqhLXwD60JcJnXtjSeolPLPGG52af84-UIx4yl2ketcgemF6obWd4Q1VCX-X-QvXe25ydSkvwORhYVlepGD5h9GZibpfb9OJgxms-xqFO3ORJA2/s320/DSC00385.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>When I did the <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/12/super-bedankt-2023.html">obligatory blog recap of 2023</a>, I was surprised by how rural it had been. My year in the West Midlands seemed to mainly be running around country lanes and towpaths. I resolved that my first trip of 2024 would be as urban as possible.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgkj5P9eeNX_HTsUQ0bMo8z1Oufx2xfbxZn7FKDGEFPnDXlN349bGcIAhUpe9mYyFGCFFM3wNems3kg0ffKxrQJ7VVpFUZFdl2Hc_WhhUlVHxuSlBDcS_fvNyVm8AlRHTTiGYdKEbQiLl1ygPjE25qdjfbPOJTETZO4c_wl1x1fF3uSc6pGY8xwWhXGo7m/s4896/DSC00386.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgkj5P9eeNX_HTsUQ0bMo8z1Oufx2xfbxZn7FKDGEFPnDXlN349bGcIAhUpe9mYyFGCFFM3wNems3kg0ffKxrQJ7VVpFUZFdl2Hc_WhhUlVHxuSlBDcS_fvNyVm8AlRHTTiGYdKEbQiLl1ygPjE25qdjfbPOJTETZO4c_wl1x1fF3uSc6pGY8xwWhXGo7m/s320/DSC00386.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />Five Ways station is in a cutting beneath the city's inner ring road; the only way it could be more urban would be if you got mugged on the platform. The awning is the same curved metal I've seen across Birmingham, a sort of tin roof that doesn't inspire any love. I walked past a screened off section of embankment where they'd discovered a dangerous weed and went up the steps to the wood-effect ticket hall. The ticket barriers were in operation, with a woman from WMR asking us to get our passes ready, which confused the student I'd got off the train with. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie0Cd9KlsT4L39A6ndMuDZKjRbtVBFlK5zRvdygS-XHJzPVfRcCUihxNIbCymfgPft1fayFEd13-_pEbq3vN2UO_hzX3L5ee5I0wJIoEYObpSM_4CXyZerbhOwHCBnMZVryWuiMEfAT3zgHY0AzJqyLAYrujIUvXRJ1Pd0QPFQDTNc1IfCc45VBa9VIWJc/s4896/DSC00393.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie0Cd9KlsT4L39A6ndMuDZKjRbtVBFlK5zRvdygS-XHJzPVfRcCUihxNIbCymfgPft1fayFEd13-_pEbq3vN2UO_hzX3L5ee5I0wJIoEYObpSM_4CXyZerbhOwHCBnMZVryWuiMEfAT3zgHY0AzJqyLAYrujIUvXRJ1Pd0QPFQDTNc1IfCc45VBa9VIWJc/s320/DSC00393.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I'll apologise for my appearance right up front. That morning I'd awoken to a text from United Utilities, cheerily informing me there'd been a water leak a couple of streets away and so my supply was off. I ran a tap and thick black muck splattered out of it into the bowl. As a consequence I couldn't shower or brush my teeth before leaving the house. Ok, I never look like Brad Pitt, but at least this time I have an excuse.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpSSs6eX-QsVkjGDqKYYgsM6-1mQPK8g9E-gUdoS-JW6kWY2DSTjBxlc7ezwD8iN1j6jyC_33X0aJL_8fmhOgmrVi_jTo8bR_rlEzr1D_OsTuBBo4_zUqm9nHbjeUSyr_3VaNCQCFBcwuWAXKqNqim4Ho0WtcnvYE9L6aD2jG_LPxATYp50Bn5w94uz5F/s4896/DSC00395.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpSSs6eX-QsVkjGDqKYYgsM6-1mQPK8g9E-gUdoS-JW6kWY2DSTjBxlc7ezwD8iN1j6jyC_33X0aJL_8fmhOgmrVi_jTo8bR_rlEzr1D_OsTuBBo4_zUqm9nHbjeUSyr_3VaNCQCFBcwuWAXKqNqim4Ho0WtcnvYE9L6aD2jG_LPxATYp50Bn5w94uz5F/s320/DSC00395.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Islington Row is a charming name for what is, in reality, six lanes of fast moving traffic that pedestrians are funnelled alongside. For once, I didn't mind, because it allowed me to get a good look at Five Ways House. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBV-3lxMA9sLXFXftgfDiiT6ifoEsBTUt-_N4wZwqoEyadrhsREHmfrTu1gTF1YqhT9yDklipYavPVuC95ygRP9fsYuna-Bcx5jv8gT-L9u5K9IuPYGeaHeMQ7t9vvXYZsJWxa-zLnP3nGWEqci-UFe4rEzGu2EhSe90i02O6aWDrujnLKNoT4OtEanqe/s4896/DSC00402.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBV-3lxMA9sLXFXftgfDiiT6ifoEsBTUt-_N4wZwqoEyadrhsREHmfrTu1gTF1YqhT9yDklipYavPVuC95ygRP9fsYuna-Bcx5jv8gT-L9u5K9IuPYGeaHeMQ7t9vvXYZsJWxa-zLnP3nGWEqci-UFe4rEzGu2EhSe90i02O6aWDrujnLKNoT4OtEanqe/s320/DSC00402.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Birmingham, more than any city in Britain, embraced the white heat of post-war progress. It spent the best part of three decades rebuilding its centre to be modern and forward thinking, a metropolis of the 20th Century. Five Ways House was part of this; a government building constructed in the very latest style.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrDN4FB7GARCw8uD8iEjj-oNiI90MT72-ocfJi0dbcHnmo84RtZluCxPep2pzIwSaRoMXB8gQ7V6LZKIlGjhXlt13NGZKBFjTmVUdlNR7HsGIx6SbsO4gQt2y4fkf2n_w42ZC54vAJ-SXZ44ctYcg9VvoGECt6XZYtVcoTTOHwSOG-g59S4cCwfFS8EFPK/s4896/DSC00399.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrDN4FB7GARCw8uD8iEjj-oNiI90MT72-ocfJi0dbcHnmo84RtZluCxPep2pzIwSaRoMXB8gQ7V6LZKIlGjhXlt13NGZKBFjTmVUdlNR7HsGIx6SbsO4gQt2y4fkf2n_w42ZC54vAJ-SXZ44ctYcg9VvoGECt6XZYtVcoTTOHwSOG-g59S4cCwfFS8EFPK/s320/DSC00399.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>It lasted sixty years. Now it's set to be redeveloped, part of the <a href="https://osborneandcompany.com/track-record/five-ways-development/">Five Ways Complex</a>, a mainly residential project. In a delightful twist, however, the building will be restored. Normally you'd expect this kind of 1950s office block to be swept away for something new, but instead, it'll be the heart of the new district. It gives me hope that we've turned the corner on modernism, that maybe people look at these buildings now and appreciate them.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2573wZRHXHRvBb4V4InvpvCUWl5PHJqT-03ijqtU09kTk_74EH0cHevj4uB6qilA7dUKGP9DyJd-ASnWAc0aJ7A4DJb1fWEltFyonoAx_EHCzAIZvv1VBbIKBjRHZsi-1IUJ3AHPSJuhLSZAvGdYAcppHBeraOxijwv-XpJlR-vrZmGH4MWGVZbCahgQW/s4896/DSC00401.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2573wZRHXHRvBb4V4InvpvCUWl5PHJqT-03ijqtU09kTk_74EH0cHevj4uB6qilA7dUKGP9DyJd-ASnWAc0aJ7A4DJb1fWEltFyonoAx_EHCzAIZvv1VBbIKBjRHZsi-1IUJ3AHPSJuhLSZAvGdYAcppHBeraOxijwv-XpJlR-vrZmGH4MWGVZbCahgQW/s320/DSC00401.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Its neighbour, the Five Ways Tower, is less lucky. Opened in 1979, it suffered from "sick building syndrome" throughout its life, closed in 2005, and is now set to be demolished. I looked up at the graffiti on its tower and wondered exactly what it would take for me to clamber up there and spray paint my initials. Even Russell Tovey winking provocatively from the 23rd floor wouldn't be enough.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtaBhq6qNbeqFiDgRQ4-94RQLnu3nZ5E9gkemOwCDyHMXBeBjNydGDRf1w7XHFUZ-zxxjuzn7FSm1UT2MsuIzUdVVF8I6QBhYeCEOeTcK1PhA69EOwICq1cWYxwIEoMD9nLXl4dl8hynpYRL1gwODbtxkZmK3nRjfY7euDx__TF6qLS-6iT_Oi21fSMF3/s4896/DSC00406.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtaBhq6qNbeqFiDgRQ4-94RQLnu3nZ5E9gkemOwCDyHMXBeBjNydGDRf1w7XHFUZ-zxxjuzn7FSm1UT2MsuIzUdVVF8I6QBhYeCEOeTcK1PhA69EOwICq1cWYxwIEoMD9nLXl4dl8hynpYRL1gwODbtxkZmK3nRjfY7euDx__TF6qLS-6iT_Oi21fSMF3/s320/DSC00406.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>To get to the far side of the Hagley Road from where I was, I descended underneath the Five Ways roundabout itself. It's so vast and open, the centre of it is effectively a park, complete with snack bars. For a few moments I felt separate from the traffic and, indeed, from the hubbub of the city itself. You can see why urban planners thought this would be the future. Get the people away from the cars, into grassy, tree lined spaces where they could relax. It's unfortunate that humans looked at these spaces and decided they were exactly the right spot to carry out any number of shady events, ruining the pedestrianised utopia.<div><br /></div><div>I re-emerged from under the roundabout, past a building that had an elaborate entrance constructed purely for those arriving via the pedestrian path - an entrance that was now very much closed - and up and into the outskirts of Edgbaston. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEMnSvIJl4myDQ0tXZ_oVh4bnSc9ti8c1jTe1NYoVdVxyro6rvWfcvwIVTnI6nWOPfwv1dhxMPYKm6dN2r_Wrdetnc-g8Iy1-StwI-Kt5OC1ynlkR7GDaY3ELgTnCmZ5VZZtErjQvs2gCNPAXWRwRH9C2RqOpYWKhoVjOWqLb_0Xa_yA0bPCXWtxg9PKi6/s4896/DSC00412.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEMnSvIJl4myDQ0tXZ_oVh4bnSc9ti8c1jTe1NYoVdVxyro6rvWfcvwIVTnI6nWOPfwv1dhxMPYKm6dN2r_Wrdetnc-g8Iy1-StwI-Kt5OC1ynlkR7GDaY3ELgTnCmZ5VZZtErjQvs2gCNPAXWRwRH9C2RqOpYWKhoVjOWqLb_0Xa_yA0bPCXWtxg9PKi6/s320/DSC00412.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>From ground level, Hagley Road felt very "big city". Huge Brutalist office blocks towered over streams of traffic on a wide avenue. Look closer though, and it fell down. Behind the towers you could see plenty of blue sky: the blocks existed only on the main road, with nothing behind them to form a massing. It was a bit like me when I play <i>Cities Skylines </i>and put the big commercial blocks on the wide roads with tiny suburban houses behind. (Incidentally <i>Cities Skylines 2 </i>is very good, so long as you're running it on an IBM supercomputer, or perhaps the skull of Data from <i>Star Trek</i>. I don't have a computer that's that good so as a consequence every city I make basically grinds to a halt at 100,000 residents. It's very pretty, though). <br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg7YeBxNM18oG1VbL0XMq230tTJNdqDYGLaIjV8v0xbYwYXNNZno-n-KQUVMkoTBEqN6Eom6wZkL2YPT3ag1xOOo18dtShBOqetT750P801_G8sScyhin4yGR1cpjFTaxjf94GRezp3UKwwqarkfif-XJKmWNK6gjGcMgTsvDBsuXW2z5hyuIZqOiclNKY/s4896/DSC00413.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg7YeBxNM18oG1VbL0XMq230tTJNdqDYGLaIjV8v0xbYwYXNNZno-n-KQUVMkoTBEqN6Eom6wZkL2YPT3ag1xOOo18dtShBOqetT750P801_G8sScyhin4yGR1cpjFTaxjf94GRezp3UKwwqarkfif-XJKmWNK6gjGcMgTsvDBsuXW2z5hyuIZqOiclNKY/s320/DSC00413.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>At the foot of one of the office towers was the Edgbaston Village terminus of the Midland Metro. Birmingham has a very British attitude to extending its tram network, by which I mean it does it piecemeal, causing as much expense and inconvenience as possible. The line used to terminate at Snow Hill; it got an extension to New Street (sorry, <i>Grand Central</i>) in 2017, then they scraped together some pennies to get it to the Library a year later, then someone reached down the back of the sofa and got some small change to make the terminus Edgbaston. At least this means trams aren't turning back in the city centre any more, but it's still way too close for the end of the line. Possibly, maybe, if you cross your fingers, they might one day get this line right along the road as far as Quinton, but they'll probably build that a stop at a time so you won't get there until 2158. (Of course, a city as large and car dependent as Birmingham should really be investing in a metro, or at the very least, an S-Bahn style tunnel so that local services don't have to cross all the long distance trains at New Street, but that's crazy talk). </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgQtQVNJcFvIniUy4wlnJH_pmVSaRYi6NedxuFy0qhWdOaHBac_8iUjGLZdtNuLKQUeDwEjYUvrkHoHWVPIhzPHu4zj2Ve-1M-QfpFhzOUtmiFHeZjeab5QtqjUxooo7ad-M6Z65I0OZQqhm4U-vHdCHLFTxKbbDX0rx59UwYbAKE08r6tn7dEVv_lyno/s4896/DSC00415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXgQtQVNJcFvIniUy4wlnJH_pmVSaRYi6NedxuFy0qhWdOaHBac_8iUjGLZdtNuLKQUeDwEjYUvrkHoHWVPIhzPHu4zj2Ve-1M-QfpFhzOUtmiFHeZjeab5QtqjUxooo7ad-M6Z65I0OZQqhm4U-vHdCHLFTxKbbDX0rx59UwYbAKE08r6tn7dEVv_lyno/s320/DSC00415.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>There were more blocks, most with signs outside telling me how many floors were still available, and a single detached house which had somehow survived and was now a Spearmint Rhino. A new block was being constructed, but this was apartments, not offices. The units were all for rent, because it seems the idea of selling flats to young professionals is now so ridiculous they don't even try. You can't have a foot on the property ladder, but on the plus side, your apartment building has a private dining room and a cinema and a 24/7 concierge, so you're winning (please don't look at the service charges). Then I reached something I'm pretty sure I've never encountered before on this blog: a shrine to an actual saint.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEcN0D9T1yfDqwcggkLvuY_pvg4ArNMu9BFBvxm4oDY4Issbhl5z2QWWQuAtW6Y-YlOag29NoMg5oG9VWxy2JIsWzepp5RXEOitr4WUEdE1E_uHpqCAiZxTpuJAt6QEJoutGE_0LHvZu7_reTSasV8Fc66kSHGblGhZ25TfQN0igQoE6rJqscjVv4zaWh/s4896/DSC00422.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEcN0D9T1yfDqwcggkLvuY_pvg4ArNMu9BFBvxm4oDY4Issbhl5z2QWWQuAtW6Y-YlOag29NoMg5oG9VWxy2JIsWzepp5RXEOitr4WUEdE1E_uHpqCAiZxTpuJAt6QEJoutGE_0LHvZu7_reTSasV8Fc66kSHGblGhZ25TfQN0igQoE6rJqscjVv4zaWh/s320/DSC00422.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Cardinal John Newman was an important Catholic theologian during the 19th Century. He started out as Church of England, then drifted through High Anglicanism to Catholicism, and that's where I'm going to stop talking about his religious views because to be honest they baffle me. I'm a dyed in the wool atheist, and have been since I was young, and so the various different factions and differentiations between different strains of Christianity are baffling to me. I tried reading Cardinal Newman's Wikipedia page but there were so many diversions down the different sects and opinions and Papal Edicts that I'm not going to even slightly delve into it because there's a very real danger I'll end up getting condemned by a Bishop somewhere.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4PtJaI_15xpoQaqkFNke_B0y7EvCi3taVc3LnwPimWzbH9XZRh-RYNeLvtcrs1LwU3RZmor4SliI8_rQeQ_CD9ewIvXIDj11U_Pl3TGj-9AJd_MuEjTkuOwaKoW_IRsH6qwe-q_5zjR3tA2yAGZYxbheue8ArOi1RWH-do2lGL4Owf5wEJ2ZO7-JnsKfE/s4896/DSC00420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4PtJaI_15xpoQaqkFNke_B0y7EvCi3taVc3LnwPimWzbH9XZRh-RYNeLvtcrs1LwU3RZmor4SliI8_rQeQ_CD9ewIvXIDj11U_Pl3TGj-9AJd_MuEjTkuOwaKoW_IRsH6qwe-q_5zjR3tA2yAGZYxbheue8ArOi1RWH-do2lGL4Owf5wEJ2ZO7-JnsKfE/s320/DSC00420.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Cardinal Newman was eventually canonised in 2019, after two miracles were attributed to him. Learning that the Catholic Church still insists on miracles before someone can be canonised, even though it's the twenty first century, is astonishing. It's like learning that Ian McKellen's knighthood was conditional on him actually slaying a dragon. It would also be remiss of me to not observe that the Cardinal's Wikipedia page has a very large section entitled "discussion about potential homosexuality" that covers his extremely close friendship with Ambrose St John; the two of them "shared communitarian life" for thirty two years and Newman asked for his body to be placed in Ambrose's coffin after his death. Feel free to picture me pursing my lips and raising my eyebrow as I type this.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopbnmkAOsQBtYtKWT-6zDzcKvsz50Qu3UcXAU9mj8ol7S5wpOklorRYqtkiMK0WacJX-0_TlY64f-bRtTeP9gNeZn1YgTxkulh8DDY3tFeZfd0OJH-m48y8ByLvvT_nShT7XcZVYWKGtcCXEiEMlevAZI8yqrc5GtKuJI05xfoPE6EnTF1q9vTDrHV4qX/s4896/DSC00428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopbnmkAOsQBtYtKWT-6zDzcKvsz50Qu3UcXAU9mj8ol7S5wpOklorRYqtkiMK0WacJX-0_TlY64f-bRtTeP9gNeZn1YgTxkulh8DDY3tFeZfd0OJH-m48y8ByLvvT_nShT7XcZVYWKGtcCXEiEMlevAZI8yqrc5GtKuJI05xfoPE6EnTF1q9vTDrHV4qX/s320/DSC00428.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />I turned off the main road at the Strathallen Hotel. Nothing sums up 1970s Birmingham's love affair with the motor car more than this drum of a hotel, with four floors of rooms on top of as many floors of car parking spaces. Opposite, a pub had been converted into the Rainbow Casino, a large white building that I can absolutely guarantee has never hosted a suave British spy effortlessly emasculating a sweaty European ne'er do well. I walked up Portland Road, a long straight route between big Victorian villas that had been converted into bedsits and large detached homes with paved over front lawns for parking.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvcOu57-EDpj9lXCNL2LKSkJWcUHFhBfWF14kPJpdsZEyp6efYLS-HJaerQ-I7zRTJANMKSW8JDOU-Xhyphenhyphenjqzai8mlBtqOBV94HR1YtYlaXKloP0WO-v2aCUiIFWMWGIfhiL9BsSfioCTkoi0EwFwv5DMuXg4Ihan74HeTvkXU_8lq_iMSgCRG90HMtuIIO/s4896/DSC00430.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvcOu57-EDpj9lXCNL2LKSkJWcUHFhBfWF14kPJpdsZEyp6efYLS-HJaerQ-I7zRTJANMKSW8JDOU-Xhyphenhyphenjqzai8mlBtqOBV94HR1YtYlaXKloP0WO-v2aCUiIFWMWGIfhiL9BsSfioCTkoi0EwFwv5DMuXg4Ihan74HeTvkXU_8lq_iMSgCRG90HMtuIIO/s320/DSC00430.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>If I'd been doing the West Midlands Railway map in the 1920s, there would have been an extra four stations to visit. The Harborne Railway was a small branch line that went from New Street to the suburb of the same name with a few stops on route. A circuitous line like that couldn't compete with direct motor buses into the city centre, so the whole route was closed to passengers in the 1930s. I passed over the remains of it as I walked; it's now, inevitably, a country walk and cycle route, a green vein sliding between the houses.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAbP0DW8ddRgCHcdYbn6tR-KUAl-xOPNVx5rB-ms0qQ8bMC07RicdTR7VbaOwTbtSq5q7Gl0TKoNcI5OiYQEwUfzFigY2GmLJzdB4yaOnBltI3fMneNBmEvshfLBpU0yxKH43q9sAZTaa1rj0eXGB9C-e6mN0pk_4smFdkWdoKvMbHDxloVk3OhgZFD1Qh/s4896/DSC00432.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAbP0DW8ddRgCHcdYbn6tR-KUAl-xOPNVx5rB-ms0qQ8bMC07RicdTR7VbaOwTbtSq5q7Gl0TKoNcI5OiYQEwUfzFigY2GmLJzdB4yaOnBltI3fMneNBmEvshfLBpU0yxKH43q9sAZTaa1rj0eXGB9C-e6mN0pk_4smFdkWdoKvMbHDxloVk3OhgZFD1Qh/s320/DSC00432.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I crossed a junction at the traffic lights, passing a banner that advised me that <i>Powercity International meets here for the Revelation of Jesus</i>. It used a font that was way too fun and funky for a religious meet, in my opinion; it looked like it was advertising <i>Jesus Christ: International Man of Mystery. </i>As I entered Bearwood, the houses became smaller and more tightly packed, and the road rose up a steep hill. There was a takeaway called <i>Kebabish</i> and, I'm sorry, but the one food I definitely don't want the word "ish" to be involved in is a kebab. I'm already taking too much of the contents of that meal on trust.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2byfryAjxDotcCdRCLjrRlVLwHIPUoK3x06K__5k2NdFaDAJW9PLszsrbYJ-77ePm51F4CK6QuxFgjoR7cBh1VcXM9VOeDFQAyFFCGMmd6UKfQ1_cRzPxRplR-fygL3zVS0qwuodsgOVHEKKFHYF5ErztnfLKbZ7E-Ekz27fJdnR_IruTX7L_7fajqshQ/s4896/DSC00437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2byfryAjxDotcCdRCLjrRlVLwHIPUoK3x06K__5k2NdFaDAJW9PLszsrbYJ-77ePm51F4CK6QuxFgjoR7cBh1VcXM9VOeDFQAyFFCGMmd6UKfQ1_cRzPxRplR-fygL3zVS0qwuodsgOVHEKKFHYF5ErztnfLKbZ7E-Ekz27fJdnR_IruTX7L_7fajqshQ/s320/DSC00437.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Cape Hill meant a glut of shops, small Asian grocers with fruit and vegetables spilling out onto the street, sari stores, delivery vans double parked while they unloaded box after box. The largely Muslim population left its pubs empty and boarded up, while a bank on the corner had become <i>De Vibez Lounge</i>, a name at complete odds with its Victorian frippery. Meanwhile, a giant Asda hid off the main road, concealed by a Costa in a fancy pod.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjuqkjx5Ecg615bI0oaJUhuBeEQw7voRMpXP2HpG96x86VK8aDfWEOrCEqYi4COnCBrBhuL-96A80PWv99CkK3FxPxIO1QzOPE2P5cQfcAOzldvKOhgiuSGSfwXSApVsQypHRE-vsHaAlTSEy4X-RkQQBzNJxaJZx45yNRzADv29REkAuAKHaF32VOy8s4/s4896/DSC00445.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjuqkjx5Ecg615bI0oaJUhuBeEQw7voRMpXP2HpG96x86VK8aDfWEOrCEqYi4COnCBrBhuL-96A80PWv99CkK3FxPxIO1QzOPE2P5cQfcAOzldvKOhgiuSGSfwXSApVsQypHRE-vsHaAlTSEy4X-RkQQBzNJxaJZx45yNRzADv29REkAuAKHaF32VOy8s4/s320/DSC00445.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The road opened up on one side to reveal Victoria Park; one thing you can say about that sour faced old trout is she gave her name to a good number of nice open spaces in our cities. I'd later see a plaque informing me that to commemorate the Golden Jubilee of her descendent, Elizabeth II, they'd planted five oak trees in the park, which seems like a slap in the face for QEII really. The grass and trees swept off into the distance; I could see mums with pushchairs enjoying a bit of air. By this point I was walking behind a young couple, with the most adorable toddler hanging over his dad's shoulder. I caught the boy's eye and smiled and he giggled and it was immensely cheering.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JYzQoMhSBX8kGlap3crrZ77Kpjs-_LpdpDsGhg8NM9nJysEoqX6bUmY2dD28gHrlmlDVQY6upTwzi6VzhyphenhyphenRxe4rzHrRsIa8Mdmvxc3ECxr0i-8Fg7DJhiaZDFyVmwlzC4YKwd-UOa8-jvnJXAqGIUlTe8wOw3haxksP3piZyfZN8MFuqnKTh0kU3NL3F/s4896/DSC00451.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JYzQoMhSBX8kGlap3crrZ77Kpjs-_LpdpDsGhg8NM9nJysEoqX6bUmY2dD28gHrlmlDVQY6upTwzi6VzhyphenhyphenRxe4rzHrRsIa8Mdmvxc3ECxr0i-8Fg7DJhiaZDFyVmwlzC4YKwd-UOa8-jvnJXAqGIUlTe8wOw3haxksP3piZyfZN8MFuqnKTh0kU3NL3F/s320/DSC00451.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I was now in Smethwick (I took two small suitcases and a jigsaw) and cutting past small sweet shops and continental markets and then, in the middle, an enormous red cow on a pedestal to announce the <a href="https://redcowpubandgrill.com/">pub of the same name</a>. Low council houses amongst acres of communal green space occupied corner plots, and I saw my first Palestinian flag of the day flying outside the <a href="https://abrahamicfoundation.org.uk/">Abrahamic Foundation</a>. A mess of repair works at a traffic island saw the pavement suddenly disappear, so I found myself darting across the busy road and ended up in front of a proud Indian warrior.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjULHcUr4OeklfAaZujzw-4BX60HWi9BErYt0U5sattKHgVCoE2KZvsH02Ijzxx5vrh5wJxt1xyfWkmRUHPoVbeXoxCm1zzTgK247a9LoNmNuCJVuxWf6oM_M1Xf5ia3h90W1G1MTiQRN5QyzqpVfHHF3BL1G4ud9g2eqkoM1vkNGy_ewErD5Rrhgjqwqxy/s4896/DSC00458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjULHcUr4OeklfAaZujzw-4BX60HWi9BErYt0U5sattKHgVCoE2KZvsH02Ijzxx5vrh5wJxt1xyfWkmRUHPoVbeXoxCm1zzTgK247a9LoNmNuCJVuxWf6oM_M1Xf5ia3h90W1G1MTiQRN5QyzqpVfHHF3BL1G4ud9g2eqkoM1vkNGy_ewErD5Rrhgjqwqxy/s320/DSC00458.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The Lions of the Great War, sculpted by Luke Perry (not that one), is a memorial to the millions of Sikh volunteers dragged into a war that had nothing to do with them on the other side of the planet by Mother England. It was unveiled in 2018, at the centenary of the ending of the First World War, and it's an impressive plaza right outside Smethwick's main Gurdwara.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9CgWXSh85XCpBdE2jL02v2oeF8Kr3SbLCzWAulaJeI8rcxu00JPlMrARgdIwE0EsleJoBmG61eziFGMQxQii75uo42gN6B3OljQDEhHHJhah_ZPQ9V-q-NiabpD64cyji8ZJZUScLu97CGNnFg6HYpG2pDFcXXfprYuf8_PZ3SClaud5rzfE4IoFjbkv/s4896/DSC00460.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9CgWXSh85XCpBdE2jL02v2oeF8Kr3SbLCzWAulaJeI8rcxu00JPlMrARgdIwE0EsleJoBmG61eziFGMQxQii75uo42gN6B3OljQDEhHHJhah_ZPQ9V-q-NiabpD64cyji8ZJZUScLu97CGNnFg6HYpG2pDFcXXfprYuf8_PZ3SClaud5rzfE4IoFjbkv/s320/DSC00460.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I'd seen the Gurdwara many times from the train of course - you can't exactly miss it - and it always made me smile. After miles of back gardens and industrial units and scabby wasteland, a gigantic gold dome with flags and marble can't help but raise the spirits. And while it is a triumph of architecture and quite beautiful, I have one complaint.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbjx5MnTmN3IbxDHMFXH_x6VvU2FpkyP2ydl12b5Irubt41vvoYnH_h6FncOWdJrOmyYtEr-tLdqc7-1Bh0tSsYas1c-jS4rNFjGs_3RZeGE85eVCW60EGuOWH41JmYwIygW0KOoeFDtoug1m6US8uD8N5VEwaFx4WRNs0MPVxfOrk8mX4UZALNTlU43iP/s4896/DSC00462.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbjx5MnTmN3IbxDHMFXH_x6VvU2FpkyP2ydl12b5Irubt41vvoYnH_h6FncOWdJrOmyYtEr-tLdqc7-1Bh0tSsYas1c-jS4rNFjGs_3RZeGE85eVCW60EGuOWH41JmYwIygW0KOoeFDtoug1m6US8uD8N5VEwaFx4WRNs0MPVxfOrk8mX4UZALNTlU43iP/s320/DSC00462.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>It doesn't show up on the photo, unfortunately, but right in the centre of the building, underneath that dome, is a <i>digital</i> clock. It cycled between the time and the temperature, like a sign outside a European pharmacist, and it looked incredibly out of place to me. I know a digital clock is far more efficient and maintenance free, and hey, who wouldn't want to know when it was 8 degrees, but come on. A nice analogue clock would look so much better there. Sort it out, Smethwick.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtoHzTA9I4k0EkLMhUvpydYmHm9kYMMM6yKwHBoiSZXFzfLxGLNQmdSLfyjU6Rwmf6eX3YZAbGbPXa7wIF-iv8GehBL5t7o1JnNwhRXJnFhGr8OK8dhW3D0n1XFjSd2UVw0jC40yRx-zm9m4D8VX4WVt-3EVeI-NjHVlNU7PMa3KMNmhO7Y4rs4hxUehr3/s4896/DSC00468.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtoHzTA9I4k0EkLMhUvpydYmHm9kYMMM6yKwHBoiSZXFzfLxGLNQmdSLfyjU6Rwmf6eX3YZAbGbPXa7wIF-iv8GehBL5t7o1JnNwhRXJnFhGr8OK8dhW3D0n1XFjSd2UVw0jC40yRx-zm9m4D8VX4WVt-3EVeI-NjHVlNU7PMa3KMNmhO7Y4rs4hxUehr3/s320/DSC00468.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I negotiated the wide pedestrian crossings necessary to get across the massive A-road, and ended up at the Victorian entrance to Smethwick Rolfe Street station. There's been a station here since 1852, and the building (though from a little later than that) has the stoic bluntness of a halt built for ruddy faced factory workers and people in stovepipe hats.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-G9Cyl75e7hplPPkjnjPj8I-CJJ58S-vJJF-3P4JUa5D5juAf7iSjkui2yGxZNk8gKXy1fHU824gbTr1HBxo2mnjGS7PJB5561bxaKAqOmOmlnQjfTE5suwnUkCS8WtEwsiUwKoXJ2xLlnEcMkVzf54kRTreNwC7l26Cv-_iW-41fuQzuoromvGHmNr9L/s4896/DSC00471.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-G9Cyl75e7hplPPkjnjPj8I-CJJ58S-vJJF-3P4JUa5D5juAf7iSjkui2yGxZNk8gKXy1fHU824gbTr1HBxo2mnjGS7PJB5561bxaKAqOmOmlnQjfTE5suwnUkCS8WtEwsiUwKoXJ2xLlnEcMkVzf54kRTreNwC7l26Cv-_iW-41fuQzuoromvGHmNr9L/s320/DSC00471.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It does have one unique feature: its platforms are second only to the Amundsen-Scott base at the South Pole as the coldest human construction on earth. Yes, it was January, but it was one of those bright clear days where the sun felt like it was with you everywhere. Platform 2 at Smethwick Rolfe Street has, however, been constructed in such a way that it deliberately shuns any light whatsoever and remains in permafrost. I stood there for what seemed like forever, my toes and fingers freezing, while those bastards on platform 1 larked about in the sunshine like it was a Barbadian holiday.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEwXGk1H2PPLiVRVrR61FWLv3Drm3tdThWhSxHSi4czhzo8GWWt8BGM8OrIm_i_MZh7ROOcj0VumBMCh7OGpvnX2MgvW4arunX2F4wlRWrAkiGhyphenhyphenIqGIXrpvyNU6t8L_u9xRSgxuuoiitVTDxOGdciq-YMx-Dd7DPNQI6fV5CtZzqaG85DOL2BlsSjJ6Zl/s4896/DSC00473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEwXGk1H2PPLiVRVrR61FWLv3Drm3tdThWhSxHSi4czhzo8GWWt8BGM8OrIm_i_MZh7ROOcj0VumBMCh7OGpvnX2MgvW4arunX2F4wlRWrAkiGhyphenhyphenIqGIXrpvyNU6t8L_u9xRSgxuuoiitVTDxOGdciq-YMx-Dd7DPNQI6fV5CtZzqaG85DOL2BlsSjJ6Zl/s320/DSC00473.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Still, that's Smethwick's second station crossed off the list, <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2019/02/dirty.html">almost five years after I visited the first</a>. You can't say that's not progress.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVvN9XBI42p_Lm8srtjfNFnE7QN8iT_R3X2gTDCQUtiwLGDUY2WLa4CRT8lLsl46vCjcenE2knBq6bcsrNQd-vryzK-0uBm-QLmg4phRSNj9_7pU8K06st_1wwjbmQTXgLHxki5hHkQm3B5tpQzUpx8IW0mOz58XGjXs82SV7fpHHUT88w-sMWIJmtydbY/s4896/DSC00464.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVvN9XBI42p_Lm8srtjfNFnE7QN8iT_R3X2gTDCQUtiwLGDUY2WLa4CRT8lLsl46vCjcenE2knBq6bcsrNQd-vryzK-0uBm-QLmg4phRSNj9_7pU8K06st_1wwjbmQTXgLHxki5hHkQm3B5tpQzUpx8IW0mOz58XGjXs82SV7fpHHUT88w-sMWIJmtydbY/s320/DSC00464.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><i>This trip was entirely paid for by donations to <a href="https://ko-fi.com/merseytart">my Ko-fi</a>. Thank you folks. You're gems.</i></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-44009397425047265822023-12-31T13:42:00.002+00:002023-12-31T13:42:10.744+00:00Super Bedankt, 2023<p>It's the last day of December, so, like every other blogger on the planet, here's a summary of the year. I say "every other blogger" but there's fewer and fewer of us around. Everyone's pivoted to YouTube or TikTok, or they're sending out Substack emails that you have to pay for. I will never do that because I am too unphotogenic for YouTube, I don't understand TikTok, and the pressure of subscribers would send me into a tailspin of anxiety; I don't think anyone really wants to read emails called <i>here is a list of train stations that exist, I got them off Wikipedia, I really needed some content this week be kind.</i></p><p>Anyway. The point is that this has been a bit of a year on the blog. After a few weird periods with pandemics and endless stuff going on with me at home, 2023 was surprisingly down to earth. Me, some railway stations, and some walking. Usually on a towpath. I'd not realised, until I went back over the posts, quite how much time I'd spent on towpaths this year. Even when the blog went abroad it went to a city full of canals. This is not part of a rebrand; this is not <i>round the canals we go</i>. That bloke on BBC Four has got that market sewn up anyway. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxFJl5JNWifjWg38qSzO7ud2WYRD2f5Ns6lBZYUxUdHcl8oRCsqnhhHSQ_swEXyyNkwqpjJDocJVmbFCibYITPUfx43AJ9dLKv8EzhGoQ_NuwveGPRQ7ZnWn36PJAZaZs1dmKgNgQTOzUP1Ok_lw0TAOfbA02j5eTQ8-hKbi3bjk4s_P6YN6YvCGq21fXx/s4896/DSC00158.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxFJl5JNWifjWg38qSzO7ud2WYRD2f5Ns6lBZYUxUdHcl8oRCsqnhhHSQ_swEXyyNkwqpjJDocJVmbFCibYITPUfx43AJ9dLKv8EzhGoQ_NuwveGPRQ7ZnWn36PJAZaZs1dmKgNgQTOzUP1Ok_lw0TAOfbA02j5eTQ8-hKbi3bjk4s_P6YN6YvCGq21fXx/s320/DSC00158.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>As the West Midlands Railway project reaches maturity, it's inevitable that the stations are less centralised, more peripheral. I'd not noticed as I was doing them quite <i>how</i> peripheral they were. <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/12/and-yuletide-felicitations-to-you.html">Wem</a>, <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/09/melancholia.html">Penkridge</a>, even as far as <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/02/enter-gap.html">Long Buckby</a> - I've seemingly only coasted round the distant corners of the map. When I did go into town, admittedly, it was to beneath <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/05/concretopia.html">Spaghetti Junction</a>, which is about the most urban location you can go to (and another towpath), but other than that there was a lot of striding across fields and through country parks. For a blog that's really about cities and towns, it was surprisingly green.</p><p>That wasn't deliberate. It's just me trying to spread myself about. If I do the west of the map one day, I like to go somewhere at the opposite end the next. I don't want to go to the same regions over and over. I am starting to run out of options though. I've visited two thirds of the West Midlands Railway map now, and so a lot of the stations left are the big hitters - Leicester, Northampton, Rugby, the central Birmingham stations, which need to be covered properly. I've also not done any of the tram stops, though that's partly because I'd been waiting for them to finish the Wolverhampton station extension, which finally opened in September. (It also means I can finally visit Wolverhampton station itself). There are also some complex stations to visit, with very limited services. I reckon, however, that I might be able to polish the whole thing off in 2024. Five years of hard work done (sorry, that should be "work").</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQs_ZjlWl9nTtk9iTnIADE8gisj4F6I9lhLHMpcYEsC_NmDzpXi4rkY-oI7Vug28r9rxBm-JrjLXxhyq0dEo9d7sJQ0BoeP-1iQAkuyzyW4Fu4BuPXlvfJFPRBByz5PPLGmdqhAM1r9BEKuvMjJIhJJOT1TBkM-cpervj8abxX9-K0iarb4cNvfi8cySv1/s4896/DSC09751.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQs_ZjlWl9nTtk9iTnIADE8gisj4F6I9lhLHMpcYEsC_NmDzpXi4rkY-oI7Vug28r9rxBm-JrjLXxhyq0dEo9d7sJQ0BoeP-1iQAkuyzyW4Fu4BuPXlvfJFPRBByz5PPLGmdqhAM1r9BEKuvMjJIhJJOT1TBkM-cpervj8abxX9-K0iarb4cNvfi8cySv1/s320/DSC09751.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>The true highlight of 2023, for me anyway, was <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/09/from-amstelveenseweg-to-zuid.html">the trip round Amsterdam's Metro</a>. It didn't seem to do much for the blog in terms of visitors or comments but I don't care. Carousing around Amsterdam was absolutely one of the best experiences of my life, once you get past the terrible first day of flight cancellations and Luton Airport hotels. For two days I wandered around a beautiful city, using its fast, efficient, reasonably priced transport network, visiting places I'd never been before and would never normally get a chance to see. It was absolutely bloody brilliant. The only thing is it slightly ruined me for my return to the UK, where everything is seemingly broken or expensive or broken <i>and</i> expensive. I don't think I'll get a chance to do another foreign city, but that hasn't stopped me planning it. I have Excel spreadsheets detailing how I could collect every station on both the Rotterdam and Stockholm Metros, if any eccentric Russian oligarchs want to chuck few grand in my <a href="https://ko-fi.com/merseytart">Ko-fi</a>. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJ7ItF72qLOQHKSEHBBjumTqgjGaNnpC8W5beLIDAz4AHiRbHsbYCxA0GduAvho0Lp3Jz3qRsfHDk98gOUnuVwiRNZdRYfdYkhTNwlqvKHE2Ac9AESk4XWQM5GsW2BULsOGWJrrlC055TMoiihE704UiAUtzpOl2hRJk8BhGXPVd4dDEgam-IiGJhFBuc/s4032/IMG_4084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJ7ItF72qLOQHKSEHBBjumTqgjGaNnpC8W5beLIDAz4AHiRbHsbYCxA0GduAvho0Lp3Jz3qRsfHDk98gOUnuVwiRNZdRYfdYkhTNwlqvKHE2Ac9AESk4XWQM5GsW2BULsOGWJrrlC055TMoiihE704UiAUtzpOl2hRJk8BhGXPVd4dDEgam-IiGJhFBuc/s320/IMG_4084.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>Closer to home, Merseyrail <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/01/the-future-is-now.html">finally got its new trains</a>... sort of. The roll out has been slow and patchy - I went out the other day and three of my four trains were rattly old ones - and their reliability hasn't been great. <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/10/giving-headbolt.html">Headbolt Lane</a> finally opened, but the battery trains kept going out of service, meaning it's still not at its full potential. People won't use a brand new station unless they can be sure they can get a train. And construction on Baltic station isn't due to begin <a href="https://www.liverpoolecho.co.uk/news/liverpool-news/construction-new-liverpool-baltic-station-28310843">until 2025 at least</a>, so I'll probably be pushing 50 when I finally get there. Possibly from the other side.</p><p>That was a bit of a downer to end on, wasn't it? Instead let's finish with a thanks to you, the reader. You don't have to read this load of old guff and yet you keep coming back. I'm touched and honoured and I still get excited when somebody comments. I rarely comment back because part of me thinks that's really vain, like I'm revelling in the attention, but be assured they're all appreciated, as are the random Ko-Fi donations (especially the anonymous person who has bought me a coffee every single month - you are loyal and a delight). Rest assured, I will carry on churning out the nonsense, and even if you get tired of it, if you see one more towpath or rant about the Government and decide you've had enough and leave, I'll still be here. I've nothing else to do, quite frankly.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHKzkqsDnFUS7hdj06s3-190RMX4kSsCYaZ8Xh69csC_LUffd1oBgffuOcYSYn47ujKWrIlYn_CkwAsgITgurY8jBelQGfz_AU6YSLZ8Ai9ovmyrBChBpPrXOvyuj2mtGFAoCc7LPSpUBu4XKLbK9T1QTDJBNIVm1Qobe4EFDPvOda-fgQ1nwep_UT333O/s4896/DSC09840.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHKzkqsDnFUS7hdj06s3-190RMX4kSsCYaZ8Xh69csC_LUffd1oBgffuOcYSYn47ujKWrIlYn_CkwAsgITgurY8jBelQGfz_AU6YSLZ8Ai9ovmyrBChBpPrXOvyuj2mtGFAoCc7LPSpUBu4XKLbK9T1QTDJBNIVm1Qobe4EFDPvOda-fgQ1nwep_UT333O/s320/DSC09840.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-8095015567732098852023-12-18T12:38:00.002+00:002023-12-18T12:38:53.861+00:00And Yuletide Felicitations To You<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wed6Pd3ZeasM2sg4f33t39gbTNCS8zQ6loD7Ry9_Ja0t0qhaVcEp5SnNg6hG5Kx2xauiOvpX29ERomPBdqLrn3UB6NS9WIQoa0TNyZQ0vxk-5KONrGleLUcAxBhhi9cNObCI8mP1PBnkMyGz6kcR-B6d8Ogvu2lJjlMz-qzAg2GADPvH2IaeDdRrrwki/s4032/IMG_5446.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wed6Pd3ZeasM2sg4f33t39gbTNCS8zQ6loD7Ry9_Ja0t0qhaVcEp5SnNg6hG5Kx2xauiOvpX29ERomPBdqLrn3UB6NS9WIQoa0TNyZQ0vxk-5KONrGleLUcAxBhhi9cNObCI8mP1PBnkMyGz6kcR-B6d8Ogvu2lJjlMz-qzAg2GADPvH2IaeDdRrrwki/s320/IMG_5446.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I'm not festive. At the best of times I'm not exactly Kris Kringle, but this year in particular, I've been a misery guts. It took me ages to put up the tree, the presents remain in their Amazon boxes by the back door, and it took an enormous amount of grumbling from the BF before I finally knuckled down and did the Christmas cards. Something about Xmas 2023 isn't working for me.</p><p>I decided to try and get in the mood with a trip out on the trains. What could be more Christmassy than a small town celebrating the season? I pictured snow covered rooftops, a church with happy parishioners, a children's choir singing carols as I passed by. A busy, jostling high street, but not the cut throat horror of a city centre. I headed for Wem.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB2xPtXmVU4sut7YmfMPJcvOd1oe79aNb5QR2GViF8jf97Ll2jqX_d2nPkEMN6PLHIeScufmNlbuHlmBgZydDn2ruQdohhN31SXV-tk2ywhAmj0KWKpE27VuTxAL9evUMD2lr2suHoXRZhIiZkwpjgjTK6Y-k-jO5mYBQSI3k9wYMS1hfB-RZZ0QLFzo4D/s533/Screenshot%202023-12-18%20110104.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="459" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB2xPtXmVU4sut7YmfMPJcvOd1oe79aNb5QR2GViF8jf97Ll2jqX_d2nPkEMN6PLHIeScufmNlbuHlmBgZydDn2ruQdohhN31SXV-tk2ywhAmj0KWKpE27VuTxAL9evUMD2lr2suHoXRZhIiZkwpjgjTK6Y-k-jO5mYBQSI3k9wYMS1hfB-RZZ0QLFzo4D/s320/Screenshot%202023-12-18%20110104.png" width="276" /></a></div><div><br /></div>A market town in Shropshire, not far from the borders, with a tiny rural community? What could be more Christmassy than that? It also meant I could fill a gap on that pesky Transport for Wales line running down the left hand side of the map by collecting it, plus its neighbours, Prees and Yorton.<div><br /></div><div>But first I had to get there. Poring over the timetables, I worked out the most efficient way to get to the two village stations would be to go to Wem first, then change to another train going back out. Prees and Yorton are both request stops so I accosted the guard. He was a chirpy Welshman with an RMT badge on his uniform who seemed pleased to have an excuse to stop - the new trains, he told me, were too fast, and they ended up hanging around at stations to even out the timetable if they didn't stop at the request stations. As we approached, he gave me a long spiel about watching myself as I disembarked - the platform was quite a distance from the doors, you see - and then we pulled into Prees. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgma8Y_wKMsIu3XDMVszMIqGq9oZ0-WTm6YZZrA6iWam0gIenH0q_vE2OVk8O9giSKNZfuKViC7r_5h969VCt2rNnqdSUqyBbsUg4KZam1x91P1o5pvXEiOAZvUglIKMsKPsTKvr7dhQCAlse2tKzbVYj9HsFnjIoGoAI7FJp1N_hlg7a-GegAbbrhritlq/s4032/IMG_5442.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgma8Y_wKMsIu3XDMVszMIqGq9oZ0-WTm6YZZrA6iWam0gIenH0q_vE2OVk8O9giSKNZfuKViC7r_5h969VCt2rNnqdSUqyBbsUg4KZam1x91P1o5pvXEiOAZvUglIKMsKPsTKvr7dhQCAlse2tKzbVYj9HsFnjIoGoAI7FJp1N_hlg7a-GegAbbrhritlq/s320/IMG_5442.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Normally, arriving at the station is just the beginning. Regular readers (hello you!) will know that it's usually the start of a lengthy meander through some winter-blasted landscape to get to the next stop. The problem was, Prees station was in the middle of nowhere. The village that gave it its name was a mile away. There were no footpaths south. I could walk along the A road to Wem, but who really wants to trek down a highway? So I waited. In an hour's time the train south would come and I could go to Yorton.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHuAqBap-FJaAYJe4xIC7kh55qREF2ERg-Des4UmKcPIXrCibTFJjBiN6hZ11RWT0xV1FslVEbEwlMfYPfExNu2Ekr4hfBzA8rZy1Xuv_RJ_IwJdhMQCG8c-YdZzsd2gBpaTRSaA7sRLcaSQWTtf4Tram0v6XESeAA_fj3NhyphenhyphenCeotsp-5Cf5J2TqFddwjR/s3088/IMG_5445.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHuAqBap-FJaAYJe4xIC7kh55qREF2ERg-Des4UmKcPIXrCibTFJjBiN6hZ11RWT0xV1FslVEbEwlMfYPfExNu2Ekr4hfBzA8rZy1Xuv_RJ_IwJdhMQCG8c-YdZzsd2gBpaTRSaA7sRLcaSQWTtf4Tram0v6XESeAA_fj3NhyphenhyphenCeotsp-5Cf5J2TqFddwjR/s320/IMG_5445.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Prees is particularly remote. There's the old station house alongside, of course, quiet on a weekday morning. A level crossing after a nasty bend in the road. But nothing much else to see.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSimr28sCVKlT9mJd0kQDvgkPNpESI2n2iFLOURXvZuNaAvVvYpB7s4M0Cnv0VboQPVe81b1itMv_vhURpO10xL0dyQMTnqXzmYMWsNRJc_yne3EtQvQ-pHco-Th1SXLt2OcZu700Iul40byZDDSQvLvsYBMEYFr7cehCuZpurCEMAUEB0JmPRuJkhwgK/s4032/IMG_5449.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSSimr28sCVKlT9mJd0kQDvgkPNpESI2n2iFLOURXvZuNaAvVvYpB7s4M0Cnv0VboQPVe81b1itMv_vhURpO10xL0dyQMTnqXzmYMWsNRJc_yne3EtQvQ-pHco-Th1SXLt2OcZu700Iul40byZDDSQvLvsYBMEYFr7cehCuZpurCEMAUEB0JmPRuJkhwgK/s320/IMG_5449.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>At least it had shelters on the platforms, allowing me to hide away from the winds that whipped across the fields. I installed myself in the southbound one and waited for the train.</div><div><br /></div><div>Time passed slowly. My podcast wasn't grabbing me. My fingers froze in the cold and I jammed them into my pockets - effective, but ruling out me reading a book. I watched the occasional truck or car spin past, turning across the level crossing. Now and then it would close for a freight train or an express, penning in the one vehicle behind the gate.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxfBoA7juSW7JGZIpdRXx21wVRf2StQmOMJcyNYDFZb8ZKg-Izczbwtqv_k9sFY74nA2H5BcS0wlM8emU8nrwDsPOQ7aF_yKTTr2aqbQsIzqilSxsaE1C5N-V-ImJAr5X9ZR_rKTQSZIg9ICdpHNJhNroxmT075S5_Ks49iAavYnyAXcAUEKuM2XLosqk2/s4032/IMG_5451.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxfBoA7juSW7JGZIpdRXx21wVRf2StQmOMJcyNYDFZb8ZKg-Izczbwtqv_k9sFY74nA2H5BcS0wlM8emU8nrwDsPOQ7aF_yKTTr2aqbQsIzqilSxsaE1C5N-V-ImJAr5X9ZR_rKTQSZIg9ICdpHNJhNroxmT075S5_Ks49iAavYnyAXcAUEKuM2XLosqk2/s320/IMG_5451.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I learned every inch of the shelter. The pile of mush in the corner where gritting salt had congealed. The black panel that would've once held a public phone but was long gone. The occasional scratched graffiti. Eventually I got up and paced the platform, back and forth, up and down. I put on some banging beats to liven up my brain and body, jiggling a little as a particularly good one came on, embarrassing myself for the CCTV cameras. Then the train came in.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6eesw1l0DhmOB3dSLG7U8Bfvp3uGIomodb12Kv6pEksNdZHP_SP-oWXXd_o-O-lwf4mmQ0Nn3kgVNBwAuKnovqMKD6yduV86EMsfRlyXKPG7j5oOaGceJRYix2f83xwJm5iYgL2eY54igJjbR8gXVXwrM1bM_gabLS_ZYkicLk4DQ8lEYPNTqdC_upsHb/s4032/IMG_5447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6eesw1l0DhmOB3dSLG7U8Bfvp3uGIomodb12Kv6pEksNdZHP_SP-oWXXd_o-O-lwf4mmQ0Nn3kgVNBwAuKnovqMKD6yduV86EMsfRlyXKPG7j5oOaGceJRYix2f83xwJm5iYgL2eY54igJjbR8gXVXwrM1bM_gabLS_ZYkicLk4DQ8lEYPNTqdC_upsHb/s320/IMG_5447.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>It was the exact same train I'd arrived on, with the exact same guard. I asked him to stop at Yorton, a little shame faced, and he gave me a look which clearly implied "are you taking the piss?" As we pulled into the station, he began his usual spiel about the high step, then realised he was wasting his time. I gave him a polite thumbs up as I got off the train but I don't think he was amused.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoxOsT9LAStzQ5p5Sxo0OFzl34aStaXckGzNPY_iy3mN8nwFIFYKjUaY4M6mMe8nAQ-LsfnzNUaQqjJVry2sRWGzmIP4k2-rJluIXkuc7yTDueZHuFGcTbELAMlYb_8P67dyqqJQ_XfceCG9Z1EqUUi37KsRle6NvXmRVFIe2MkvHHhhKGFKd9Cz-xEPKR/s4032/IMG_5455.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoxOsT9LAStzQ5p5Sxo0OFzl34aStaXckGzNPY_iy3mN8nwFIFYKjUaY4M6mMe8nAQ-LsfnzNUaQqjJVry2sRWGzmIP4k2-rJluIXkuc7yTDueZHuFGcTbELAMlYb_8P67dyqqJQ_XfceCG9Z1EqUUi37KsRle6NvXmRVFIe2MkvHHhhKGFKd9Cz-xEPKR/s320/IMG_5455.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Yorton was slightly less isolated than Prees. A cul-de-sac of homes had been built on what probably used to be the goods yard, while the station house was now a private residence, as several signs reminded you - though slightly confusingly, it announced this on a sign with the British Rail double arrow logo. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrL2TcwaMaIDxaJGsp4SuF2tKvq6WLeaMNo4-mSjoCM6Yem-7BD__wqXZ27P98gHa_DEYopaHqaM20QfG4Ff4afRq0zYNNp8mOg_pEk3P1KljwtM2bHJBl3If21DuXUBcw9dzPtj4sSxrDpLIJ5cAySAuw4ljNMpzmy6M5B7LdFQsdglT9ko6Pwr37MbIb/s4032/IMG_5459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrL2TcwaMaIDxaJGsp4SuF2tKvq6WLeaMNo4-mSjoCM6Yem-7BD__wqXZ27P98gHa_DEYopaHqaM20QfG4Ff4afRq0zYNNp8mOg_pEk3P1KljwtM2bHJBl3If21DuXUBcw9dzPtj4sSxrDpLIJ5cAySAuw4ljNMpzmy6M5B7LdFQsdglT9ko6Pwr37MbIb/s320/IMG_5459.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Beyond the station was the Railway Inn which I assumed was closed and converted into a house. They must've left the sign up for whimsy, because it didn't look like a country pub - there wasn't eight miles of car park, and an adventure playground, and a sign outside telling me what football matches I could see. There wasn't even a mention of their menu. I was surprised to get home and discover that <a href="https://bomber604.wixsite.com/railwayinnyorton">it's very much a going concern</a>, although it doesn't open until 5pm on weekdays. It's clearly a proper, old fashioned boozer, and I was very sad I didn't get a chance to visit. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2gpp12cjNpbPXd1IgHrXoyWN9p2vP5dwFax1AH1cCkO8v7f_lPust9a5mVM8HWnjM090yacfBBSdx_UAW_X8P3EHBx3lNKeSi0Gr4xQ2vZ_3ms8mHrMj4pTCw2pYNRG8e723jcys3hlkSNtIU6cKV059Xurxik3lXgGIrGn07sNIs_lgGRVKEhm8LgCG/s4032/IMG_5460.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2gpp12cjNpbPXd1IgHrXoyWN9p2vP5dwFax1AH1cCkO8v7f_lPust9a5mVM8HWnjM090yacfBBSdx_UAW_X8P3EHBx3lNKeSi0Gr4xQ2vZ_3ms8mHrMj4pTCw2pYNRG8e723jcys3hlkSNtIU6cKV059Xurxik3lXgGIrGn07sNIs_lgGRVKEhm8LgCG/s320/IMG_5460.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I'd originally planned on getting the train back north again, to Wem, and risking the shame of having that conductor for a third time. However, a sign near the entrance to the station told me there'd be a bus coming along in about eight minutes. This would, at least, make a change, so I dashed up the steps to the platform because - for some unknown reason - they'd mounted the totem sign up on the embankment rather than down at road level. You know, where it might be useful.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim5UhpI5BdKVdjj_oAwFSyU5VTsN-NuZ0yjoiLjhrIb1WiwuBHzkLz-SDFPFbLxuqKqvcKYhjrE4E7bgSJ2BjiJaKPc4VXkngiylaQqhN2eTduV6oOyM0pgIi00q3xcEWWBz8EKPZOluAm4YJB-m2PpvqApzpO8ToFfbog9FbEXLd6EPpi6zmwuPW7GIc5/s3088/IMG_5465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim5UhpI5BdKVdjj_oAwFSyU5VTsN-NuZ0yjoiLjhrIb1WiwuBHzkLz-SDFPFbLxuqKqvcKYhjrE4E7bgSJ2BjiJaKPc4VXkngiylaQqhN2eTduV6oOyM0pgIi00q3xcEWWBz8EKPZOluAm4YJB-m2PpvqApzpO8ToFfbog9FbEXLd6EPpi6zmwuPW7GIc5/s320/IMG_5465.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>The bus left from a stop called, delightfully, <i>Jubilee Tree Houses</i>, a few yards away from the station. A triangle of roads surrounded a single tree with a split running down its trunk. There was a bench around it and a noticeboard advising me that I was needed to "help shape the housing future" of the villages. I loitered by the bus stop; the grass around the tree was too wet for me to use the bench, and anyway, I didn't want to miss the bus.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbtZMxEGj2gow3N5T37NFxfvA2IQmKAfD7wJS7pFOVIdvt_WZFUb_aEd4bMTjb1tbxO8nSoJi_YkhDEykhQpsHw7oO6Ygw1Svw3VYuOhFNm2QXHo6oo60S457nIl2YDyx7p2AV3O9i0lmP3gq_99S5A1aM6ofIsjm1lAMmaBz1Q2orT7XcfekY_nqW7xy/s4032/IMG_5470.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpbtZMxEGj2gow3N5T37NFxfvA2IQmKAfD7wJS7pFOVIdvt_WZFUb_aEd4bMTjb1tbxO8nSoJi_YkhDEykhQpsHw7oO6Ygw1Svw3VYuOhFNm2QXHo6oo60S457nIl2YDyx7p2AV3O9i0lmP3gq_99S5A1aM6ofIsjm1lAMmaBz1Q2orT7XcfekY_nqW7xy/s320/IMG_5470.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>One big problem I have with buses is their lack of information. If I'm at a railway station and the train is delayed, there's an announcement, and maybe a countdown clock too if you're lucky. At a bus stop there's nothing. If it came early, you don't know; if it's late, you don't know. You stand there, hoping, staring at the horizon, waiting for it to swing round the corner. Eventually the 511 arrived, a few minutes late, and I could stop feeling anxious. The driver was a bearded bloke in dark glasses who took my £1.60 (by card, of course, this is the cashless society) and politely waited for me to sit down before he started tearing through the country lanes.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcdRkfBKx0q3UOHLJnJ33qPSF5SF-nmP73u_9qa0n-Nhs_l-g5LwF8Ec26AAOA7x1NSrb-r4Oi-uUd2LeNyqqmexV3jAZhhJhvghKPuJklutbCRqJGVImYGI070KyuAH8Y2B2kK7ZJYUdWyDPQIm61dusKU3p1ZF4CRbkKxsvx1VQ04yaSklbvX4NVc6B/s4032/IMG_5472.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcdRkfBKx0q3UOHLJnJ33qPSF5SF-nmP73u_9qa0n-Nhs_l-g5LwF8Ec26AAOA7x1NSrb-r4Oi-uUd2LeNyqqmexV3jAZhhJhvghKPuJklutbCRqJGVImYGI070KyuAH8Y2B2kK7ZJYUdWyDPQIm61dusKU3p1ZF4CRbkKxsvx1VQ04yaSklbvX4NVc6B/s320/IMG_5472.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>He dropped me off by that church I'd been hankering for. No, there wasn't any snow, but the church of St Peter and St Paul was exactly what I wanted: stone tower, bit of graveyard, walls and a gate. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjG8ezfi-RH_rTnWdl6FaMh6mEZpcH4pAzRH0yd_uu_FkhB2nZabcgJQ8OvSHrUHEd9BmUDjt6Y_OchCqvUexkeqlZXjwunzSVci-HmRERW0DxipIlj8UAsGE8EPxaxXps3TCNJ7yxuR1xxO1mKvt1N4plbvFNWNfvI3P367TfUNd2cNBH5wQiSou-gOK/s4032/IMG_5474.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjG8ezfi-RH_rTnWdl6FaMh6mEZpcH4pAzRH0yd_uu_FkhB2nZabcgJQ8OvSHrUHEd9BmUDjt6Y_OchCqvUexkeqlZXjwunzSVci-HmRERW0DxipIlj8UAsGE8EPxaxXps3TCNJ7yxuR1xxO1mKvt1N4plbvFNWNfvI3P367TfUNd2cNBH5wQiSou-gOK/s320/IMG_5474.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>The only thing I knew about Wem prior to arriving was that it was the home of the Taskmaster himself, Greg Davies; Dave Gorman once bought him a load of Wem-related memorabilia to try and win a task. One of the items was a book about the history of Wem and Greg was baffled that they found enough to fill it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can sort of see his point. Wem was a nice little town but it was very average. It wasn't charming enough to attract tourists, but it wasn't ugly enough to be amusing. It was, in short, a small country town with no pretentions.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PaeFpgwB-Iix3iI2nU_1xgUi6sWaRGISW0HmQzS6Me4GW7wWZTeSrO7H13bh5_nS8pp8TSFbHBfhbXBQ5oIMXWSVT0kVL1SHmfiw6mn_WlHXSvUXrUSKBTDbHx0QY7JdTjyiyns7Ussprcono9bLVzDnaJwo55KfkRQxugAEQq4e3-0ygjxzXapLNKKn/s4032/IMG_5475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3PaeFpgwB-Iix3iI2nU_1xgUi6sWaRGISW0HmQzS6Me4GW7wWZTeSrO7H13bh5_nS8pp8TSFbHBfhbXBQ5oIMXWSVT0kVL1SHmfiw6mn_WlHXSvUXrUSKBTDbHx0QY7JdTjyiyns7Ussprcono9bLVzDnaJwo55KfkRQxugAEQq4e3-0ygjxzXapLNKKn/s320/IMG_5475.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Yes, that place is called <i><a href="https://www.facebook.com/TheWarblingTit/">The Warbling Tit</a></i>. It's a bird, get your mind out of the gutter.</div><div><br /></div><div>I strolled down the main street, rows of tightly packed historic buildings - a smattering of Georgian, a Victorian manse, a half-timbered cottage. The decorations were very much on the minimalist side - a single lit banner across the road, and a lot of small trees poking out of the sides of shops. I wanted baubles and glitz and shininess. Wem wasn't giving me that festive boost I needed.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwrsjOS2oU3j8PQpJB-bJ3M2W7efkCQvEuZYblwSB1y3lxDanuIb75-GV6CP2xvwQiMdtud2QTb_YUNJ7bGLDYiupeKpjDuEV9bYWQG90NTGM_8dIOt743126A9g5sNPnJDsjFTjLfVRc4J6DGnJeIsCznO3CVmabbwALOwVVokaVoCct_39Y_Lj9nq9Ab/s4032/IMG_5479.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwrsjOS2oU3j8PQpJB-bJ3M2W7efkCQvEuZYblwSB1y3lxDanuIb75-GV6CP2xvwQiMdtud2QTb_YUNJ7bGLDYiupeKpjDuEV9bYWQG90NTGM_8dIOt743126A9g5sNPnJDsjFTjLfVRc4J6DGnJeIsCznO3CVmabbwALOwVVokaVoCct_39Y_Lj9nq9Ab/s320/IMG_5479.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I did a circuit of the centre, ducking down alleyways and passing equestrian supply shops and a town hall that claimed Wem stood for <i>Where Everyone Matters</i>. The Wem Business Park was marked with a sign over the entrance that was like a grim Disneyworld attraction, a forgotten corner of the park that provided only moderate excitement.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmbowV4HD2_DAVMsFZ5hhod4Rti2D9ZuuBp1ad-rIu5Dl6nflMjJhq88uQh4QmEtg-qH8kRzE-l8AU7z78A-i1BwuAKUwkFcKB87rQCYvKPpXSIRMYiGD3zaGzB5mIwHmw2MVAVvr734-Vizl0WoYPveAp8Y4w-FcTtiawJsVru4iFv_zB1Q_zlptGfnkF/s4032/IMG_5483.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmbowV4HD2_DAVMsFZ5hhod4Rti2D9ZuuBp1ad-rIu5Dl6nflMjJhq88uQh4QmEtg-qH8kRzE-l8AU7z78A-i1BwuAKUwkFcKB87rQCYvKPpXSIRMYiGD3zaGzB5mIwHmw2MVAVvr734-Vizl0WoYPveAp8Y4w-FcTtiawJsVru4iFv_zB1Q_zlptGfnkF/s320/IMG_5483.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Of course, there's one sure fire way of cheering me up.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGcVIPAKRhl-ZCBvdra1D-0l5M7KeDW_Cd85WYiCJjHUJ5Ol8oRWFvvqHWIdr6VFdZF49bgM0faRN0ic1fUlzGrNH713lAkZSnC_4vCZRivdqWLwEuJWF9oHbQgRSDswXbLpWnDSRve-jL1-Qf08iDbiQxQ08XVEJ2GPSrGYwEbx7xOboqEPt_k4sHAOtU/s4032/IMG_5486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGcVIPAKRhl-ZCBvdra1D-0l5M7KeDW_Cd85WYiCJjHUJ5Ol8oRWFvvqHWIdr6VFdZF49bgM0faRN0ic1fUlzGrNH713lAkZSnC_4vCZRivdqWLwEuJWF9oHbQgRSDswXbLpWnDSRve-jL1-Qf08iDbiQxQ08XVEJ2GPSrGYwEbx7xOboqEPt_k4sHAOtU/s320/IMG_5486.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I picked the Castle Inn for a pint at random, and it was a good pub, warm and welcoming and busy. I'd mulled getting some food while I was there, but the couple ahead of me at the bar were turned away from the restaurant part because a party was expected. I took my seat in the corner as they arrived, a barrage of bright old ladies who chattered and giggled. They were dressed to enjoy themselves. One woman, in her seventies at least, wore a white minidress under a leopardskin coat. Her feet were in red sparkly shoes with candy-striped high heels. She was, of course, fabulous. I was once again reminded that the pensioners of today were the ravers of the sixties; they weren't grimly keeping the British end up during the war, they were on the Pill and doing the frug and wearing hot pants and thigh high boots. Stop trying to get them to sing along to Vera Lynn and break out the Hendrix.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht04iw4TKZt6AamIZNu84FmXcxgrv8uEIIGchE2ABHxICKv81VUGhJr6GikNVaj-34WMUQIaiDfXEiQd5AArkP6EQJqjHK5TN0StvE_jJrwrQWAPT8cMjgx-D5TgErhYQfc1SvIq60KmWheKiK5DpDRmDa3cwc_H9v6YTgU_gZOcZGqwbFiJsp6boiom1n/s4032/IMG_5485.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht04iw4TKZt6AamIZNu84FmXcxgrv8uEIIGchE2ABHxICKv81VUGhJr6GikNVaj-34WMUQIaiDfXEiQd5AArkP6EQJqjHK5TN0StvE_jJrwrQWAPT8cMjgx-D5TgErhYQfc1SvIq60KmWheKiK5DpDRmDa3cwc_H9v6YTgU_gZOcZGqwbFiJsp6boiom1n/s320/IMG_5485.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Wem has a long history of game old birds; a plaque behind my seat reminded me of the time during the Civil War when the womenfolk dressed as Parliamentarians to foil an attack from the Cavaliers. As I read up on it on my phone, another older lady came in and proceeded to chat away with the barmaid, full of energy despite her walking frame. I considered staying longer, missing my train and getting the next one, but a man came in and sat at the next table and he gave off a strong negative energy. The waitress greeted him with a menu and said they could do him a Christmas dinner, if he wanted; he sharply replied, <i>"I don't believe in turkey. I think it's cruelty, the way they slaughter them. If I had my way, I'd shoot them all. Not the birds, the people." </i>The waitress backed away. Typical: a man shows up and ruins the vibe.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCxan7ZQ5JCq4tPKWvBDib3kZaXGAx7LD54OkRTKutganY4pAY0vfyL9SCA5N5ra6YeaPzDRBAY11u5sVGS0bZHViSuG5oJkXG14T6jt9WnVUYuflKyfuu99I1tzbyfiVCFhKp6vISqWSt6SpESgL8bWftPgxTujptiUYKkvHTxxcJ-3A8nUe-gIpH55Vj/s4032/IMG_5491.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCxan7ZQ5JCq4tPKWvBDib3kZaXGAx7LD54OkRTKutganY4pAY0vfyL9SCA5N5ra6YeaPzDRBAY11u5sVGS0bZHViSuG5oJkXG14T6jt9WnVUYuflKyfuu99I1tzbyfiVCFhKp6vISqWSt6SpESgL8bWftPgxTujptiUYKkvHTxxcJ-3A8nUe-gIpH55Vj/s320/IMG_5491.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I left the pub after that, briefly nuzzling the resident cat on the way out, and headed to the Co-op for a sandwich. There was a group of excited primary school children there, setting up for a Christmas carol performance, and I'm afraid my day out in the countryside hadn't given me a Scrooge-like conversion to the season, because I legged it in case I had to hear <i>Away In A Manger</i>. Instead I headed to the station.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl9LQC7InDvypPwXfOAGj6nFdppsER2Bz3cPRi8mlDSEGZcNzwqKnmelfuUYAc0b7dRy2AIJgPgu1GYTAx1KmxOilNmKgvjcncta011Wlo3kzeNOYTUZJbSjImPgHgpKN5uRg8ZU6gSP-iM9dvhyphenhyphen_rbUMLwpbT1zAAtQR9_WXLmjhuY-V7GkFDI78PsO8U/s4032/IMG_5502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl9LQC7InDvypPwXfOAGj6nFdppsER2Bz3cPRi8mlDSEGZcNzwqKnmelfuUYAc0b7dRy2AIJgPgu1GYTAx1KmxOilNmKgvjcncta011Wlo3kzeNOYTUZJbSjImPgHgpKN5uRg8ZU6gSP-iM9dvhyphenhyphen_rbUMLwpbT1zAAtQR9_WXLmjhuY-V7GkFDI78PsO8U/s320/IMG_5502.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>It's a plain, ordinary affair, perfectly decent, with shelters and a level crossing. It's safe to say it's a little neglected; there was an informative map of the local country stations which bore the logos of both British Rail Provincial (the forerunner to Regional Railways, which itself disappeared with privatisation) and the Countryside Commission (abolished in 1999). At what point does a sign start being a historic relic and in need of restoration?<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgICxTOKZu7luYj4rZsMb4jJ1wEnK0WAtkYB9XlzObzyJfiXWSa0G2GdEDgHeDCQjCXktFdhiimD4KADJCWJP3lyXzfwMg6kgKBhDCStme4J77A0ohYYmkOFv6-NR6bFjtfVAU4z9LVdIVDrdUWI2Q6QNjP1S9IHsla8QzlMR5UgvQ95HZoSRhcUFFAtTXd/s4032/IMG_5437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgICxTOKZu7luYj4rZsMb4jJ1wEnK0WAtkYB9XlzObzyJfiXWSa0G2GdEDgHeDCQjCXktFdhiimD4KADJCWJP3lyXzfwMg6kgKBhDCStme4J77A0ohYYmkOFv6-NR6bFjtfVAU4z9LVdIVDrdUWI2Q6QNjP1S9IHsla8QzlMR5UgvQ95HZoSRhcUFFAtTXd/s320/IMG_5437.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Wem also has the tiniest totem sign I've ever seen. Not the sign itself, which is normal, but the little strip along the bottom announcing the station name.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM3IC0yPHBDnpSCec-wdkmbVCY_qYPa5dHwNHdEG0vJ0FQHb_39spbnOkCCeX9ZQv6JW_2XrWULHbi6m6ba330FfMT_fTPJgkaymZFJaaR-OBFL3nRICppt-cSY0IDOmTQMzf-bP0BGIn7Mjy98Uh5K_vo1EesxE-wxXZJikK5QAOzhf_Hu6Xq5vKnP-iU/s4032/IMG_5501.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM3IC0yPHBDnpSCec-wdkmbVCY_qYPa5dHwNHdEG0vJ0FQHb_39spbnOkCCeX9ZQv6JW_2XrWULHbi6m6ba330FfMT_fTPJgkaymZFJaaR-OBFL3nRICppt-cSY0IDOmTQMzf-bP0BGIn7Mjy98Uh5K_vo1EesxE-wxXZJikK5QAOzhf_Hu6Xq5vKnP-iU/s320/IMG_5501.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Did someone forget to add it on, and there was a last minute addition? Did they think because Wem is only three letters, they could get away with the smallest possible name badge? It could do with a scrub either way. Wem deserves better.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85zIjWtPoOF07DG-LGvXzBzfVLvVY4ZwTKlewmtQEIKYKXypE5oVueduJC-dNy71NFQ_zjpE8anG-N9YcOsBoava_usWihllWqFEMa5cr09Vwe8bP8VRAmgsHWwxzo9TWXKyIKUGue_U0WMsBrbzBnUwP3Lyg8RJwadhgIIE28DPAXmqeNu_rtQh_aJFY/s3088/IMG_5499.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85zIjWtPoOF07DG-LGvXzBzfVLvVY4ZwTKlewmtQEIKYKXypE5oVueduJC-dNy71NFQ_zjpE8anG-N9YcOsBoava_usWihllWqFEMa5cr09Vwe8bP8VRAmgsHWwxzo9TWXKyIKUGue_U0WMsBrbzBnUwP3Lyg8RJwadhgIIE28DPAXmqeNu_rtQh_aJFY/s320/IMG_5499.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Anyway, <b>Merry Christmas!</b><div><br /></div><div>Nope. Still not feeling it.</div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-59881942241061131602023-12-09T12:43:00.003+00:002023-12-09T12:43:53.521+00:00The Shock Of The Old<p>I was at Lime Street, waiting for a train to West Kirby, hoping, as I always do these days, that it'd be a new one. I heard the rattle and crash of an old Merseyrail train coming round the corner, but when it finally emerged, I got a nice surprise.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0mJxsEHipXsnSHtLER2uMl1bTbpw0UU9QdklZX8ilYuCVV89827kDA72hE0FUXSNcc2LVjOkAW4LDyvBfsXmhjY1_oaAVA9Y0MShincjsWd5tBnTUIxOEpj3GK0G7Dk59Z3M9wwd6_HbFh5y0W_ugAxyScYhLWt-lm9qTYHeYgR5QZ4Yi0Mzi_1LH8Sn4/s4032/IMG_5404.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0mJxsEHipXsnSHtLER2uMl1bTbpw0UU9QdklZX8ilYuCVV89827kDA72hE0FUXSNcc2LVjOkAW4LDyvBfsXmhjY1_oaAVA9Y0MShincjsWd5tBnTUIxOEpj3GK0G7Dk59Z3M9wwd6_HbFh5y0W_ugAxyScYhLWt-lm9qTYHeYgR5QZ4Yi0Mzi_1LH8Sn4/s320/IMG_5404.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>As a farewell present for the old trains, 507 001 has been decorated in a rough approximation of the British Rail livery it had when it first came into service 46 years ago. Seeing the return of BR blue was a heck of a shock to the system, even if, when I first came to Merseyside, they were long repainted into yellow and white. There was something so strange about the new, gleaming, white Lime Street Lower Level with this streak of 1970s design poured through the centre.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Ip3J_aKkflovLNuvlU8h5uuwx-wjvXCr2QZEg_dQSHTowrxjFB7e0_dZThEwRceTUYjWYYB9JibxM46IwFp4MyJKQ_3FteDi2g5KOBy7feWWiRnRpSKdvWluZyVjSb_izaB15rxY_jkB-WFsNOoxpdqXtGnX7ReJgFgnF4ltkMf1caYFw2U0Yt2e4r5t/s4032/IMG_5405.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Ip3J_aKkflovLNuvlU8h5uuwx-wjvXCr2QZEg_dQSHTowrxjFB7e0_dZThEwRceTUYjWYYB9JibxM46IwFp4MyJKQ_3FteDi2g5KOBy7feWWiRnRpSKdvWluZyVjSb_izaB15rxY_jkB-WFsNOoxpdqXtGnX7ReJgFgnF4ltkMf1caYFw2U0Yt2e4r5t/s320/IMG_5405.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>The train was actually headed to New Brighton but I got on board anyway. You have to, don't you? As I've said a million times - and someday someone will believe me - I'm not a train fan, I'm a station fan. And when I do like a train it's because it's new and modern and gleaming. I have no nostalgia: steam trains were cold and noisy and smelly, diesels are the same, and old trains didn't have aircon or electronic displays or CCTV. Trains have got better and smarter over the years and we should applaud that and not hark back to when you sat in a compartment with a murderer bringing up phlegm for the eighteen hours it took to get to Truro. </div><div><br /></div><div>That being said, I do like a unicorn, and as the only Merseyrail train in the BR livery, 507001 is special. I'd have been annoyed if I didn't rid it at least once. I rode it as far as Birkenhead Park. Sadly, they've not decorated the interiors to match the exterior; it's still the 00s revamp inside. I was hoping for a return of those yellow and green seat covers that were always, always, hanging off the cushion underneath.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlKdmEj5RQ04gkkLynB2i_urQ_Va_ZeIhbh4p7v2nyHpkUmE8QnwKVy8_Eyg0zxPFfQ5gR3GMOHLjOBl11zPHKCFLpACMmtqUDs3q6Jk3ugQxOA8XDacgJRJXkgMBffbkFswBEQ7iXnYUh8oAGUxuCTY1XBmNHdGsfN-akFuzkmdHJRZbL7xmT9Max71Yc/s4032/IMG_5407.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlKdmEj5RQ04gkkLynB2i_urQ_Va_ZeIhbh4p7v2nyHpkUmE8QnwKVy8_Eyg0zxPFfQ5gR3GMOHLjOBl11zPHKCFLpACMmtqUDs3q6Jk3ugQxOA8XDacgJRJXkgMBffbkFswBEQ7iXnYUh8oAGUxuCTY1XBmNHdGsfN-akFuzkmdHJRZbL7xmT9Max71Yc/s320/IMG_5407.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>A quick trip under the river later and I was getting off to wait in the rain for my actual train. 507 001 is going to carry on looking like this until it's either dragged off to be scrapped or <a href="https://hampo.uk/">Robert</a> and the <a href="https://www.class507.org.uk/">Class 507 Preservation Society</a> manage to rescue it from the dumper. They're doing their best to have this train kept alive for future generations to visit and admire and go <i>"Jesus, you mean to tell me they kept these going for nearly fifty years?"</i>. If that appeals to you, please, give them a shout and a hand. All donations gratefully accepted.<div><br /></div><div>My train to West Kirby was one of the old trains too, but in the boring yellow and grey. I know they're all dying but is it too much to ask that Merseyrail carry on cleaning them? My one was absolutely filthy, with long streaks of dirty black marks all over it. Ah well. Here's a video of 507 001 on its way out of Birkenhead Park. We shall never see its like again. Well, we will, for probably a few months yet, but that's not quite the poignant farewell a blog post like this needs at the end.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyKX2u2Ens8acnlhV0UVfsnKdvfPp4GcFezK-bp4r2wf0YOELVj0SLdDB4x7f1JwyCYGRm3u_X9aBlobdqlKA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div><div><p><br /></p></div></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-87424408465574006892023-12-05T17:46:00.001+00:002023-12-05T17:46:27.801+00:00Ordinary World<p>Sometimes I come back from a trip out on the trains positively champing at the bit to type it up. I'm almost in a fugue state, hammering away at the keyboard, memories and impressions flowing out of me. Sometimes, however, I return from a trip and think: what am I going to say? Not everywhere can be inspiring. Some places simply exist.</p><p>Welcome to Landywood.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirP4aQA1-N6NSAzvNWYZ-cgGpmy1D2vRwQVVkDBMTNmM-qqPHVhb4Xd2AN_c7vL0nOh97s0GKCWZrImALVgwu8cse2OdHJ7jRzCF_-OvC9P1JnsIAQPtvmjWHFHRVq3jFz2MngX4SXVzwe7euB9PNqHndchMj5uIB4qJjF0HhXGAi_rR5GxiJmFkzUDGFH/s4896/DSC00307.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirP4aQA1-N6NSAzvNWYZ-cgGpmy1D2vRwQVVkDBMTNmM-qqPHVhb4Xd2AN_c7vL0nOh97s0GKCWZrImALVgwu8cse2OdHJ7jRzCF_-OvC9P1JnsIAQPtvmjWHFHRVq3jFz2MngX4SXVzwe7euB9PNqHndchMj5uIB4qJjF0HhXGAi_rR5GxiJmFkzUDGFH/s320/DSC00307.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I'd like to make it clear that there's nothing actually <i>wrong</i> with Landywood. It's a perfectly adequate station. But that's all: adequate. It has two platforms. A couple of shelters. Next train indicators. No station building or lifts, just access from a pair of side roads. It has a metal sculptural topper on its totem:<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN6AsATwahjXM9TLrNQNXCsrbD6A2EokClmzqI_OQsYGVRwGf1xQATPjdVEtDkqEK3ZOMaosRnMMs5LtrX6Dw6nUVrQe3SKUD_wW1VwYbYsBBCBZabFoR_R1hoIOwYzG5QvhppcSRDBYIv1-xIvxYCSLH9dqQOd2E-PumJ9F6Trzn7rDXisG-f5PAhSaZ_/s4896/DSC00314.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN6AsATwahjXM9TLrNQNXCsrbD6A2EokClmzqI_OQsYGVRwGf1xQATPjdVEtDkqEK3ZOMaosRnMMs5LtrX6Dw6nUVrQe3SKUD_wW1VwYbYsBBCBZabFoR_R1hoIOwYzG5QvhppcSRDBYIv1-xIvxYCSLH9dqQOd2E-PumJ9F6Trzn7rDXisG-f5PAhSaZ_/s320/DSC00314.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>So that's nice. As is seemingly always the way with art on the West Midlands network, I can find absolutely no information about who designed or commissioned it, so my apologies to the artist involved. Landywood does have a sign pointing to it which is in ALL CAPS, which is horrible, but that's as notable as it gets.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHWqRBSu1I2VHgHLaTwLIbsEpFoPRgVWp4yqnce6VkQ1Nwvihpr7TuvvkBrSY0s7IMRCprRlz1aY8AZWfuC-63uFhsMVRgcPVD5VsJwVnbpL9tv6Iwf_smIpsP9xk3LkqsmxorSDV7ulJ7hG8f07_toRJYKfYab2RmmCloTLnxkgB1uhqlVwIyrnPppRkK/s4032/IMG_5313.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHWqRBSu1I2VHgHLaTwLIbsEpFoPRgVWp4yqnce6VkQ1Nwvihpr7TuvvkBrSY0s7IMRCprRlz1aY8AZWfuC-63uFhsMVRgcPVD5VsJwVnbpL9tv6Iwf_smIpsP9xk3LkqsmxorSDV7ulJ7hG8f07_toRJYKfYab2RmmCloTLnxkgB1uhqlVwIyrnPppRkK/s320/IMG_5313.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>It is, in short, a perfectly ordinary halt on the British rail network. Which is fine if all you're doing is using it to catch a train, but I'm trying to extract content for a not even slightly popular blog here.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiun-0jfzJIPILi8pERn-dBtdWDK1pjJ_8Ykz0KE3haBpqN813Y_yA-gdxdNrnIn_WH2th98ZJPPAKcJ7T8arg-iOoIF32sjzEIw86A8D0-JklRE-5Cs9dzACbiQGNQQXMLtq2dNuHkDoOniwJNy1e80QxEGES0Rho0xyPu2pVhZWvnRb1q-ro30-P-moO6/s4896/DSC00311.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiun-0jfzJIPILi8pERn-dBtdWDK1pjJ_8Ykz0KE3haBpqN813Y_yA-gdxdNrnIn_WH2th98ZJPPAKcJ7T8arg-iOoIF32sjzEIw86A8D0-JklRE-5Cs9dzACbiQGNQQXMLtq2dNuHkDoOniwJNy1e80QxEGES0Rho0xyPu2pVhZWvnRb1q-ro30-P-moO6/s320/DSC00311.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Actually, there's one slightly interesting fact about Landywood station: it's not in Landywood. That's a village to the south. The station is actually close to the centre of Great Wyrley, a mining village redeveloped into a satellite suburb in the Sixties for the workers in the city. Avenues of semis and bungalows on roads called <i>Sunbeam Drive </i>and <i>Paddock Lane</i> curl their way from a small low shopping centre with a Co-op and a local Italian restaurant.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHSjLn46QuM8boC4kdXiPqogbQaAIGEJ7c476rOSVdKrlDVfZ1rl9HYxhHAOk1UHoIdwTt-NwLqWl98RU42seJNF2BsWreD_J627AiKh1ISmiRwaaPC509H7LgKlLvMXHzcnKHnZ0oERFrc9mjYwlbXAto7q-MC8jEW7OKIqnTdfEnEP2X87z2MFuWK-1/s4896/DSC00316.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHSjLn46QuM8boC4kdXiPqogbQaAIGEJ7c476rOSVdKrlDVfZ1rl9HYxhHAOk1UHoIdwTt-NwLqWl98RU42seJNF2BsWreD_J627AiKh1ISmiRwaaPC509H7LgKlLvMXHzcnKHnZ0oERFrc9mjYwlbXAto7q-MC8jEW7OKIqnTdfEnEP2X87z2MFuWK-1/s320/DSC00316.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>The <i><a href="https://wyrleyblog.wordpress.com/wyrley-landywood/the-pubs-of-great-wyrley/the-lost-pubs-of-great-wyrley/">Davy Lamp</a> </i>pub, constructed along with the rest of the estate as the hub, was closed and gone now. Not quite gone: it had been converted into a Bargain Booze, so the local alcoholics will have to take their cheap drink back to their homes rather than enjoying it with convivial company. Maddeningly, the signs for the old pub remain on the side of the building, a reminder of what you once had, like keeping your ex's name after they left you.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJnACyfGF9Y6VsH6F4b2peRu2D3MDpfp9DBo8XoybPQ9BxvALEEd3kz4cyLGDits9oXQrGvC2talMLRX3yZAIStpEHJ3kdLyK9_E2wADj75reB5K_W8u22GHe3orFRBCE_iDiGxogXJNwuNwu-8onGyJJ3kqA1PyHzviC2_Gs_TOZzxx5ojiu5G4L6oDL_/s4896/DSC00319.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJnACyfGF9Y6VsH6F4b2peRu2D3MDpfp9DBo8XoybPQ9BxvALEEd3kz4cyLGDits9oXQrGvC2talMLRX3yZAIStpEHJ3kdLyK9_E2wADj75reB5K_W8u22GHe3orFRBCE_iDiGxogXJNwuNwu-8onGyJJ3kqA1PyHzviC2_Gs_TOZzxx5ojiu5G4L6oDL_/s320/DSC00319.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>A Royal Mail van pulled up on the pavement as I walked by, and the scary looking postwoman clambered out and stood on the kerb. She bellowed at the beauty salon in her thick Brummie accent: <i>"I've got a couple of parcels for you!"</i>, because round here, apparently the delivery folk don't deign to walk the ten yards to your front door. I wouldn't have argued with her, mind, she looked like she could crush me with a single thumb, so I scurried back across the supermarket car park and down the side of the station.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgljmyxtQ8FYSFdxoBDCsuMcOlFpfrCyhBBu_c6NDlmgYnzY7nUyUIA0SqShzDNyBFMX7ARZhUz6qkHCSbfdjFjYles1RB9hbjh58o_CFm4skBFWBlJiebBtb5enXUUmSdsjYcPMuLuplvktMnTrRASXX2P6X8izbcsFVmgNpPrMVVnSrf2f7ZkIp8UdcZi/s4896/DSC00326.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgljmyxtQ8FYSFdxoBDCsuMcOlFpfrCyhBBu_c6NDlmgYnzY7nUyUIA0SqShzDNyBFMX7ARZhUz6qkHCSbfdjFjYles1RB9hbjh58o_CFm4skBFWBlJiebBtb5enXUUmSdsjYcPMuLuplvktMnTrRASXX2P6X8izbcsFVmgNpPrMVVnSrf2f7ZkIp8UdcZi/s320/DSC00326.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The streets were silent, as you'd expect in a suburb in the middle of a weekday. One house was a building site as its owners converted it from a perfectly acceptable 1960s bungalow into a whitewashed facsimile of a new build. The roof now had windows for its loft conversion and I once again wondered why someone would buy a bungalow and then put in a second storey; can you not just buy a two-floor house in the first place? Two storey houses are usually cheaper than bungalows. A fat cat wandered out in front of me and miaowed for attention. I bent down and murmured <i>hello puss</i>, but got only a small nuzzle in before it realised I wasn't going to give it food and wandered off into a garden.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZCsCthvn68aWrKozDT1wM7NGKC91bF7GIik4IwLsp_OJtqLEf6k0u6Y9TPqQYHrLEfjZKq6gnmcild-OnALDbxqZTzcNJTVrwAiaag3gX9ChPfBfbDEZtX3Cz2vY42q192fl049fcbDo1udBVXkoEnU66qky-_yj1QNvc6p95PYtvGXAjVl0ofNMQcVw/s4896/DSC00328.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicZCsCthvn68aWrKozDT1wM7NGKC91bF7GIik4IwLsp_OJtqLEf6k0u6Y9TPqQYHrLEfjZKq6gnmcild-OnALDbxqZTzcNJTVrwAiaag3gX9ChPfBfbDEZtX3Cz2vY42q192fl049fcbDo1udBVXkoEnU66qky-_yj1QNvc6p95PYtvGXAjVl0ofNMQcVw/s320/DSC00328.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It was all very familiar. It was like wandering round the streets I grew up on, a nice little Sixties run of homes that had front gardens and driveways and a quiet sense of pride that their occupiers were on the ladder up. The countryside brushed up against the homes, close enough to play in and make you feel rural, but distant enough that you had all mod cons. I'd cycled down these roads, chatted aimlessly for hours in them, gone to school on these pavements, and the fact that mine were a hundred miles away from here didn't make them any different. <br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge1FqvYyWdNdadx340LCFfpXrHYOSEUfkFovaywejj8n75sljWqC4gpvOqZ1TmglDOZSNS_VrFweFhwyr5DtvpqEUca_R7sHoG6Ibv1F12-SQ_XZK7b7erklNiZKkVzOHbag2PWkmVUjj2QdBUXPPZpGqs-uQiyqVjZ_psalpFiHz8ei4LuEe78wLyIJsH/s4896/DSC00329.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge1FqvYyWdNdadx340LCFfpXrHYOSEUfkFovaywejj8n75sljWqC4gpvOqZ1TmglDOZSNS_VrFweFhwyr5DtvpqEUca_R7sHoG6Ibv1F12-SQ_XZK7b7erklNiZKkVzOHbag2PWkmVUjj2QdBUXPPZpGqs-uQiyqVjZ_psalpFiHz8ei4LuEe78wLyIJsH/s320/DSC00329.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Soon I was in Landywood proper, with its older cottages and a narrow road without a pavement. A Methodist Church with beams stood at the side, its noticeboard plugging its coffee morning <i>("be assured of a warm welcome")</i>, its minister and church chief contact both women - a fact that used to be so unusual they made <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0108981/">a whole sitcom about it</a>, and now it's pretty much the norm. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZrJmF5hI-32F4mJT9u7FkKYccEZdJqGBfMQV72qMMapcSSB5K8F68Ubox6_u4gzGYXJDkS8sEAEYhizU7QTU2mMhIDz7pYJRSBwUHtAuwfOaH7dOvPiUb6S-QSCqMjocKMG3JIxzW4gvFpQHGqp6ayn9r51qiHd0oUF4LqdxlS2fMM-JhIhEQaDqLxYCQ/s4896/DSC00330.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZrJmF5hI-32F4mJT9u7FkKYccEZdJqGBfMQV72qMMapcSSB5K8F68Ubox6_u4gzGYXJDkS8sEAEYhizU7QTU2mMhIDz7pYJRSBwUHtAuwfOaH7dOvPiUb6S-QSCqMjocKMG3JIxzW4gvFpQHGqp6ayn9r51qiHd0oUF4LqdxlS2fMM-JhIhEQaDqLxYCQ/s320/DSC00330.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>As so often when I'm in the West Midlands, I was headed for a canal. The Wyreley and Essington Canal twisted its way through the countryside of South Staffordshire for decades but, as with a lot of waterways in the region, it never made much money. After nationalisation the canal was one of the first to be closed and now most of it is unnavigable. Branches have become clogged and abandoned. At Landywood, the route has been turned into a country park.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje1eqwSxX0Ov6r-bD2JYvo6r9BuhoiwKcd-CcvdYaUo9b7XiH-Pmy0mB4S_Mss8HmuccqUI_oCAIBX3n1YZVWCBCbEYxoaKnoewLIGJ1UmlYlMmK6ZDlMa6ueQWUZbMK6V17YaDVQf8VyG58Uhh6SfI_ApxnJtovd381q1tG13LuQWINFMQqU5xU3nkMLp/s4896/DSC00333.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje1eqwSxX0Ov6r-bD2JYvo6r9BuhoiwKcd-CcvdYaUo9b7XiH-Pmy0mB4S_Mss8HmuccqUI_oCAIBX3n1YZVWCBCbEYxoaKnoewLIGJ1UmlYlMmK6ZDlMa6ueQWUZbMK6V17YaDVQf8VyG58Uhh6SfI_ApxnJtovd381q1tG13LuQWINFMQqU5xU3nkMLp/s320/DSC00333.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I sank beneath the road and onto a small path that ran along the narrow, stagnant canal. With no flow to reenergise it the water had become clogged with plants and debris. Trees tumbled into the course and stayed there to rot. Meanwhile, the towpath was awash with damp fallen leaves, concealing a thick layer of mud.</div><div><br /></div><div>I ducked branches and pushed through bushes. My heavy boots squelched in the mess. It was dark and silent, the grey sky flat between the branches of the trees. Beneath a bridge, the rain had caused the canal to burst its banks, almost covering the path. I splashed through.</div></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuWOLOi91IAWdO0AdAtbi5l1Kan74KuSw4LslcleYb40zRmc2E1PX2vysGDw2XEa3AxzhTOLD1NOY25pBJQHAQXpsjeYH-E9wFPodwhx0J3XER7wWXOtBoqa0nIjC05yWXc4LVOYbr9ZmxgKdCKGq4WWLnQHJvMStKt-JxdewthkUS6nw2RGIFdRFWNXrL/s4896/DSC00336.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuWOLOi91IAWdO0AdAtbi5l1Kan74KuSw4LslcleYb40zRmc2E1PX2vysGDw2XEa3AxzhTOLD1NOY25pBJQHAQXpsjeYH-E9wFPodwhx0J3XER7wWXOtBoqa0nIjC05yWXc4LVOYbr9ZmxgKdCKGq4WWLnQHJvMStKt-JxdewthkUS6nw2RGIFdRFWNXrL/s320/DSC00336.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Ducks swam in the algae-choked water. They gently moved away from me as I approached, casual, not bothered, until they realised I was coming a bit too fast and suddenly burst into the air to escape, leaving clear patches in the green behind them.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh36vr0rRIKLdg-rhgdFgNV0bNP2akr5lzPzTJ0T9GTLHbvEUVk7g3swYJFiTVWGF_motaoyMuTnS1EWQH0eiUDUJfcW9G2AFCI3-GGWVMaQwDlgQ5uDzT2mBGh6qx1P-ceHPnN_fQhyZ3UUWTVvs3M29ySrUFNjO0vDYouxNFv9HBVzQoXKf7eywhZBv7a/s4896/DSC00337.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh36vr0rRIKLdg-rhgdFgNV0bNP2akr5lzPzTJ0T9GTLHbvEUVk7g3swYJFiTVWGF_motaoyMuTnS1EWQH0eiUDUJfcW9G2AFCI3-GGWVMaQwDlgQ5uDzT2mBGh6qx1P-ceHPnN_fQhyZ3UUWTVvs3M29ySrUFNjO0vDYouxNFv9HBVzQoXKf7eywhZBv7a/s320/DSC00337.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>After a while I reached another bridge, but this one had been filled in. The top of a stone sluice was visible above the waterline, and I could hear it running on the other side, but I was forced up and over the road, past a sign from the Council that informed me how many steps I was taking walking the towpath.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHWGpLH4Gj2DYlIU-X3nSyrpTkvkmlP37g479TMjH8km6TeKZ8k1umO7vdocSNH6EDzGdC-JPo-fKkUcls4i02CW8yrNARD-eGerZ4XE0Ih3lFN499mtE15AZHZhl8HwGhDLNb-2JI6ALRdVKbnF6aWow_yQvQy8_bnjqz1KqFYRw4CqnRRyx3HFl__4_/s4896/DSC00338.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHWGpLH4Gj2DYlIU-X3nSyrpTkvkmlP37g479TMjH8km6TeKZ8k1umO7vdocSNH6EDzGdC-JPo-fKkUcls4i02CW8yrNARD-eGerZ4XE0Ih3lFN499mtE15AZHZhl8HwGhDLNb-2JI6ALRdVKbnF6aWow_yQvQy8_bnjqz1KqFYRw4CqnRRyx3HFl__4_/s320/DSC00338.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>There was a man up ahead. He had binoculars raised to his face and was staring intently at something in the distance. At his feet was a Pomeranian, politely waiting for him to finish. I wondered what had caught his eye: a rare bird? A distant aircraft? A farmer's wife getting changed at an open window? I considered asking him, but realised he might actually tell me, so I hugged the far side of the path and left him to it. He was completely absorbed and barely noticed me. The Pomeranian watched me go by.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio13iW0Ot8OzJTLz0e3OmGtoGEHjRmYKu6lpNDtUJxhABx21oZ2MNr2hsWxAZGk4-yTGVI_e19fSYcGSsEGThkq89Hl8flPCIdw9fyinj1enAgyWFpsDwdzuCOBFa8jki4cnSUqyH2lnvnRgrKV_Mi_yWZIjC3Tsc0Oe3ackHpxSrUxEx3Tx7_QQBj9Ao7/s4896/DSC00341.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio13iW0Ot8OzJTLz0e3OmGtoGEHjRmYKu6lpNDtUJxhABx21oZ2MNr2hsWxAZGk4-yTGVI_e19fSYcGSsEGThkq89Hl8flPCIdw9fyinj1enAgyWFpsDwdzuCOBFa8jki4cnSUqyH2lnvnRgrKV_Mi_yWZIjC3Tsc0Oe3ackHpxSrUxEx3Tx7_QQBj9Ao7/s320/DSC00341.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The path dipped under the railway line - I hung around hoping for a train to go over, but was out of luck - and then there were a couple of carved wooden seats. A Tesco carrier hung from the tree between them, bloated with rain water, while the badly covered graffiti on one post informed me that a named local <i>"is gay". </i>Normally I'd think this was a bit of homophobic abuse, but this is the 2020s; people are a lot more up front about their sexualities. It was entirely possible that this was an advert. Perhaps Grindr hasn't reached this particular corner of the countryside.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcUVSAXeFdqKrvRtOPvifsuXYhF_0iSBL96pp_WyDJCC5vDz_2iB6tt8kcNgwsREilXb5I_BrgXKvzu7S4sxQX9iNwyrLYkuDRZwKxDd6wNGxqVLZ9IYcrQUGzTfhjsfBPIKYzGBD4X5p5JvEUJDgHCxwwkDahbUmGPLOhAvpLyg6seyRt99UiBNU9DF4A/s4896/DSC00345.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcUVSAXeFdqKrvRtOPvifsuXYhF_0iSBL96pp_WyDJCC5vDz_2iB6tt8kcNgwsREilXb5I_BrgXKvzu7S4sxQX9iNwyrLYkuDRZwKxDd6wNGxqVLZ9IYcrQUGzTfhjsfBPIKYzGBD4X5p5JvEUJDgHCxwwkDahbUmGPLOhAvpLyg6seyRt99UiBNU9DF4A/s320/DSC00345.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>A bend in the path and the vista opened up. The canal widened to reed-filled ponds. Signs of human abuse became more and more frequent; there was an empty beer can in the hedge every metre along, running the gamut of cheap but potent brands - Special Brew, Skol, Carling. There was even the packaging for a four pack of K Cider, a drink I didn't even know still existed. It used to be inhaled by the kind of student who thought they were too classy for Diamond White but still wanted to get very drunk very fast. I heard a train go by, screened by the trees, and then I was under the line, where more graffiti proclaimed <i>Aryan </i>and <i>Hola I'm Back </i>and a particularly dopey individual had signed their full name, including surname, and put a heart underneath.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFUbTPPuQE60wtd2c1rMcfnGSazkJEIP17n-OU06dHIOpUOjaTQNyagGwrIqPJcbv4tQilqZwKf1yrqjyaxohZWwoZe6ityjee_ZPdk8bldl-w_e96QjnK_HJQqBoj8o7quxWcUqtYznoubp8G05CGWhgL5-AEaoFwJr5xcL6mGtvEhedN0iZFKxIlveVF/s4896/DSC00346.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFUbTPPuQE60wtd2c1rMcfnGSazkJEIP17n-OU06dHIOpUOjaTQNyagGwrIqPJcbv4tQilqZwKf1yrqjyaxohZWwoZe6ityjee_ZPdk8bldl-w_e96QjnK_HJQqBoj8o7quxWcUqtYznoubp8G05CGWhgL5-AEaoFwJr5xcL6mGtvEhedN0iZFKxIlveVF/s320/DSC00346.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>The path ended with a dog leg path, designed to stop cyclists from getting access, and concrete blocks to try and minimise fly tipping. I was chucked out at the side of the road beside a sign telling me I'd reached Bloxwich. There was a Jet garage with its own Londis - no doubt the source of all those cheap beer cans - and then Bloxwich North station was hiding under a bridge. There was another piece of art on the totem - a waterwheel, I'm assuming. Seriously West Midlands Trains, just a little plaque, that's all I need.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZu_KKrBOBQWYoMvf8a0HJ87pJNLlgCp7Xx_K2dE2PtQGDwSE4EVWw2u809Yyf7DB9fUJBYcmHC8LZxISuBLliN7mrr2HiW3u5Gop8RRslnZZ1m-ZzwQJPu_qjY-HRqa0qbHfdwIdMhdLeGCxqYWexnO58PYSE5K4eduEJ4PhOttPSg3xa4-CvtH4qFV6-/s4896/DSC00356.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZu_KKrBOBQWYoMvf8a0HJ87pJNLlgCp7Xx_K2dE2PtQGDwSE4EVWw2u809Yyf7DB9fUJBYcmHC8LZxISuBLliN7mrr2HiW3u5Gop8RRslnZZ1m-ZzwQJPu_qjY-HRqa0qbHfdwIdMhdLeGCxqYWexnO58PYSE5K4eduEJ4PhOttPSg3xa4-CvtH4qFV6-/s320/DSC00356.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Some genius had decided to put the ticket machine right in front of the station sign, meaning you could only actually see it from a limited angle. I wedged myself in for the legally required selfie.<br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vhtWAxT3rKGuMWC2hStW5U7MQ95Nj1XTlOLmfQKqb8JQ7LFWGsLV2iMXWcOvFdmrOo1AUE6WUXtvOrraMjplEDdlYHV58OijhcXnxP4V8WC0h5e9heiu2DizxHzM0troXp_ox3qsX2awADQHOu_Vv9MBWxQkoLF8_WO_DPdyjzsdQiIyVYRjR4Zg7Rr1/s4896/DSC00360.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vhtWAxT3rKGuMWC2hStW5U7MQ95Nj1XTlOLmfQKqb8JQ7LFWGsLV2iMXWcOvFdmrOo1AUE6WUXtvOrraMjplEDdlYHV58OijhcXnxP4V8WC0h5e9heiu2DizxHzM0troXp_ox3qsX2awADQHOu_Vv9MBWxQkoLF8_WO_DPdyjzsdQiIyVYRjR4Zg7Rr1/s320/DSC00360.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I went down to the platform - past a Millwall sticker and a sign from West Midlands Police warning me not to loiter because there had been complaints - and went into the shelter to wait for my train and eat my sandwich. It's that time of year when the stores wheel out their festive offerings and I eat them all. I'm an absolute sucker for a limited edition, fully aware that I'm going to get my heart broken when I find one that's incredibly tasty and they whisk it off the shelves on Boxing Day. This was a Christmas Club from Marks, which had the twin benefits of being both tasty and giving a portion of the profits to Shelter, allowing me to feel ever so slightly virtuous as I stuffed my face.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtArSUEbHgfdQLRsxGLUFEAT1NHeOTjUgYZv28FApxU54X_QtbdiA_iG7QdrPxtOqv11oVm9ypPPRU86nOEzEtfi80wCa1U4T7UCKsnvkEn-Fzug18R7f8rG0c9ackE7upO4wm8YzpcEbAreYoJZF-Zcx5FPnLynLYF72_srzWVxtIwlOOctDvWiEWK9iP/s4896/DSC00363.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtArSUEbHgfdQLRsxGLUFEAT1NHeOTjUgYZv28FApxU54X_QtbdiA_iG7QdrPxtOqv11oVm9ypPPRU86nOEzEtfi80wCa1U4T7UCKsnvkEn-Fzug18R7f8rG0c9ackE7upO4wm8YzpcEbAreYoJZF-Zcx5FPnLynLYF72_srzWVxtIwlOOctDvWiEWK9iP/s320/DSC00363.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The trip to Bloxwich itself - no compass direction needed - took only a couple of minutes; indeed the guard didn't even have time to work her way down the carriage to check my ticket before we'd arrived. (Once again I spent an entire day out on the trains and not one single individual checked my ticket the whole time. I'm a fool buying them. I could save a bomb just winging it. Of course I'd never do that, and I can assure you that any <a href="https://ko-fi.com/merseytart">Ko-Fi contributions</a> are spent on train related antics and not a summer house in Antigua.)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_JIPuWHEmNfnjI-f9h3CfmfFRnyMZwf-JSABuh9uPbiYwLCJhGsBHIiovzMsRU_WDaqwS1bx3T4D_NxygJFQCSexrkIqj3trKNQ31M5xDyEjFgRDCBdtWxttWaZH9Wx3bThcHYCOVCiGWdz-HSeHIZWHyVDkyVXQXltKHF99ntWxKevxKfecoC6RB9iO/s4896/DSC00364.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_JIPuWHEmNfnjI-f9h3CfmfFRnyMZwf-JSABuh9uPbiYwLCJhGsBHIiovzMsRU_WDaqwS1bx3T4D_NxygJFQCSexrkIqj3trKNQ31M5xDyEjFgRDCBdtWxttWaZH9Wx3bThcHYCOVCiGWdz-HSeHIZWHyVDkyVXQXltKHF99ntWxKevxKfecoC6RB9iO/s320/DSC00364.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Bloxwich's Wikipedia page is really down on the place: it has an entire section headed "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bloxwich#Deprivation">Deprivation</a>". I prepared myself for the worst. Once I'd snapped a picture of the totem art...</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGMWOV1kRdhbr2bvY0sVFtE9bkSqOX9Q4vNV6UOYwrwe-VdDvXaG4j311VEr_H5pWmXgInqJiH2YZpWR8_4sr2VOpkheLgTuAlCvi2t-0VPCe5V7x5PKrhuxuXNgODjlfCTNzISeDkfjJYUknAVExlotPuSEJI8LaccFxM7OSoVoCpwYVTKznm9mAcMU_/s4896/DSC00370.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGMWOV1kRdhbr2bvY0sVFtE9bkSqOX9Q4vNV6UOYwrwe-VdDvXaG4j311VEr_H5pWmXgInqJiH2YZpWR8_4sr2VOpkheLgTuAlCvi2t-0VPCe5V7x5PKrhuxuXNgODjlfCTNzISeDkfjJYUknAVExlotPuSEJI8LaccFxM7OSoVoCpwYVTKznm9mAcMU_/s320/DSC00370.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>(is it swords?) ...I made my way into the town centre. Something immensely cheering happened on the way in. A woman stopped me and asked me for directions. Normally I'm useless at this, nervous and forgetful and obviously, I wasn't a local, but she was asking me where the station was. "Up there and to the left," I was able to tell her authoritatively, and she thanked me and went on, leaving me filled with pride at having been able to assist her. It's a tiny thing, but it made Bloxwich for me, because after that I was in a great mood.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihBhZj9LYUuc3CdRK9FNmo3LawYnUDsD79L3voR4P8d8j6ZwK6Z0gDVTzO2QOhbEEFkqV4JsXBOZIKRYZ6mMx7uCdKsta6mRGDJR4NCq1bsb-NH5gMeD6sAPMLs7bDKg9ahwfY9wLax4vo2P0W8DH4HgK3AVNWmfdbWfDIt8xYo98lorS0m2fg_Til2NNV/s4896/DSC00373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihBhZj9LYUuc3CdRK9FNmo3LawYnUDsD79L3voR4P8d8j6ZwK6Z0gDVTzO2QOhbEEFkqV4JsXBOZIKRYZ6mMx7uCdKsta6mRGDJR4NCq1bsb-NH5gMeD6sAPMLs7bDKg9ahwfY9wLax4vo2P0W8DH4HgK3AVNWmfdbWfDIt8xYo98lorS0m2fg_Til2NNV/s320/DSC00373.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>As such, I may have viewed the town through a joyous filter, because it certainly didn't seem that bad to me. There was a church and a tidy green with some public art, a library that was actually open, and then a high street that had very few empty shops. Admittedly, there was a large proportion of charity shops and bargain stores (including one called, delightfully, <i>Wow That's Cheap!</i>), but that's still more than a lot of other towns can scrape together. There were banks and a post office, plus a market hall backed by a sadly closed Wilko.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2H86HeqPMzdmKIavjpCi6Dpfe-6mZZuwE6MF41a_Rm9Zr_3iKVlJ1SQmz9lhJkfotSPn6GeMBo8_KI_ePR6TViU8xt1fEO-0NrCMcG2WB05x5mPPNj_s1NxQ4R6M2oq_URCICT10MX-2xAlGmHe6oesbV59O13h5qyqVk1Ftip7ev_psj3t8Of_i3yxa2/s4896/DSC00376.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2H86HeqPMzdmKIavjpCi6Dpfe-6mZZuwE6MF41a_Rm9Zr_3iKVlJ1SQmz9lhJkfotSPn6GeMBo8_KI_ePR6TViU8xt1fEO-0NrCMcG2WB05x5mPPNj_s1NxQ4R6M2oq_URCICT10MX-2xAlGmHe6oesbV59O13h5qyqVk1Ftip7ev_psj3t8Of_i3yxa2/s320/DSC00376.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>It was busy, too. There were plenty of shoppers about, and a queue out of the door of Greggs. I much preferred Allmarks further up the street that sold the kind of bargain cakes full of colour and flavourings I didn't think you could buy any more. Which would you rather have - a blueberry muffin from a generic coffee shop or a jam donut for sixty pence? Their window display also carried a "synthetic cream donut" for £1.30, and I found that use of the word "synthetic" charming. None of your crème pat nonsense, this stuff comes out of a squirty can, and you bloody love it.</div><div> </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzNkpC2zfAzBsF3CttC_jaV0euOCAL2o0UOZNh718UeMO_LMzraIev2AmPjWF-lhyphenhyphengKr9lXwcUrl5osvALwXbkLnXBljlO-Fom9dW9NT5QGSCrT7zomWjvBpt4S67Mhw6HJoVhIRuprCfQwfHgO_S4iHRvlM1eLflB9Jf8o0Ndwf7M7Ibzsj6IIltNwwvl/s4896/DSC00377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzNkpC2zfAzBsF3CttC_jaV0euOCAL2o0UOZNh718UeMO_LMzraIev2AmPjWF-lhyphenhyphengKr9lXwcUrl5osvALwXbkLnXBljlO-Fom9dW9NT5QGSCrT7zomWjvBpt4S67Mhw6HJoVhIRuprCfQwfHgO_S4iHRvlM1eLflB9Jf8o0Ndwf7M7Ibzsj6IIltNwwvl/s320/DSC00377.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The road split around a small park and I thought they'd begun putting up their Christmas decorations (this was still late November - told you I was struggling to find something to say). On closer inspection I realised that the red garlands weren't happy chains of poinsettas or tinsel, but were instead long lengths of poppies. Turning Remembrance Day into a kind of festive celebration is deeply tasteless to me. Respect is quiet and dignified; it's not gussying up a fountain so it looks like a Gallipoli-themed merry go round. The purpose of the poppy wasn't just to remember our war dead, but also to raise funds for the survivors, and I wondered how many of these decorations get put away and taken out every year without a single donation to the British Legion. Plus, seeing this display about twenty yards from a knife amnesty bin... Perhaps, instead of showing how very much you cared about people who'd been dead for decades, you could turn your attention to that bin, and what's going on there. Think about the present for a bit.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0JSIM60_qiwrwUMmYKXkr_0orEjqOzIKbzW0k9cCzSJax_AZI6cEyvYEmqnMP3rwVBA1xFUeByV0P0-Vnb_8S2_eZxGmSisDChPwgteJycny1BGYMHm0lEkBuzL2oXG-0rKUKiprnNLoAc3A52nsdx7aO_R7eonTA8mZNUPqUKhetSUT4AlpYnfhDVSo/s4896/DSC00378.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0JSIM60_qiwrwUMmYKXkr_0orEjqOzIKbzW0k9cCzSJax_AZI6cEyvYEmqnMP3rwVBA1xFUeByV0P0-Vnb_8S2_eZxGmSisDChPwgteJycny1BGYMHm0lEkBuzL2oXG-0rKUKiprnNLoAc3A52nsdx7aO_R7eonTA8mZNUPqUKhetSUT4AlpYnfhDVSo/s320/DSC00378.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I'll be honest: there was one feature of Bloxwich that I was absolutely dying to see, ever since I'd done a bit of idle googling. After the death of the Princess of Wales, a local stonemason, Andrew Walsh, crafted a tribute to her. His day job was a funeral director and he turned to his usual materials to craft the statue, which he intended to present to Walsall as a suitable memorial. He turned out... this.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjME_9aYQ_e9ezjna7z2OHw9hHwP92jpeX7D6itLX5WKVZPvqmLd5C1rOoQSJWlqNDG-pQecAeHZou-g6ASzowV_qy_0kIog38R9sQyhUciG1NjzGyZBLtrUpR03SIESu3UHCwIwohNFD11bRLDE-3codmliJyqZKQBssTonKUFc66MRl_G3thRg3qApY9t/s837/22491444_1942388932699171_7400788682157823355_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="837" data-original-width="714" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjME_9aYQ_e9ezjna7z2OHw9hHwP92jpeX7D6itLX5WKVZPvqmLd5C1rOoQSJWlqNDG-pQecAeHZou-g6ASzowV_qy_0kIog38R9sQyhUciG1NjzGyZBLtrUpR03SIESu3UHCwIwohNFD11bRLDE-3codmliJyqZKQBssTonKUFc66MRl_G3thRg3qApY9t/s320/22491444_1942388932699171_7400788682157823355_n.jpg" width="273" /></a></div><br /><div><i>Well.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>It's quite a good likeness, if you ignore one teeny tiny element. Walsall wasn't amused, and refused the gift. Earl Spencer was livid. A decision was made by the transport authority to put it in their <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2021/11/the-dark-end-of-street.html">brand new bus station</a>, but when they consulted with the Palace over the wording of the memorial plaque, they were <a href="https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/black-diana-memorial-gives-her-majesty-displeasure-634304.html">politely informed that they couldn't erect it</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Andrew took his statue back. He removed the veneer, to make Di a little bit less shiny, but still nobody wanted it. So he put her up outside his funeral home and that's where she remains to this day.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had to see it, of course. If someone crafts a statue to the late Princess of Hearts off their own back and sticks it in a car park outside a funeral home that is the very definition of camp. It's right up my Straße. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFfWBcVt-VHfcJAVlezfAT58oTlaP4tiGTr5imfaE3bAeomBDgB95aj0IVP_BHiU3h0oncaxyDcU5er20uTPdKGiF4MkJ2195Vw9VZY5ZduCGEgPpzRZLhqGGYtTiRoIBaRqnFQZprA7o0IWbDu2ewCYxvmGJUVwiD6CbZVHk3-lc0uvgdXKHPi3-kA3Yi/s2522/B9A33BD8-DDF7-4AEC-9590-20D1114302FF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2522" data-original-width="2522" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFfWBcVt-VHfcJAVlezfAT58oTlaP4tiGTr5imfaE3bAeomBDgB95aj0IVP_BHiU3h0oncaxyDcU5er20uTPdKGiF4MkJ2195Vw9VZY5ZduCGEgPpzRZLhqGGYtTiRoIBaRqnFQZprA7o0IWbDu2ewCYxvmGJUVwiD6CbZVHk3-lc0uvgdXKHPi3-kA3Yi/s320/B9A33BD8-DDF7-4AEC-9590-20D1114302FF.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The erect nipples are certainly a choice - especially, and I'm no boob expert, as they don't seem to be in the right spot - but she looks a lot better now she doesn't gleam in the sunlight. Stripping that veneer had an unfortunate side effect of making her less weatherproof, by the way, and for a while she turned green with algae. Fortunately Diana seems to have been cleaned up and this remains as a beautiful tribute to a woman we can certainly agree wore a dress quite well. I wouldn't say it was any worse than the <a href="https://www.vogue.com/article/the-poignant-symbolism-of-princess-diana-statue-kensington-palace">official statue of the Princess of Wales in Kensington Gardens</a>, which depicts her shortly after finishing her shift as a secretary in an employment agency and grabbing at two random kids. If it was in Walsall town centre, as intended, nobody would care; it would be another spot for pigeons to sit on and for Goths to loiter round. Here, out in Bloxwich, she's special, the Black Diana Nobody Wanted.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrvSO0rjlYq34Pc9W4uL33CrutvL80_pyYk-APQzXZ4YtAmQqCnk5yYct_W_o5EVPdHN_bsBf7FzApbqyK9a7LvnKZL4or9u1zBAk-TbtjdgZuJ8imYf5yRHK-hIL4MBC1Hdq24czdEwTWBCwCeA0ptWxn0HWEVXEHo3v2PJM9M2E1RzskTjaegp5Tc4xx/s4896/DSC00380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrvSO0rjlYq34Pc9W4uL33CrutvL80_pyYk-APQzXZ4YtAmQqCnk5yYct_W_o5EVPdHN_bsBf7FzApbqyK9a7LvnKZL4or9u1zBAk-TbtjdgZuJ8imYf5yRHK-hIL4MBC1Hdq24czdEwTWBCwCeA0ptWxn0HWEVXEHo3v2PJM9M2E1RzskTjaegp5Tc4xx/s320/DSC00380.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Nothing could really top that, so I headed back to the station. I had read that Bloxwich was famous for its many pubs, but every one I passed was closed, and I didn't fancy going to a Wetherspoons. I wasn't that desperate for a pint. For once. Instead I returned the way I came, trying to think of some over arching theme for the blog post I would eventually write. I never did find one. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrAiJfj6sYXZX7F9ha1NPplL0oYxmnwbHqsQLzzgIE8YQkYmttdHoxEVIOOI6ngtNAUoy2uIkJQ1tzfgFg3c-CAvIAawl9UVoPCqr__rbXekiUtu42u_QokAmh_JQkPFTS1Tbg91p8sVXH7kSlQ4bFYAizt1PITKCm7VRLUSj9TAyqARUOYbpmoCaVj_Rc/s4896/DSC00365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrAiJfj6sYXZX7F9ha1NPplL0oYxmnwbHqsQLzzgIE8YQkYmttdHoxEVIOOI6ngtNAUoy2uIkJQ1tzfgFg3c-CAvIAawl9UVoPCqr__rbXekiUtu42u_QokAmh_JQkPFTS1Tbg91p8sVXH7kSlQ4bFYAizt1PITKCm7VRLUSj9TAyqARUOYbpmoCaVj_Rc/s320/DSC00365.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><div><br /></div></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-43012184768921266022023-10-31T10:43:00.002+00:002023-10-31T10:43:41.646+00:00Giving Headbolt<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MULMER3jk4UdJX2WMvstRhzHy0zGvFOLeyTyoU8pxOsggtt_MzuQmtHNiyMFfgdLvjVdoccChe9fIdchsO-OadsMlihKyGDXx6dkuGK3gdFxJ8-Nb5oQtWohw9Sgb6dHf1QOdvvkYExXABXdrfOeNHdetCUZfBBSwnaluY2wLzcSBd08pOEyPD07EZ_g/s4032/IMG_5086.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MULMER3jk4UdJX2WMvstRhzHy0zGvFOLeyTyoU8pxOsggtt_MzuQmtHNiyMFfgdLvjVdoccChe9fIdchsO-OadsMlihKyGDXx6dkuGK3gdFxJ8-Nb5oQtWohw9Sgb6dHf1QOdvvkYExXABXdrfOeNHdetCUZfBBSwnaluY2wLzcSBd08pOEyPD07EZ_g/s320/IMG_5086.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />The novelty of the new trains hasn't worn off yet. Admittedly, part of that is because there's still a very good chance that you'll end up on one of the old ones; the rollout hasn't exactly been speedy. But still, it's cheering to be stood on a platform and see people's faces literally light up when that white <i>M </i>bursts out of the tunnel. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-apySNXG3EPq0mr2S_10Jf0HCH8RFdZIS8DD2pIhxkv572nU722GG9vuC-6meQOvqmqUWGgfhGS87zDXycAavEjaZqWQj-R0Wh135oXnRg4plgdT9cYJlzOouobI5Tm-C2XBG2fEf16yQhKWiPiU0uuo08PbHhnMShR75M7Nq4U-__LdllQqrY8zsHJfx/s4032/IMG_5087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-apySNXG3EPq0mr2S_10Jf0HCH8RFdZIS8DD2pIhxkv572nU722GG9vuC-6meQOvqmqUWGgfhGS87zDXycAavEjaZqWQj-R0Wh135oXnRg4plgdT9cYJlzOouobI5Tm-C2XBG2fEf16yQhKWiPiU0uuo08PbHhnMShR75M7Nq4U-__LdllQqrY8zsHJfx/s320/IMG_5087.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I was finally heading out to Merseyrail's newest station, Headbolt Lane. This was actually my second try at getting to it. The first, with <a href="https://hampo.uk/">Robert</a>, had been foiled by a broken down train on the Ormskirk line which caused ripples of uselessness throughout the network. Our first train was cancelled, then our second vanished from the board, and we were told to simply get on the next train and change at Sandhills. This was more of a measure to get us off the busy platform at Central as once we got to Sandhills there was no sign of a train and there was a vague muttering about bus replacements. We managed to get a train back into town where we were forced to console ourselves.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdi0RQcIuZuAfmdcRb46FoQzx_FMpl4Y929QDSuw6W4Tg_G8iKKnhhlIf6cnYO1If-tRj6zVuJwQ9eIZxBpauuS18tCgxg9ecMNe2GTcOcZeXWyj2IG_yLXCT5WPXknj2uZqGj3c3FW480j1gzWk47FhiOhXc1xwFxFuD8YlNHuc8w_e3C7FR1adps-Zs/s4032/IMG_5004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAdi0RQcIuZuAfmdcRb46FoQzx_FMpl4Y929QDSuw6W4Tg_G8iKKnhhlIf6cnYO1If-tRj6zVuJwQ9eIZxBpauuS18tCgxg9ecMNe2GTcOcZeXWyj2IG_yLXCT5WPXknj2uZqGj3c3FW480j1gzWk47FhiOhXc1xwFxFuD8YlNHuc8w_e3C7FR1adps-Zs/s320/IMG_5004.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Real suffering, I'm sure you'll agree.<div><br /></div><div>I was in town with a little time to spare before I met someone so I decided it was an opportune time to go out to the new end of the line. I hopped on board and found my new favourite seat. One thing I was sad to lose with the retirement of the 507/508s was the little sideways seat, tucked behind the banks of four; as a frequent sole traveller I liked sitting somewhere I wouldn't be forced to be sociable or close to other human beings. Fortunately the new 777s have a similar seat which I nipped straight into.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3lEOG9YIv9ZcjnfJ0Ky7w2S8kaSvoUOwHD_siyMu1mkPXCrxfnjrHRLOQxqy91oQloT_WDbP1SKCY_6kFa9G4z4AvSs2xvcrdJECoRGDGOucoRxLHSVmtg6Xu8cGACetdgv5mPg8rSUHrllGRvq7i4GS8jquE0YICabv2TFTc1lKA8IkNzvKZg6YzD6RO/s4032/IMG_5093.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3lEOG9YIv9ZcjnfJ0Ky7w2S8kaSvoUOwHD_siyMu1mkPXCrxfnjrHRLOQxqy91oQloT_WDbP1SKCY_6kFa9G4z4AvSs2xvcrdJECoRGDGOucoRxLHSVmtg6Xu8cGACetdgv5mPg8rSUHrllGRvq7i4GS8jquE0YICabv2TFTc1lKA8IkNzvKZg6YzD6RO/s320/IMG_5093.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>(Before someone pops up in the comments, no, this wasn't 777 007, as pictured above; I have no idea what number it was. I was just pleased to see the 007 train, which Merseyrail are welcome to name after me any time).</div><div><br /></div><div>The journey was smooth and unproblematic. The wifi worked, which is the first time that's ever happened for me on one of the new trains. We passed through Sandhills and Kirkdale, and then took the branch to Rice Lane. One curiosity is that the automated announcement says <i>"the next station stop" - "The next station stop is Rice Lane. The next station stop is Fazakerley." </i>The scrolling displays, meanwhile, only say "stop". I'd have gone with station, myself, what with them being actual stations. </div><div><br /></div><div>Kirkby was just another station now, though still with one platform. Perhaps to keep costs down, perhaps because of the bridge over the M57, the extension hasn't also involved a doubling of the line. The new track is double, but the old third rail remains as a single. I listened out for any noises as we switched from electric to battery power, similar to when the pantograph is lowered and raised at City Thameslink, but there wasn't anything. Instead we simply slid out of the station and on the last few hundred yards to the terminus.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu1rHGRdH2a5iEa1CWRZnnaZjraCsbAGYTxMfeazkDJYwKA3POfnd50JVzxsREuemUav-OAP4KT1pt5D_N5Rza7yJexuBKs2qgk4C4u8z1tr9RAc3mP3DpAcpYBCDbntzdt4JRSZAmqEf76TPa7yI38FtB1418ENZN7v6dmQtIj4Dxd3tzJ2AlvGORVKxF/s4032/IMG_5094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu1rHGRdH2a5iEa1CWRZnnaZjraCsbAGYTxMfeazkDJYwKA3POfnd50JVzxsREuemUav-OAP4KT1pt5D_N5Rza7yJexuBKs2qgk4C4u8z1tr9RAc3mP3DpAcpYBCDbntzdt4JRSZAmqEf76TPa7yI38FtB1418ENZN7v6dmQtIj4Dxd3tzJ2AlvGORVKxF/s320/IMG_5094.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Headbolt Lane was built for the future. It's got plenty of space to circulate. Its two platforms are carefully aligned with the Northern service to Wigan so that it can be extended if necessary, perhaps even to Skelmersdale now there's all that money swimming around after the cancellation of HS2 <i>(lol not really)</i>. If the battery trains are a success, perhaps they can go all the way to the end of the line, or at least as far as poor Rainford, which is technically under Merseytravel's jurisdiction but gets none of the advantages. In the meantime, a fence has been put up between the Merseyrail and Northern sections of the station.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wB14QqbWVZ7yRmgIrDRqHi58eZOaJUtWfeem1s626bdANj8tOXshi42zlBV71Rc6EPE9alawihbUCq9p9xH_lYYzX0TfWeYBivAYow3HhCwcYvvUE7VgjM7zcDATJcpmTHJU90puTI6gy-xzCHPUxMyuQWwKXfvwJsfkMrgPAyZmRXRDkwzH7JTF-QnU/s4032/IMG_5098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1wB14QqbWVZ7yRmgIrDRqHi58eZOaJUtWfeem1s626bdANj8tOXshi42zlBV71Rc6EPE9alawihbUCq9p9xH_lYYzX0TfWeYBivAYow3HhCwcYvvUE7VgjM7zcDATJcpmTHJU90puTI6gy-xzCHPUxMyuQWwKXfvwJsfkMrgPAyZmRXRDkwzH7JTF-QnU/s320/IMG_5098.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Note, by the way, the <i>Metro</i> rather than <i>Merseyrail</i> branding. This has been slowly creeping out across the network but nobody seems to have acknowledged it. I first spotted it outside Rice Lane station back in March, and the new trains also have the same logo. I assume this is like when the Elizabeth Line wasn't finished, so the lines taken over by Crossrail were branded "TfL Rail" so they didn't tarnish the brand. Presumably once it's all 777s, all the time, there will be a big comprehensive relaunch and Merseyrail will be retired.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS58_2VgWn8e6qfY8nmwWzkRaCobInGWzudSgVNFyQTykjNPey4eY9K_NPEKBZX_AHHUrO_eYxWdqPPmV1t-XEHeLTqd6cEXuhhyCRDpV5D3ypQdeWtbo448w6vKP8CJQSl_YxDZv7bmeoZaomN6bQWKhQ2mo62H9-ZcE4hqNps4cTkERPGtqTaQ9ihZ3S/s4032/IMG_5102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS58_2VgWn8e6qfY8nmwWzkRaCobInGWzudSgVNFyQTykjNPey4eY9K_NPEKBZX_AHHUrO_eYxWdqPPmV1t-XEHeLTqd6cEXuhhyCRDpV5D3ypQdeWtbo448w6vKP8CJQSl_YxDZv7bmeoZaomN6bQWKhQ2mo62H9-ZcE4hqNps4cTkERPGtqTaQ9ihZ3S/s320/IMG_5102.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Outside the station, it's still chaotic. The main contractor went bust during the build (also jeopardising Anfield's new stand) so the car park is a mess of no tarmac and diggers. The bus exchange is sort of finished, but I didn't see any buses actually using it. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinUzVcH2N7bUlA2yoHQ8uDAj8QOQcWwT3975IkWRU8bSop9YUJqBqImEhDRzXwqpG82POIqhXx0m2MggbX8Y75ErR2l9PtTXPZbG2fWqrS09dy2wbmh-rS_bNBeVhMQAfMQBHyvlEgEObo8AWVMkP3mS2jigXMu_HWv9WOqXd6xqtb-elpx3NbtFpqPXBu/s4032/IMG_5103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinUzVcH2N7bUlA2yoHQ8uDAj8QOQcWwT3975IkWRU8bSop9YUJqBqImEhDRzXwqpG82POIqhXx0m2MggbX8Y75ErR2l9PtTXPZbG2fWqrS09dy2wbmh-rS_bNBeVhMQAfMQBHyvlEgEObo8AWVMkP3mS2jigXMu_HWv9WOqXd6xqtb-elpx3NbtFpqPXBu/s320/IMG_5103.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />There's also a new station building. <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2018/06/all-i-want-is-something-new-something-i.html">Maghull North</a>, the previous newest station, was a pretty dull affair, little more than a conservatory with a ticket office in it. On the other hand <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2018/06/the-shock-and-new.html">Ainsdale</a>, which got a comprehensive rebuild five years ago, is a triumph. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJ0vZmZTko_x8HsVe4GqRJNtbv7YgCz98qnp2fRdVU75QmI9hzvHieLoOVpmsJqY-j3Rqs_UYww2mF6ncuCSQvjMd8e4DiyBgxaXN77IF5aFgvobzibFlrtJYHtTlDyewaW3AQQmhzOBUtywDAcvYQnUB9wISbDqdGm_re5mGN8bRfEE6h7yMI_3np3lL/s4032/IMG_5104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJ0vZmZTko_x8HsVe4GqRJNtbv7YgCz98qnp2fRdVU75QmI9hzvHieLoOVpmsJqY-j3Rqs_UYww2mF6ncuCSQvjMd8e4DiyBgxaXN77IF5aFgvobzibFlrtJYHtTlDyewaW3AQQmhzOBUtywDAcvYQnUB9wISbDqdGm_re5mGN8bRfEE6h7yMI_3np3lL/s320/IMG_5104.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Headbolt Lane is a compromise between the two. It's a beast of a building. It's open and welcoming, and it has plenty of space and light.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbaUlDKvFD9_TUUaghu_-PSfS6T9kcWk0PmII1I5yEc9Rij4z3SyOC4dkdy2SfNEPnXQB7ZQbAe0RT8KhpLI1efDawQV6UOzd32_ibGAgwkAtaOtWmN-upg4t1xHCYf3efmKHG1Bkx8-BZ4pJLXZz9qqD6i1LvkQQRlPS_ON6KwNCS9ofSoge-M0Qqc8L1/s4032/IMG_5111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbaUlDKvFD9_TUUaghu_-PSfS6T9kcWk0PmII1I5yEc9Rij4z3SyOC4dkdy2SfNEPnXQB7ZQbAe0RT8KhpLI1efDawQV6UOzd32_ibGAgwkAtaOtWmN-upg4t1xHCYf3efmKHG1Bkx8-BZ4pJLXZz9qqD6i1LvkQQRlPS_ON6KwNCS9ofSoge-M0Qqc8L1/s320/IMG_5111.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Inside there's seating and toilets and a ticket office with actual people in it, plus a machine for socially awkward losers like me who don't like talking to humans. It's all very efficient, although it's not exactly inspiring. The design is perfunctory but - elephant in the room - in this part of Merseyside, it's bound to be constructed for security above all else. No point in building an elaborate glass chandelier if the local scallies are going to use it for target practice.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1WSUfzIuYyzWL0epC5qA71aMLL0i0fg31ySSW7SjW09r-vDzh1v4JR7x1hXSLevZe6mBwO3jtLJA8R_YaN9Q-X7YoDyIAXdWiAXTiDPCcOsjYQ6lHGyBkCFObuQssATQCjW0KvW16_FeD40mIN37_ezmgP1fay3fu1k6A3PgipfRHsVMYS2klOn1LmQoa/s4032/IMG_5096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1WSUfzIuYyzWL0epC5qA71aMLL0i0fg31ySSW7SjW09r-vDzh1v4JR7x1hXSLevZe6mBwO3jtLJA8R_YaN9Q-X7YoDyIAXdWiAXTiDPCcOsjYQ6lHGyBkCFObuQssATQCjW0KvW16_FeD40mIN37_ezmgP1fay3fu1k6A3PgipfRHsVMYS2klOn1LmQoa/s320/IMG_5096.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I hope they won't. A big part of building this station out here on the fringe of the network is bringing opportunity to an area that didn't have so much before. Headbolt Lane to Liverpool Central is now a twenty minute direct journey; the number 20 bus, which goes from County Road nearby, takes roughly fifty minutes to reach Whitechapel in the city centre. That'll help the residents of an area where car ownership is incredibly low get new job prospects and travel options. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIqhgCZEL2UmtDW2jkCdJsG49tjV76aOZ4L1qkUoSqc5rtHOQNsxY5PJE4_140t6MGPWA717q1bjAFQE6biofPepxl42G-VjtdNQ6E_O9i_NGqFALWNhjS88Q0x-PMFCg4J5LOI1rnI6cJ27cEkt9cKKnTWLEMwGTO9ud1Ptodxti3ih5yCX8pB_xPRyN/s4032/IMG_5108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIqhgCZEL2UmtDW2jkCdJsG49tjV76aOZ4L1qkUoSqc5rtHOQNsxY5PJE4_140t6MGPWA717q1bjAFQE6biofPepxl42G-VjtdNQ6E_O9i_NGqFALWNhjS88Q0x-PMFCg4J5LOI1rnI6cJ27cEkt9cKKnTWLEMwGTO9ud1Ptodxti3ih5yCX8pB_xPRyN/s320/IMG_5108.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I think I'll have to come back again when the station is properly finished. See it in its glory; find that totem sign out front. In the meantime, I've once again completed the Merseyrail map. Now crack on with <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2022/01/the-baltic-state.html">Baltic</a>, will you?Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-63084356929873534612023-10-12T09:31:00.001+01:002023-10-12T09:31:07.838+01:00How To Name A Railway Station<p>For reasons far too boring to go into here, I am currently sat in a Starbucks trying to find a way to kill a few hours. I have a chai latte, a laptop, and nothing else to do. So why not write a blog post based on a WhatsApp message? Everything is #content. </p><p>A few days ago, one of my group chats was ablaze with the opening of Headbolt Lane. This is a small chat for homosexual train fans, and one of its members queried the name "Headbolt Lane". <i>"Why not, for example, Kirkby East?" </i>he asked. It's a valid point. Headbolt Lane, after all, doesn't mean anything outside of its very specific location. </p><p>That's not the point though, and this is why I launched into my Official Ranking Of Station Name Categories. This is a list that all planners should work their way down to ensure that their brand new station is named interestingly and well. As always, it is my opinion and mine alone, and is therefore absolutely correct and should be a law. </p><p>Here's the hierarchy, anyway, starting with the best and working your way down:</p><p><b>1. Named after the town/district/area</b></p><p>This is the ideal, of course. <i>Formby. Meols. West Kirby. </i>This is the station serving a particular area and so the name of the town is front and centre. This might seem like the most obvious option but you'd be surprised how many times people swerve it. This also applies to sub-areas of larger towns - so <i>Birkdale</i>, even though it's just a suburb of Southport, or <i>Aughton Park</i> as a part of Ormskirk, and it's why <i>Baltic</i> is an excellent name for the proposed station in Liverpool city centre.</p><p><b>2. Named after the street it's on</b></p><p>This is where <i>Headbolt Lane </i>comes in and it's useful for stations that are not quite central enough. Headbolt Lane, for example, is located at the crossover point between the Tower Hill and Northwood areas of Kirkby; the railway line is the division point. Naming it after one or the other would ignore the other so, there you go, Headbolt Lane. Neutral, yet descriptive. Similarly, <i>Manor Road</i> is a simpler descriptor than <i>That Weird No Man's Land Between Meols And Hoylake Which Is Technically Hoylake But Is Similarly A Little Bit Too Common To Be Hoylake. </i></p><p><b>3. A compass point.</b></p><p>It's a town, but it's not necessarily the <i>middle</i> of the town, so it gets a geographic descriptor to let you know it's not where the shops and the town hall are. <i>Birkenhead Central</i> is right opposite the Pyramids shopping centre; <i>Birkenhead North </i>is an estate a couple of miles away where you probably don't want to alight unless you're not particularly attached to your handbag. <i>Maghull North </i>is a park and ride on the edge of town, while <i>Maghull - </i>well, actually, neither station is very convenient for Maghull's centre, but the older station has history on its side at least. A compass point is a bit of a boring option to be honest, unimaginative, a photocopy of what's already there. </p><p><b>4. _____ Parkway</b></p><p>Parkways are tedious in the extreme. You are announcing "Here is where you can park your car! (Also there's a railway station)". It makes the public transport part subservient to the car part, and that should never happen. Does <i>Maghull North </i>suffer from not having "Parkway" in its name to let everyone know they can park there? The lack of available spaces on an average weekday would seem to indicate not. This does mean that <i>Liverpool South Parkway</i>, by combining both points 3 and 4, actually comes out as a 7 and therefore has one of the dullest names you can possibly have. I stand by that.</p><p><b>5. After a person, battle, or historic event</b></p><p>This one doesn't come up much in the UK - <i>Waterloo</i> besides - but it often happens abroad so I'm putting it in here. The Paris Metro, in particular, are mad for it, with stations named after people rather than the districts they're like <i>Marx Dormoy </i>or<i> Jaures, </i>though sadly <i>Blanche</i> isn't a tribute to Deirdre's mum in <i>Coronation Street. </i>Kings and Queens aside, us Brits don't tend to bother with this, though the recent renaming of the Pier Head as <i>Liverpool Gerry Marsden Ferry Terminal</i> makes me slightly afraid that any future expansions of the Merseyrail network could go to Cilla Black, Paul McCartney, or Aveline Boswell.</p><p><b>6. After a nearby property development</b></p><p>This is the actual worst one because it's incredibly artificial. During its planning stages, there was going to be a station called <i>Birkenhead Market</i> on the Wirral Line; presumably someone noticed that having <i>four</i> stations with Birkenhead in the name was a bit much so it was renamed Conway Park after the new development in the area. This is a name that means absolutely nothing to anyone beyond that one strip of offices and even now, twenty odd years after it opened, still nobody calls the area Conway Park. Similarly, <i>Wavertree Technology Park</i> does a real disservice to the historic district of Wavertree. That's the real attraction here, not a load of sheds wedged in the gap between the railway line and a retail park. It's a horrible name that already feels very dated. Even if the developer is slipping you a massive wodge of money you should resist this - look at the mess of three <i>Canary Wharf</i> stations in London to see why you should politely say "no thank you" and name your station after something relevant and nice.</p><p>So there you go: an answer to a question you never thought to ask. I hope this list will be printed out and pinned up in Network Rail HQ for future reference. Feel free to tell me I'm wrong in the comments, but know this - I'm not.</p>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-25921547911351608122023-10-03T11:51:00.001+01:002023-10-03T11:51:56.887+01:00Dumb Witness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhF6AyEVzyxMhi1DQfdi4TAUEq97VeanUWnQWaRY_Isr27A_74eWdh72cudqyltjm7J-8AIx10j3CZQkdFdHKHfGV4wM7e61nnJnSs9pT5UVbzAbxtDikq-KdY76lWOz7yAdAxC3mV3HFPb9ApkwL5GAAcRWkGU8gjuUHJg9-S_5jbcBDHVTbJG8jGpChy/s4896/DSC00233.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhF6AyEVzyxMhi1DQfdi4TAUEq97VeanUWnQWaRY_Isr27A_74eWdh72cudqyltjm7J-8AIx10j3CZQkdFdHKHfGV4wM7e61nnJnSs9pT5UVbzAbxtDikq-KdY76lWOz7yAdAxC3mV3HFPb9ApkwL5GAAcRWkGU8gjuUHJg9-S_5jbcBDHVTbJG8jGpChy/s320/DSC00233.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I miss Poirot on the telly. Proper Poirot, I mean, with David Suchet, and an hour long, and that incredible title sequence on a Sunday night. Not Kenneth Branagh or John Malkovich or even the later Suchet movies based on one of Agatha Christie's more bonkers novels even though it is basically unfilmable (seriously, full marks to Mark Gatiss for even <i>trying</i> to adapt <i>The Big Four</i>). It was a luxurious slip into a charming universe where people in very posh frocks indulged in a little light bludgeoning. It didn't take itself to seriously, it wasn't trying to say something deep about the human psyche, there was <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_ABC_Murders_(TV_series)">nobody stepping on someone's back in a pair of high heels</a>. It was good clean murdery fun.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_YmCR_6LPDFTMEQ6xkPhJHku0y-aesQ-mrJ7yf04jv2leGtS1ucIQSRgRRT668etzM9Ewf0hyphenhyphen1zI_zKrAJMUGC71HCo0Sy8fFCwNlhOsjkgp7ltuw-7yTSBVCxAYgyOl5OTCrNyKRyPsnJXMkNpLcN9h3Nf7Q8eG45Z9-69RT8xW1koymSSm0Fk1H0mut/s4896/DSC00235.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_YmCR_6LPDFTMEQ6xkPhJHku0y-aesQ-mrJ7yf04jv2leGtS1ucIQSRgRRT668etzM9Ewf0hyphenhyphen1zI_zKrAJMUGC71HCo0Sy8fFCwNlhOsjkgp7ltuw-7yTSBVCxAYgyOl5OTCrNyKRyPsnJXMkNpLcN9h3Nf7Q8eG45Z9-69RT8xW1koymSSm0Fk1H0mut/s320/DSC00235.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Part of Poirot's charm was that it was forever set in a nebulous "Jazz Age". The actual Christie novels spanned a period of nearly fifty years, but the TV show relocated them all to an era of flappers and cigarette holders, rightly recognising that nobody really wanted to see Miss Lemon doing the frug or Inspector Japp tripping on LSD. It submerged itself in a world of clean lines, elegant white facades, and stainless steel lamps. It embodied Art Deco. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gdvSqV7AQeyA4lT_H5itijCIDQwKlYUx2st1hpGPjHFTH3DWjZ_ZwDfp7GPgYwdChdneUbs_MZhE7yE1ouo1N5D8m2oKvNPWOAm8c_Os2ljvoiezJeN-19S5rXxo7rwmLnQ-omxnYXOwHfEZX5iY1gNROwoaCRXDlr1F-d1isfA3NWIKVNxmTP-8PRbj/s4032/IMG_4862.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gdvSqV7AQeyA4lT_H5itijCIDQwKlYUx2st1hpGPjHFTH3DWjZ_ZwDfp7GPgYwdChdneUbs_MZhE7yE1ouo1N5D8m2oKvNPWOAm8c_Os2ljvoiezJeN-19S5rXxo7rwmLnQ-omxnYXOwHfEZX5iY1gNROwoaCRXDlr1F-d1isfA3NWIKVNxmTP-8PRbj/s320/IMG_4862.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Leamington Spa station was rebuilt in the late thirties to an Art Deco design and for a while I could pretend I was in a Poirot. I wouldn't be a murderer, of course, being a working class oik; I'd be one of the porters at the station carrying the bags of some pencil thin heiress, or, if I was lucky, a red herring victim, one of those uppity plebs who tries to blackmail a few shillings out of the killer and ends up stabbed in the throat. It's a station that's been beautifully preserved and restored. The refreshment rooms might offer lattes and Diet Cokes, but they embody an era of tea urns and chippy women behind the counter. The larger of the two has been turned into a full bar, which I wholeheartedly support.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHka6f8maRyIQcqT8SbUfnc-nlgkOKtnXXWe8sWA9Ui6G0ghAyQqsCjkdgnNn6MOolpZ0pGmXfFePnf_1rz28YHTHTSAlE53g9CKagqhX-4KqcTl8pe9aNZo_krMP38OGIGakO1FFJA2eiyPIxweCseT9xz6Bwci6AimQyKNMZT97rE3AfFZmORJxEbOg/s3744/IMG_4875.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3744" data-original-width="2808" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFHka6f8maRyIQcqT8SbUfnc-nlgkOKtnXXWe8sWA9Ui6G0ghAyQqsCjkdgnNn6MOolpZ0pGmXfFePnf_1rz28YHTHTSAlE53g9CKagqhX-4KqcTl8pe9aNZo_krMP38OGIGakO1FFJA2eiyPIxweCseT9xz6Bwci6AimQyKNMZT97rE3AfFZmORJxEbOg/s320/IMG_4875.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The only thing that let the whole affair down was the 21st century. The people on the platforms absolutely refused to wear suit and ties and listened to music on their smartphones through Bluetooth headphones. The trains chugged in with diesel engines rattling the light fixtures. The staff waited by automated ticket gates and not one of them doffed their cap to me as I passed. How dare they fail to indulge me.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEige3DBt6x1UNKBQGgRvqNy0M1hQmYfLQmtR1prBdgN7sippA35gfPzL2h1RulvAzXku6LPuwdHZjvbfBdHTFJCfCsvWbBV41JiayV9u0TFFvG1oKWXBImC7yXqy5cmELvXnbWyq4rm6KBliOicrTOTULPKA9OUaj8_ED-pjfQlvNygZIfy1DZLIzWNYSmW/s4896/DSC00237.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEige3DBt6x1UNKBQGgRvqNy0M1hQmYfLQmtR1prBdgN7sippA35gfPzL2h1RulvAzXku6LPuwdHZjvbfBdHTFJCfCsvWbBV41JiayV9u0TFFvG1oKWXBImC7yXqy5cmELvXnbWyq4rm6KBliOicrTOTULPKA9OUaj8_ED-pjfQlvNygZIfy1DZLIzWNYSmW/s320/DSC00237.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Outside, I immediately fell for the white symmetrical station frontage, even if cars have come along and ruined the forecourt. A humped crossing for pedestrians was regarded as somewhere convenient to stop for an Uber driver, while another roared away at a speed entirely unsuitable for the narrow car park. Fortunately the station sign was away from the main run. It is there, honest, behind that tree.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDu6wJE9d5LHwr1BLhrketQfZLygLaaVfsuQE2RRdtROo-gSeWqHLIz5cwpeNA4qA2F5V_9-JjYzNJQt-2dlNLuEualXqUlbIo1GtMsoDwQ360yv-kuIqua5UqJPaJHG2gixf3affC-GpUHUqr-cAo8Yg62G2cGNJkXk_IDm9xZO1TrlcoXEPtF3whpTS/s4896/DSC00249.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivDu6wJE9d5LHwr1BLhrketQfZLygLaaVfsuQE2RRdtROo-gSeWqHLIz5cwpeNA4qA2F5V_9-JjYzNJQt-2dlNLuEualXqUlbIo1GtMsoDwQ360yv-kuIqua5UqJPaJHG2gixf3affC-GpUHUqr-cAo8Yg62G2cGNJkXk_IDm9xZO1TrlcoXEPtF3whpTS/s320/DSC00249.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>There was a small underpass to one side and I ducked down it for a look. Leamington Spa had two stations for a long time, literally backing onto one another: the current station was the Great Western one, while across the tracks was Avenue, run by the London and North Western.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_5-MRrZDd1mb7bLFPAnqws8OBSE3tfU22yusiHhLY4snHYOo_jeXwXRnWB4Zus8TzUeOEJFashIWhkoJdoaX47QDPDWjqumOYmNCOCowHh_bxKK4KA7cxSh6Ahhlh9_gLTotenVTNCLrZoHIgb56F6FUxjewWusxNr7wVSByMBbDtoVCC4afbO9uH4yQ/s4896/DSC00241.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_5-MRrZDd1mb7bLFPAnqws8OBSE3tfU22yusiHhLY4snHYOo_jeXwXRnWB4Zus8TzUeOEJFashIWhkoJdoaX47QDPDWjqumOYmNCOCowHh_bxKK4KA7cxSh6Ahhlh9_gLTotenVTNCLrZoHIgb56F6FUxjewWusxNr7wVSByMBbDtoVCC4afbO9uH4yQ/s320/DSC00241.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>This was a ridiculous arrangement after nationalisation, of course, doubling up services for no good reason, so Avenue was closed in 1965 and is now blocks of flats - though the street name, Station Approach, lingers on. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcm3scEj3o6b4VFQtafPVXMKobKLs1xYDraL6fXzyH_3WHtJE6IDvg06e7CxHFQSexLSSc3Tu_bNsOwUECy4KDo-LAgIBdd_SutSUJHzRkj6cMRCZIWXsFQyYh52mjg5sojQDpzd5b24lI7ETTPbnB3ggAsZ3W2o_jE6RBVwa7jB53DMw1EpWdZSm-r8vS/s4896/DSC00243.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcm3scEj3o6b4VFQtafPVXMKobKLs1xYDraL6fXzyH_3WHtJE6IDvg06e7CxHFQSexLSSc3Tu_bNsOwUECy4KDo-LAgIBdd_SutSUJHzRkj6cMRCZIWXsFQyYh52mjg5sojQDpzd5b24lI7ETTPbnB3ggAsZ3W2o_jE6RBVwa7jB53DMw1EpWdZSm-r8vS/s320/DSC00243.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The underpass, meanwhile, has been decorated with an artwork, <i>The Royal Leamington Spa Colour Palette, </i>by Stacey Barnfield. It's part of <a href="https://www.instagram.com/colourpalettecompany/?hl=en">a series of schemes</a> where local features are represented by colours, and though there are similar works for Birmingham, Brighton, even Liverpool, it feels right somehow that Royal Leamington Spa has one. It feels very Laura Ashley, very middle class, very aspirational. Much like the town.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2bN58H34NseXw7Rye0OYJ070dlNxtfTzY4p0Nb3Un7rUwO-o49uoV4hcgxZrSaOPxyAmJJukwwZ1iQYLtCuF9B9oKseuSE-o2IiozXb-5LmEEl6ESlTpU1v4GvtutABWpKP4Ijlea7M5H5MXXsbbDWDG9lczP3kSq3sORU3bDQTQAYsajlkIzcFV-BFH/s4896/DSC00242.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2bN58H34NseXw7Rye0OYJ070dlNxtfTzY4p0Nb3Un7rUwO-o49uoV4hcgxZrSaOPxyAmJJukwwZ1iQYLtCuF9B9oKseuSE-o2IiozXb-5LmEEl6ESlTpU1v4GvtutABWpKP4Ijlea7M5H5MXXsbbDWDG9lczP3kSq3sORU3bDQTQAYsajlkIzcFV-BFH/s320/DSC00242.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I went from the station into the Old Town. Before the spas were built in the 18th century, this was simply another small Warwickshire settlement. The discovery of the springs, however, as part of the trend of taking "medicinal" waters, meant it was suddenly a top tourist spot. The population ramped up considerably and to accommodate them and the visitors a new town was built across the river.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8EX7n_bZ91RSk3sVakmixS75S9zX0PQZZ6TlJmCy6fRz1ZpQ_w911mFgjyHPUgfNtD9Oop2zpnXso62oI2q1XYlUQmIqw0dW3jME_2VxGEfxQGad1-H0m9WUiwqu6btK78y5zueWq-WeNwvJSaqaxd97S0Hpxh6s79EX2lt55WZFkjgcOdt_ySjMGvXVV/s4896/DSC00251.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8EX7n_bZ91RSk3sVakmixS75S9zX0PQZZ6TlJmCy6fRz1ZpQ_w911mFgjyHPUgfNtD9Oop2zpnXso62oI2q1XYlUQmIqw0dW3jME_2VxGEfxQGad1-H0m9WUiwqu6btK78y5zueWq-WeNwvJSaqaxd97S0Hpxh6s79EX2lt55WZFkjgcOdt_ySjMGvXVV/s320/DSC00251.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>This side of the river was still where the smaller, less well-regarded businesses hung out. There were Polish shops and kebab houses, vape stores and an Iceland, while a decent looking pub had its entrance blocked by three men having a very intense and possibly violent conversation. Leamington Spa is popular with students from Warwick University and this really felt like the part of town they rolled through, drunk.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt82jhAk0OiFKyxY6Q6wdmksSuxQiAChQhyFJlslyiCpLkUVorT5YHkcwAikRP5VpOtm1mr9KzJ8Hhrw7yxnmeRXz6lV49PVKMYuJqDebsD7J-uMj7T_iHYW84c-DNdsY0-MrseJDenvG9Y0wBYMTPfvTQJIsMNeZXZwBB_Am1lcFoIoLF2rHpVXlpiU4z/s4896/DSC00253.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt82jhAk0OiFKyxY6Q6wdmksSuxQiAChQhyFJlslyiCpLkUVorT5YHkcwAikRP5VpOtm1mr9KzJ8Hhrw7yxnmeRXz6lV49PVKMYuJqDebsD7J-uMj7T_iHYW84c-DNdsY0-MrseJDenvG9Y0wBYMTPfvTQJIsMNeZXZwBB_Am1lcFoIoLF2rHpVXlpiU4z/s320/DSC00253.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I crossed the river Leam and reached the elegant, Regency side of the town. Immediately on my left was the town's pump rooms, now repurposed as the museum and art gallery. Disappointingly, there doesn't seem to be an opportunity to actually take the waters any more. I'd have thought Gwyneth Paltrow would've been all over that. It apparently had a sulphurous tang, and was a mild laxative, but Goop could soon package that as a positive. A natural cleanse to restore your auras and chakras or something. You could bathe in it - suitably warmed for modern sensibilities - and then spend the afternoon emptying out your interiors to give you a pallid glow.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdBGuRuK0JHGIucvSxMiXGUJaifK8Vq4Fp58prunVIvKaxxdbLjMlpmVUe4WfHUkWwwXUZXWXWRtll6VDhtwwOhgDNj-BUVjmVLWvgYpGqjxrkEOgTR1ZnCQEOU6eyowl9vjzfwfZVb3ZkuTmt3aoSZMZdxbeuc9NuLTx_mFZ8_AAtaDHstuV05vfv2efS/s4896/DSC00257.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdBGuRuK0JHGIucvSxMiXGUJaifK8Vq4Fp58prunVIvKaxxdbLjMlpmVUe4WfHUkWwwXUZXWXWRtll6VDhtwwOhgDNj-BUVjmVLWvgYpGqjxrkEOgTR1ZnCQEOU6eyowl9vjzfwfZVb3ZkuTmt3aoSZMZdxbeuc9NuLTx_mFZ8_AAtaDHstuV05vfv2efS/s320/DSC00257.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>"But wait!" locals are shouting at their screen. "You can taste the water in Leamington! There's a fountain outside!" And yes, there is a stone column, inscribed with artistic fonts, and with a tap wedged in the front, constructed for the Millennium. <br /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2f08oPOIynoqbNUyZwmgwLYCSaORuCEFFjM_uhcvVURu9xe-u8ZaP8CdJbfiVFCTdWyLZTYE5t_F-ouIJaoqMUmaDRkqM2fJ6SBUsGJ4PQpkfOlsaWKSkDzd1QJhAbOh4hwkxLP_zk7HOpytUa-PMbTQ986BIcpayz6dVDBVFNi_JhKXnGiIou2b5UV5p/s4896/DSC00255.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2f08oPOIynoqbNUyZwmgwLYCSaORuCEFFjM_uhcvVURu9xe-u8ZaP8CdJbfiVFCTdWyLZTYE5t_F-ouIJaoqMUmaDRkqM2fJ6SBUsGJ4PQpkfOlsaWKSkDzd1QJhAbOh4hwkxLP_zk7HOpytUa-PMbTQ986BIcpayz6dVDBVFNi_JhKXnGiIou2b5UV5p/s320/DSC00255.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>It is, however, dry. I was there with my empty bottle, hoping to fill it with this medicinal goodness, and I got nothing. Like so much in this country, it promises a lot and delivers very little. I'm sure the Council would love to get it working again but budgets and cuts and prioritisation of services and so on - the constant drumbeat of neglect and sadness you get wherever you go in the country now.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbm27H5dgF-zoPBnaCATxxUUNAe6vRa5inaL9ix7CTjYQkndWwT7Ay8l3aWICxvr26QX4gv5k_U1mqRP6omL8598GN8xet7iznDYogwRPWMir1_2E3Q6bea1do3iY89koKrMSrPk3z56jF3Z3uK7_h22UKJZDPE9IRWQp0LTAsPgAcvxY4_Aan3YLF0dB2/s4896/DSC00259.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbm27H5dgF-zoPBnaCATxxUUNAe6vRa5inaL9ix7CTjYQkndWwT7Ay8l3aWICxvr26QX4gv5k_U1mqRP6omL8598GN8xet7iznDYogwRPWMir1_2E3Q6bea1do3iY89koKrMSrPk3z56jF3Z3uK7_h22UKJZDPE9IRWQp0LTAsPgAcvxY4_Aan3YLF0dB2/s320/DSC00259.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />Still, the Parade - or rather <i>Parade</i>, as it's technically called, much like <i>Carpenters</i> - is very impressive. It's a long straight avenue lined with white fronted Georgian shops and restaurants and it was gleaming in the sunshine. It was broken up by the terracotta Town Hall, fronted by a statue of Queen Victoria looking her usual happy self, but mostly it was a stretch of extreme elegance.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSBqgag47qhCH4KERQYTAXNIFK1IoDds_mVbaDaq6k0tyngTYfsbkaCCG1LozlR8fKnTyMVuPJAOC7PCJEK9FvLh5MwpaCISE6mNjLdOr3lBAPObOrftAKSC654Ahi4mPyY38103niEf-FBWp4gduPQ3RKW0jvYTrfSSIi_-Gw0utXxfAjV6YS8lNwCQf1/s4896/DSC00263.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSBqgag47qhCH4KERQYTAXNIFK1IoDds_mVbaDaq6k0tyngTYfsbkaCCG1LozlR8fKnTyMVuPJAOC7PCJEK9FvLh5MwpaCISE6mNjLdOr3lBAPObOrftAKSC654Ahi4mPyY38103niEf-FBWp4gduPQ3RKW0jvYTrfSSIi_-Gw0utXxfAjV6YS8lNwCQf1/s320/DSC00263.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The people of Royal Leamington Spa came in two flavours. There were the young, lairy types, bouncing around noisily, making too much noise. Then there were the ladies in wax jackets and neckerchiefs, wafting along the pavement, neat tote bags tucked under their arm. The two did not interact or crossover. The shops, meanwhile, had been coerced by the town council into having only the classiest of signs - no neon or internally lit or, heaven forbid, laser printed gaucheness here, just neat lettering spaced along the frontage of the building. It made everything look so much better.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHOfAJLaiNezYO4hOAOSYcMJrAgx04MP-7lk6jtKh49oFbrJkGcfpW8Xc3VSF0vqy8RYSbUIbry-nHTcremm6m4fMdu2fqGWWfU5Qpi_BFkJBKdbH3pgDaSQ1MJDH3dojCTQoXDDY8AgzChWPnCgvJApfWETjVXrXOBzx5yqYwno9L5nWEM6SxD1k0AUgy/s4771/DSC00261.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3578" data-original-width="4771" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHOfAJLaiNezYO4hOAOSYcMJrAgx04MP-7lk6jtKh49oFbrJkGcfpW8Xc3VSF0vqy8RYSbUIbry-nHTcremm6m4fMdu2fqGWWfU5Qpi_BFkJBKdbH3pgDaSQ1MJDH3dojCTQoXDDY8AgzChWPnCgvJApfWETjVXrXOBzx5yqYwno9L5nWEM6SxD1k0AUgy/s320/DSC00261.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I mean, imagine if Planet Bong hadn't got this classy font. It would totally lower the tone. Still, I'd rather go to Planet Bong than the frigging Edinburgh Woollen Mills, which had a store opposite. Boo!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7VUDILHzkux52IOmJiieVONXhT9egR0aklnSbpH-6ckXYhSIoGrL40WD-qj3BP82F-xUqCGzeC_boaVaF9G61lDA8-YMBUTjX9AJNg7NuhgOKXXK9BiwZo0smRcRV4viXkljXutJ43_7eAEOlZVEBfpjKFURaXLuOmx-EtLJ4-9lawKWX4F5w7HqRdq31/s4896/DSC00265.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7VUDILHzkux52IOmJiieVONXhT9egR0aklnSbpH-6ckXYhSIoGrL40WD-qj3BP82F-xUqCGzeC_boaVaF9G61lDA8-YMBUTjX9AJNg7NuhgOKXXK9BiwZo0smRcRV4viXkljXutJ43_7eAEOlZVEBfpjKFURaXLuOmx-EtLJ4-9lawKWX4F5w7HqRdq31/s320/DSC00265.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Parade - it feels very odd writing that - ends in Christchurch Gardens, a large expanse of grass and trees. I turned right and disappeared into the smaller streets behind. I fancied a pint, but I was still too close to the town centre; the pubs here were very much gastro, boasting of their fine grass fed steaks or Wing Wednesdays <i>(40p a wing!)</i> and then in tiny letters underneath <i>or you could just have a drink I guess, we're ok with that, you take up a table with a single glass of wine when we could have a family of four filling their faces in that spot, no, it's totally fine, we don't mind <b>at all</b>.</i></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDhTXTe2JYcTeOQyLVOAGnuZhjhVyscxqZlvs_Qkq5TSUbU09F3RK-INV2QkezXndw_ypOJjMgvbmqvWQln7cBR1_LLy7k0hO9Eg8eYLlnM4n35UgkVzBN7KFtmifOFUvU7B-EcDiCSOrMUEtRogxH0F8w9WETT0TSx17xpgfFcaqAunls3A_H44hFlPH5/s4896/DSC00270.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDhTXTe2JYcTeOQyLVOAGnuZhjhVyscxqZlvs_Qkq5TSUbU09F3RK-INV2QkezXndw_ypOJjMgvbmqvWQln7cBR1_LLy7k0hO9Eg8eYLlnM4n35UgkVzBN7KFtmifOFUvU7B-EcDiCSOrMUEtRogxH0F8w9WETT0TSx17xpgfFcaqAunls3A_H44hFlPH5/s320/DSC00270.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Where there's Regency architecture, there's bound to be a crescent, and Royal Leamington's example is Lansdowne Crescent. It's not the biggest curve of houses, and the doorbells indicated all the mansions had long since been sliced up into flats, but it was still aesthetically pleasing. If this was a Poirot it would house the London home of some absolute cad who was poodlefaking with the gorgeous young wife of the victim. He'd be completely unrepentant about it, of course, until Hercule pointed out that the Colonel Sir Henry Twissel had been found drowned in his ornamental pond, at which point the man would visibly pale and guiltily confess that he was at the cricket the whole time and couldn't possibly have pushed him in. <i>Or did he?</i></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZX9zI3I05xWVHmfAOr98p-5Q1ULZmf849exwHhIr_VnExn44bh6_IhldW4LPjE-T5pcJDJHwRc0pnrc9ywB_gDht3h8dQEoHDJRgj6ovbn0nTqzhQs2IjRBZQN5jzlaqngeBCZDKMOMg2-L4iFrLPofjr-EVdvMRSPqbAWUr7ZwKHCiF1q-L2xC2R9Zh4/s4896/DSC00271.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZX9zI3I05xWVHmfAOr98p-5Q1ULZmf849exwHhIr_VnExn44bh6_IhldW4LPjE-T5pcJDJHwRc0pnrc9ywB_gDht3h8dQEoHDJRgj6ovbn0nTqzhQs2IjRBZQN5jzlaqngeBCZDKMOMg2-L4iFrLPofjr-EVdvMRSPqbAWUr7ZwKHCiF1q-L2xC2R9Zh4/s320/DSC00271.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I turned onto a long avenue, tall trees accompanying the pavement, with a swathe of green down the centre. I decided to walk that way, with the road either side as though I were a dandy on a perambulation, but I was in the minority. Everyone else in the town stuck to the roadside. The only person on the grassy part was a man talking to himself, clearly very agitated, and possibly associated with the hideous brutalist Job Centre over the road. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDxDe9NM1y3hyphenhyphend8mhWEhmMwBBEBUCAxHhZ2_j-TYL4rZsQ6V7o7wFqS8USJNWworKKph1GWqZoBTawRFJWW2yTjRq-wiURodIls0JxnWWsvsbla1c-weCWo14c-sn1A2Fv8KEm-NYILK-Zofn5b24H3bPFgIt0YlD1W5gob79341PwWLDEXnLu476j3Ya/s4896/DSC00274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDDxDe9NM1y3hyphenhyphend8mhWEhmMwBBEBUCAxHhZ2_j-TYL4rZsQ6V7o7wFqS8USJNWworKKph1GWqZoBTawRFJWW2yTjRq-wiURodIls0JxnWWsvsbla1c-weCWo14c-sn1A2Fv8KEm-NYILK-Zofn5b24H3bPFgIt0YlD1W5gob79341PwWLDEXnLu476j3Ya/s320/DSC00274.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I was a little anxious at passing him, but he took the decision out of my hands, lurching into the traffic without looking either way and marching across the road. Meanwhile, I followed a sign for the <i>Royal Spa Centre.</i> I thought there must be at least one spa in the town I could poke my nose into. By now I was feeling a little hot from all the walking, and I quite fancied the idea of relaxing in an elegant pool. I didn't have any swimming trunks of course, and also I can't actually swim, but the fantasy was there. I was basically picturing that bit in <i>GoldenEye</i> before Xenia turns up.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYqxCFwGU9Xj8zXqiyYB6NT7F8eBX3whjfNPTf7Y83_mAq7b2KfzQxcRYm8SLwfikXv6dksZmQKtZUrHt88sUW0qLWreL-auEe4Bb6hnGaI_465kunDSVCgDKIpZ2rCHscWVKFuV9YbNGUjJTQuZP3Xq1CkClMGzGvNCUyhj8Kar8nKO1OzBvFY4_TIx1/s4896/DSC00278.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYqxCFwGU9Xj8zXqiyYB6NT7F8eBX3whjfNPTf7Y83_mAq7b2KfzQxcRYm8SLwfikXv6dksZmQKtZUrHt88sUW0qLWreL-auEe4Bb6hnGaI_465kunDSVCgDKIpZ2rCHscWVKFuV9YbNGUjJTQuZP3Xq1CkClMGzGvNCUyhj8Kar8nKO1OzBvFY4_TIx1/s320/DSC00278.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The Royal Spa Centre turned out to be the town's theatre. At one side, a truck was unloading the equipment for <i>That'll Be The Day, </i>"the number one rock 'n' roll show in the UK", and the rest of the bill was very much along that line - stand ups, tribute shows, <i>An Evening With Anton du Beke And Friends</i>. I turned onto a road alongside a park, where I could see in to families enjoying the last gasp of summer, and passed the town's large new Justice Centre, a combination courthouse/police station that demonstrated being "in keeping" doesn't have to mean boring.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghX4SE7U9zZqcPAFCl8rf07_lXJhotcqikDna2qK0RZrCLu1rKTs6c-lJrakGOKKiG0nDiWRcwFCQgHHliWzuZceohY5hMMy-uzDiJj-djCop4E4b_4lHBe5gAwMvy8o-k2duJCCTyS4iXV4A7xOfaUyZh2hrnUGXg-KcyWvhKPpIKVvMvmutRPEmJtd0h/s4896/DSC00280.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghX4SE7U9zZqcPAFCl8rf07_lXJhotcqikDna2qK0RZrCLu1rKTs6c-lJrakGOKKiG0nDiWRcwFCQgHHliWzuZceohY5hMMy-uzDiJj-djCop4E4b_4lHBe5gAwMvy8o-k2duJCCTyS4iXV4A7xOfaUyZh2hrnUGXg-KcyWvhKPpIKVvMvmutRPEmJtd0h/s320/DSC00280.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I realised that I'd managed to walk in a complete loop without even noticing and was now back at the Pump Rooms. I took that as a sign that Leamington Spa had shown me everything it had to offer and returned to the station. The customer information board had its own hashtag and (dormant) <a href="https://www.instagram.com/leamingtonsparkle/?hl=en-gb">Instagram account</a> but fortunately it was being used to share dad jokes rather than the nauseatingly inspirational quotes you seem to get on the viral Tube boards. I went up to the platform and sat by the station's garden - yes, it has its own garden, that's how middle class it is - and ate a sandwich while I waited for my train.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbyjbpLS7l_kCuqd8wMuHVY7gb-uSqpb_Lfi6YUkqcADAkmG6vsoalL8xkcYEF8GCaDh3yEUgJi73FCPVGmWaZvVNSaGV0K5YInT3yIioBUtmC9ljoF4fqxA-lPEnnyOt11-tKpYImX8dSdGYcGxMm3YidhQlZ8Mo3tEpycBE4Xr72R93VAd8yxO9ROFb/s4771/DSC00287.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3578" data-original-width="4771" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbyjbpLS7l_kCuqd8wMuHVY7gb-uSqpb_Lfi6YUkqcADAkmG6vsoalL8xkcYEF8GCaDh3yEUgJi73FCPVGmWaZvVNSaGV0K5YInT3yIioBUtmC9ljoF4fqxA-lPEnnyOt11-tKpYImX8dSdGYcGxMm3YidhQlZ8Mo3tEpycBE4Xr72R93VAd8yxO9ROFb/s320/DSC00287.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>For more than fifty years, there was no station in Kenilworth. There had been one, since 1844 in fact, but Beeching (shakes fist) came along and closed the line for passenger traffic. This was a marvellous decision that everyone agreed was brilliant for about eight minutes, when the campaign to reopen it started. The town finally returned to the railway map in 2018 although, as is sadly the norm when you travel across the country, all traces of the old station had been demolished so they had to build a new one.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju2sNwLLSGtIJDyk5lHfx5HKsgzJCks1cCBgWYfZX2rchuYdgmRmxXYEhXlnBnQ24fCrzQwURKV8oaTwW4SfQg8A27-ZcJciH6PK04eifKuxsxk16wNLa4H43u961lLPwkeWJblXwE-Nj4vdJpt1cQtTM7KojY0dwvGlninii-ii5MMgXYQo-t3-otennm/s4853/DSC00295.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3640" data-original-width="4853" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju2sNwLLSGtIJDyk5lHfx5HKsgzJCks1cCBgWYfZX2rchuYdgmRmxXYEhXlnBnQ24fCrzQwURKV8oaTwW4SfQg8A27-ZcJciH6PK04eifKuxsxk16wNLa4H43u961lLPwkeWJblXwE-Nj4vdJpt1cQtTM7KojY0dwvGlninii-ii5MMgXYQo-t3-otennm/s320/DSC00295.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It's... not great. I mean, it's perfectly ok, don't get me wrong. It's got a ticket office that doubles as a cafe. It's got a waiting area. There's a bus exchange outside. It's perfectly adequate. I just feel like it could be a bit more. I also hate that a building constructed in the 21st century doesn't look like it; that they've gone for a pastiche rather than building something for today.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaDBZWL7wIJF-IxcpFfhA0G1KYGSyaKb1kFB2gyt1NWfol1NKudi-3bBF8AQELdTm92J8xStepamSduvYskbqNKJWigXiOkpoDK7JSYToe4eZo3WQTh_ulRY4W_pTspFn27vg4ow3KRjJAll6qpjwtboKn2ng29Llrh8l-xZ-nnth2EMi6k4WNIXu7fwoP/s4896/DSC00290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaDBZWL7wIJF-IxcpFfhA0G1KYGSyaKb1kFB2gyt1NWfol1NKudi-3bBF8AQELdTm92J8xStepamSduvYskbqNKJWigXiOkpoDK7JSYToe4eZo3WQTh_ulRY4W_pTspFn27vg4ow3KRjJAll6qpjwtboKn2ng29Llrh8l-xZ-nnth2EMi6k4WNIXu7fwoP/s320/DSC00290.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>The feeling of "adequate" runs to the rail side, too. The line here was singled decades ago, so there's only one platform. However, they've planned ahead and built the station with bridges and lifts so, if the line is ever doubled, they can slot in a second platform without any bother.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwkt0J-6ncTBO9T0rcKqnWtOGNIJC23SOLhXzATa8FVrd_mf-XrXQJfEPVYzPSQoenG7nvB5Ri3VnRKOZR3UA97FR23zu1JyVQomCeK0sqUUYTTv3mDDQpcTUr4ofw4Cla3Lu7IeZffSdE4oUeCx5RNMRubroAgD4kpX9IN6gqTXcZVZO0OzYRJE9VHoW6/s4896/DSC00291.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwkt0J-6ncTBO9T0rcKqnWtOGNIJC23SOLhXzATa8FVrd_mf-XrXQJfEPVYzPSQoenG7nvB5Ri3VnRKOZR3UA97FR23zu1JyVQomCeK0sqUUYTTv3mDDQpcTUr4ofw4Cla3Lu7IeZffSdE4oUeCx5RNMRubroAgD4kpX9IN6gqTXcZVZO0OzYRJE9VHoW6/s320/DSC00291.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>So the question is: why didn't they just build the second track and platform? Maybe not all the way from Leamington to Coventry - let's not shoot for the moon - but there used to be a passing loop at Kenilworth. You could put that back and then there could be increased capacity on the line, plus, you could build that second platform while you're building the station and not have to come back at a later date with all the hassle and expense involved. Oh, I forgot, this is England, nothing gets built here, ever. (Yes I am writing this as the news of HS2's cancellation breaks and yes I am fucking furious and also depressed).</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaaTB2FB_HWvaZynl3sbatVxUnH4NPhleib4paqoIQYIFdE-6Up9hhkmAIidFPN5fR-ReSPggxHjgdXI3wHi7qvDfjd8Grho-aKmj0N9ToHnaG_1TA_n1659g24Ch1oZ4hjdBz1mfl9ZWt_MVlIdwlZLQYnc0yXXlC1grr5w_Dm5InNB9A_lJchaJg9dAe/s4896/DSC00303.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaaTB2FB_HWvaZynl3sbatVxUnH4NPhleib4paqoIQYIFdE-6Up9hhkmAIidFPN5fR-ReSPggxHjgdXI3wHi7qvDfjd8Grho-aKmj0N9ToHnaG_1TA_n1659g24Ch1oZ4hjdBz1mfl9ZWt_MVlIdwlZLQYnc0yXXlC1grr5w_Dm5InNB9A_lJchaJg9dAe/s320/DSC00303.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>We used to be able to build nice bits of infrastructure, and there's a great example of this further along Station Road. When they demolished Kenilworth's first station to build a larger, improved one in 1884, the frontage was preserved and used for a pub. It's now a swanky wine bar but still, isn't that a much nicer building than that little brick shed?<br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqmEdXkVB7pgZHrYngz-hR9TB__MFDvkJKwb702fERY7meJHZ0RZdDDSyEWlQzHJKshUiLhloqwoLeTo1SfhnxY8W5oQKaAy-dx7R3OSqPLmL_K5Gr3VOT_3lp8gCXHM2NY2cCoB-rSI86VlC8_AuFG6xg2fPX34MEynNQQbse8ae7FXW2yGsA1UHo5xH/s4896/DSC00305.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqmEdXkVB7pgZHrYngz-hR9TB__MFDvkJKwb702fERY7meJHZ0RZdDDSyEWlQzHJKshUiLhloqwoLeTo1SfhnxY8W5oQKaAy-dx7R3OSqPLmL_K5Gr3VOT_3lp8gCXHM2NY2cCoB-rSI86VlC8_AuFG6xg2fPX34MEynNQQbse8ae7FXW2yGsA1UHo5xH/s320/DSC00305.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Kenilworth's High Street was busy and well stocked with shops. You could tell that we were in the neutral zone between The South and The Midlands because there was a Robert Dyas. For some reason, these stores are all over the bottom of England, but the furthest North they get is Solihull. I went in for a poke around because I'd never been in one, and was a little befuddled. It was basically a Rightway, or perhaps a slightly posher Wilko (RIP) - practical housewares, a bit of garden furniture, electrical and decorating supplies. I'm not sure why they think us poor Northerners would be unable to cope with access to reasonably priced drills and pergolas. <br /><div><div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrDt2dN2YVA81r1DsuLvYsP6mBU_Y_fXrA6uqsYNGA6QX3dqCy5Cbs8g41jS2zIEWjudd5CERepHBUxOTqokq8V3e6y-thAMzg9IGfNVrW67qJzhupB2so26SwPVlRacfqZh_PRX6HNe1khqWQmWTrN2TWMU57M4_gDmiH28bjaaeDgdaxUhlhHiytDnuA/s4032/IMG_4872.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrDt2dN2YVA81r1DsuLvYsP6mBU_Y_fXrA6uqsYNGA6QX3dqCy5Cbs8g41jS2zIEWjudd5CERepHBUxOTqokq8V3e6y-thAMzg9IGfNVrW67qJzhupB2so26SwPVlRacfqZh_PRX6HNe1khqWQmWTrN2TWMU57M4_gDmiH28bjaaeDgdaxUhlhHiytDnuA/s320/IMG_4872.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>If I'm honest, I wasn't really in the mood for Kenilworth. I'd taken four trains to get here, leaving Birkenhead at half eight that morning, and unless I was presented with the Hanging Gardens of Babylon or a twenty foot high statue of Paul Rudd it would've been hard to capture my imagination. It has a castle of course, but that's a mile out of town and I couldn't be bothered. Perhaps I should've gone to Kenilworth before Leamington Spa because it all seemed a bit inadequate by comparison. I certainly couldn't see David Suchet utilising his little grey cells here. Really, there was only one thing to do.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPnc3oHvc51cIRP3mReb0cziB4GmMimyVyORhkoV-CtLVmJYrtJOZSzvkGpgmcclYSleODnOX99HmI6wX1Fcpb5XAzcrL0pU15kEGVREILKNzjUErZQhXL9quS7qSqjRhkcIf4LBzRp0kDPvaWVCorFrP22x2438lBQdFs21brMdTEyMn4mg_mDWDlIqT/s4032/IMG_4868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPnc3oHvc51cIRP3mReb0cziB4GmMimyVyORhkoV-CtLVmJYrtJOZSzvkGpgmcclYSleODnOX99HmI6wX1Fcpb5XAzcrL0pU15kEGVREILKNzjUErZQhXL9quS7qSqjRhkcIf4LBzRp0kDPvaWVCorFrP22x2438lBQdFs21brMdTEyMn4mg_mDWDlIqT/s320/IMG_4868.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><b>Five pound seventy five that cost me. </b>It's very expensive being an alcoholic these days. I might switch to meths. Send me back to the Twenties, when I could get roaring drunk on gin and it would cost thruppence ha'penny. It's almost worth getting stabbed for.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0OgPVOs-N0-9Kme2Q9jHsD2N_4609YcOl6bVdSDJJXw5Irg2oRvgvpBvD_UBgE6-ema_pSmUrygIbGSNdleA1Mfer8da2AW3nODbAPwMEw-2Os4lae424BjGKqpwuW_is6942NKNfQi__VXkJfCTimXxODZFq0oauoSI4_InzLgB-diHvGoOKPIH4y7b/s4896/DSC00297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0OgPVOs-N0-9Kme2Q9jHsD2N_4609YcOl6bVdSDJJXw5Irg2oRvgvpBvD_UBgE6-ema_pSmUrygIbGSNdleA1Mfer8da2AW3nODbAPwMEw-2Os4lae424BjGKqpwuW_is6942NKNfQi__VXkJfCTimXxODZFq0oauoSI4_InzLgB-diHvGoOKPIH4y7b/s320/DSC00297.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-5333276756684103872023-09-23T19:06:00.001+01:002023-09-23T19:06:56.093+01:00Melancholia<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNkPvofAprQ-BJEID7pw35T_obJrL4mYkRD1r75TS_k6Y8FFjXBafmypE-ko_aFLnzmF0jyPNYji1gUtk6j4ypEZIxemw_5QhcbOygioPcpuE62qqa9Wiyd-o5Q2AKWz0iWlzlOUHSGIqlj90nuVfE5hN71oa7b6vNXZn3Og0zdunKOopY5xk25y4a16d/s4896/DSC00112.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNkPvofAprQ-BJEID7pw35T_obJrL4mYkRD1r75TS_k6Y8FFjXBafmypE-ko_aFLnzmF0jyPNYji1gUtk6j4ypEZIxemw_5QhcbOygioPcpuE62qqa9Wiyd-o5Q2AKWz0iWlzlOUHSGIqlj90nuVfE5hN71oa7b6vNXZn3Og0zdunKOopY5xk25y4a16d/s320/DSC00112.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><i>I could steal that bag.</i></p><p>The thought popped into my head, entirely unbidden, even surprising me. I was stood in the doorway of a train as it slid into the station at Penkridge. Two women, early fifties, probably on their way back from a very drunken holiday somewhere hot, had got on at Crewe and left their suitcases in the vestibule while they crashed into their seats. They were pink, plastic, shell suitcases, the MAN luggage tag dangling from the handle, and not too big. </p><p>I realised that they couldn't see their bags. They could only see the top half of me because of the seat backs. I could grab one of the suitcases and simply step onto the platform. The doors would close behind me, the train would take off, and if they were lucky, they'd spot me with the big neon suitcase on their way past. If they were unlucky, they wouldn't notice until they got to Birmingham and tried to gather their bits together at the terminus.</p><p><i>I could steal that bag.</i></p><p>I didn't, of course. I'm not a thief. I don't get any thrill from danger or risk; in fact it fills me with anxiety and makes me shiver. Also, there was nothing to be gained from stealing a load of dirty underwear and half-empty toiletries. Maybe a bit of duty free if I was lucky but I didn't particularly fancy rooting through some soiled bras to find it. Still: <i>I could steal that bag</i>. A single, clear thought registering in my brain.</p><p>I realised I was in an odd mood.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9TemgNS5yGj7zs9AgbKFI_hp0hOW5Es4tDDS7z4AhM9_9IaVEh7T5FX3IXchyvNDCrlFpc98yeJpMbcyQf_6Tb4iwUEvtg4u1R_s0tYV_T7DWAhZwV4Apdvo_OjzOYv2Rrct6mK7Vqxi_kXhsRTBnQNse3r5rak-9akZ2nR1s1IzHXZtvMaaqCjOjsMq_/s4896/DSC00113.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9TemgNS5yGj7zs9AgbKFI_hp0hOW5Es4tDDS7z4AhM9_9IaVEh7T5FX3IXchyvNDCrlFpc98yeJpMbcyQf_6Tb4iwUEvtg4u1R_s0tYV_T7DWAhZwV4Apdvo_OjzOYv2Rrct6mK7Vqxi_kXhsRTBnQNse3r5rak-9akZ2nR1s1IzHXZtvMaaqCjOjsMq_/s320/DSC00113.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Penkridge was always going to be a one off trip. It's a small market town in Staffordshire, a strange stop for the Liverpool-Birmingham service; if there were any other trains passing through I'm certain London North Western would scrub it from its calling list. It's neither a commuter town nor a destination in its own right; it's simply somewhere that had the good fortune to get its railway station on a route between two of the biggest cities in the country.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwdo9xNmTuAqPuRx-sq9pZG9PN4OYVw_Xa590yPk2od87pO1lLULnDG_gzQaNkUYr98P8OOyUMgu9bvdsFJLu4WA4FRVIJTnPCOrcrExlxwJOo70E2g6V0TS3howcHg_NeJi2niTuuxKmH8VWmgLyt0A-YghaD0M-wXmeTLhFcuioFl_CuTu52hbqRhapX/s4896/DSC00114.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwdo9xNmTuAqPuRx-sq9pZG9PN4OYVw_Xa590yPk2od87pO1lLULnDG_gzQaNkUYr98P8OOyUMgu9bvdsFJLu4WA4FRVIJTnPCOrcrExlxwJOo70E2g6V0TS3howcHg_NeJi2niTuuxKmH8VWmgLyt0A-YghaD0M-wXmeTLhFcuioFl_CuTu52hbqRhapX/s320/DSC00114.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>It has some very fancy LED next train indicators. I've not seen ones like this before, with actual colours and different fonts; I was impressed, which shows you what a low bar you need to cross to impress me. I am not Shania Twain. I got off the train behind a tired looking mum and her two kids. She looked like she was absolutely desperate for them to go back to school; halfway down the ramp to the car park she suddenly yelled <i>"well why don't you ASK HIM?"</i> in response to their incessant chatter. She was not having a fun day out.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFXYqO7u5RtnFjzwm9cs4iU_OpyFOFO9E-IYfZSfmprwGHojjg6oX571egyQqZeTlNC-PG33yIYcmyWNK0XrJO7eohRRtzaG_GW1UHT6nvMZ2zxEm75ZKgFbPgd8LIvvDKjiPz6eVP5gjpne-TzynDnkNOmRaso_TVsrOc-z8sioiBeOue1dbgSWXRIvm/s4896/DSC00115.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFXYqO7u5RtnFjzwm9cs4iU_OpyFOFO9E-IYfZSfmprwGHojjg6oX571egyQqZeTlNC-PG33yIYcmyWNK0XrJO7eohRRtzaG_GW1UHT6nvMZ2zxEm75ZKgFbPgd8LIvvDKjiPz6eVP5gjpne-TzynDnkNOmRaso_TVsrOc-z8sioiBeOue1dbgSWXRIvm/s320/DSC00115.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I headed down to the car park from the viaduct, past the boarded up station building. You can stick as many fancy shutters on it as you like folks, it won't make this into a Swiss cottage. As usual I sighed that the building wasn't being used for anything at all. If you really don't want to put a ticket office in it, rent it out as a pub, or a community centre, or turn it into a house. A boarded up shell benefits nobody. I took my spot under the sign, next to a Slimming World a-board (Yes you can!), and did the selfie.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-b5Cvh1p9Q9EUlTqe8Pt9v_SfPKX8pCshKotlrx00PYRidbTfmW40T4wx22EU3ErIXu-FW1kt7iHg_q8V9EchHyMtAmRffA-mbGFhIUYOG2c6rp-kDIiRWW1mDYAFZn7ofyd7QWPa5dma9tI5chrr_Ct4a4YQ_Y-LJktM_nV2uGrQuyY8lro2A7pvHvhs/s4896/DSC00117.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-b5Cvh1p9Q9EUlTqe8Pt9v_SfPKX8pCshKotlrx00PYRidbTfmW40T4wx22EU3ErIXu-FW1kt7iHg_q8V9EchHyMtAmRffA-mbGFhIUYOG2c6rp-kDIiRWW1mDYAFZn7ofyd7QWPa5dma9tI5chrr_Ct4a4YQ_Y-LJktM_nV2uGrQuyY8lro2A7pvHvhs/s320/DSC00117.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>My hair is reaching "background artist on the planet Vulcan" levels now. I need to get it cut.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlG4XDZPV_C4TCDEoTbhnYV-pPvNWHWljFEFLOdKG1XCdn8eblHTZp79iYzAHZoeuRQVf_PhE8R_-bnVay9M4aSbE8Km_Hxj-sO7ZMBcmWKhrylxjGarOiqRNiDv66KkCf8zH4TnY_kyAPpCP30dqaxRCdB6UItfjJ2LnU6N3_2KVKmhlfOqZlijvfN_XY/s4896/DSC00122.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlG4XDZPV_C4TCDEoTbhnYV-pPvNWHWljFEFLOdKG1XCdn8eblHTZp79iYzAHZoeuRQVf_PhE8R_-bnVay9M4aSbE8Km_Hxj-sO7ZMBcmWKhrylxjGarOiqRNiDv66KkCf8zH4TnY_kyAPpCP30dqaxRCdB6UItfjJ2LnU6N3_2KVKmhlfOqZlijvfN_XY/s320/DSC00122.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>September was being September. We'd come out of the heatwave, that unbearable week of sweaty sheets and still air, and the rain had finally come, but it was in fits and starts. It struggled to be anything longer than a shower. And it was still sticky; the rain wasn't enough to take the edge off. People were wearing shorts with anoraks, light summer dresses under umbrellas, t-shirts and jeans. Nobody knew how to dress. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'd risked it and come out in shorts and a shirt. There was a jacket in my bag, a little light one, but I really didn't want to wear it. I could feel the heat sliding over me and I wanted as much cool breeze and moisture there to offset it.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI309HoIsgnzoNy6VvRcBl9jbqWnjJOSd0d2V2gFgSYEj7-tlOfRmqpKRqtHR0BaBjcPsMcPPIj29sutwplFBGi6kR2VbuOvOHSUrK2IAwbaJG0y4_11JgChvyirEo-4SMFL0W9J4rRdlrjV0Odd8GUo_1hr4_YvAVlEWiQnMR_Kj_ATdF7EC1QO89Voab/s4896/DSC00125.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI309HoIsgnzoNy6VvRcBl9jbqWnjJOSd0d2V2gFgSYEj7-tlOfRmqpKRqtHR0BaBjcPsMcPPIj29sutwplFBGi6kR2VbuOvOHSUrK2IAwbaJG0y4_11JgChvyirEo-4SMFL0W9J4rRdlrjV0Odd8GUo_1hr4_YvAVlEWiQnMR_Kj_ATdF7EC1QO89Voab/s320/DSC00125.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I crossed the main road through the town, the A449, past the farming supply store with <b>straightforward </b>low prices. There's something about that <b>straightforward </b>I don't like, something a bit Brexity, a bit <b>common sense </b>and <b>silent majority</b>, but that may just be me the uncultured townie not knowing the country ways. I also gritted my teeth at a run of tweeness - <i>Golden Oldies </i>antique furniture next to <i>Dickens of A Tea Shoppe</i> next to <i>Trudie's Sweet Shop</i> - and hoped that Penkridge wasn't a market town theme park, built for tourists and not real people.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-c5BsKHHeY0Xs4b70EN3GgVC1q-oVz3S-CZrBeaV7Ctcd6PIpUT_iEFK61Xi_4sBEdwosaAVunA7pcyfu-rcesR8rUna5iuxiXM-R6jRZJxj6LfUTQnQQEIFcshKTgjk1LjxTZrfYSOzn8Q8GwUqPodwTEX-yP-nte_rq94HZF24py1F_OdXziNWWng3W/s4896/DSC00127.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-c5BsKHHeY0Xs4b70EN3GgVC1q-oVz3S-CZrBeaV7Ctcd6PIpUT_iEFK61Xi_4sBEdwosaAVunA7pcyfu-rcesR8rUna5iuxiXM-R6jRZJxj6LfUTQnQQEIFcshKTgjk1LjxTZrfYSOzn8Q8GwUqPodwTEX-yP-nte_rq94HZF24py1F_OdXziNWWng3W/s320/DSC00127.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>In fairness, it was a real, proper town with a narrow high street adorned with pubs and grocers. A butcher on the corner was "Celebrating 40 Years - 2015", while a beauty salon was "Celebrating 10 Years - 2014" and really guys, I think it's time to take the signs down now. The Co-op had closed, to relocate to a larger store out of the town centre, but beyond that it seemed in pretty good shape, with a nice mix and few empty spots. I crossed over to the church hall so I could have a good look at the noticeboard, something I always do in a strange town. It gives you a little glimpse of the community.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOkfUmNl0QUpO8VN52nywPHLM03rrvosJe0k0vaJUdezLzNehOp9t8jlFc09IdnPcAqSLn8UHKYfNhN3wkPnTSaXVhyQRF-u85rYrCQufzsSmb3sMpXlh2kaki0YTKqgo_J7v2S7UMyM9eNq4WVQlzA-wImsKj2kksNttthXvBpBCflD-24M4Q-m4_q1zo/s4896/DSC00131.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOkfUmNl0QUpO8VN52nywPHLM03rrvosJe0k0vaJUdezLzNehOp9t8jlFc09IdnPcAqSLn8UHKYfNhN3wkPnTSaXVhyQRF-u85rYrCQufzsSmb3sMpXlh2kaki0YTKqgo_J7v2S7UMyM9eNq4WVQlzA-wImsKj2kksNttthXvBpBCflD-24M4Q-m4_q1zo/s320/DSC00131.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Slimmer's World were here too, plus Zumba and social mornings. There was a whist drive every Saturday and a brass band performance and Senior Boogie-Fit With Claire on Wednesday mornings. And there was... oh dear.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4ZSfbOEmyWQgKpK5ezCwE09RqQGdErdKQjHdDD7alxJ2dBXq6gnXUrEnwceXZ88d52FQcglxbN3U4KJCx1dM8wZAomW60OBkmL95B4SFW63OOsaZQ8DqP3gy9Qead-DbEnqKiafeEASO48NMX--YEzNYkRxjB9SiSj61E0Io8UHvcDlL9v8sM47PPet7/s4896/DSC00134.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg4ZSfbOEmyWQgKpK5ezCwE09RqQGdErdKQjHdDD7alxJ2dBXq6gnXUrEnwceXZ88d52FQcglxbN3U4KJCx1dM8wZAomW60OBkmL95B4SFW63OOsaZQ8DqP3gy9Qead-DbEnqKiafeEASO48NMX--YEzNYkRxjB9SiSj61E0Io8UHvcDlL9v8sM47PPet7/s320/DSC00134.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>If you're not terminally online, you might be thinking, "oh, Matt le Tissier, that nice footballer for Southampton. How lovely." If you've dipped into the cesspit of human depravity that is Twitter, however, you'll know that Matt is a Covid sceptic, anti-vaxxer, CBD hawker, and general GB News favourite. The other day he retweeted Laurence Fox protesting Russell Brand's video rants being demonetised so... that's a lot. And here he was in Penkridge - guests of the Round Table no less. I did wonder if they knew what they were booking. They were hoping for nice anecdotes about the FA Cup and instead they got a Powerpoint presentation on why the 15 Minute City is one step away from the Government locking you in a box and throwing you in a river.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKl0Z1swA1GTeLOs6KG5cB4wr8Lyp6UV7Ive6PwVIT9vBb6L4HBNEQfpW6JRdFOdIrdexeMu83pQs3P9CCG336rLYEJNlCQy9rtc4HzxpOuWF2Kq0f4rOjWaCXggEdqyORyZ5XEQFUGasghGQr7DFaakd5H7VE3daWBfD9VTyk89MMlBiIs1SSFW3JD-9I/s4896/DSC00136.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKl0Z1swA1GTeLOs6KG5cB4wr8Lyp6UV7Ive6PwVIT9vBb6L4HBNEQfpW6JRdFOdIrdexeMu83pQs3P9CCG336rLYEJNlCQy9rtc4HzxpOuWF2Kq0f4rOjWaCXggEdqyORyZ5XEQFUGasghGQr7DFaakd5H7VE3daWBfD9VTyk89MMlBiIs1SSFW3JD-9I/s320/DSC00136.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>At the end of the road was the Market Place, bounded by a primary school, a pub, and some delightful cottages and houses. The actual markets relocated to a purpose built space by the river, so they naturally turned the square into a car park. You could've had a nice open plaza here, bit of cobbling, some outdoor seating for the pub, but then where would people put their Mondeos when they wanted to pick up a Chinese? You don't need nice open spaces really, they don't turn a profit.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih-Haq4MNSxXQCwWi-6KlVrUNtFxDCRWSvXyEDAjj7fY_2Bjz-xwbB376dXPPvpIeTgEzrPYbKU64cDyiHiTgZo7gXiGtZw_ywYHUnFeB52Juv1jvXzOCXsv9RFWdy_8JSI3Ypk1mwdug35cA2XyQkPtVkiQmh57p1iFWbbL0prWjAGWNU3czWsX7Q1g5E/s4896/DSC00137.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih-Haq4MNSxXQCwWi-6KlVrUNtFxDCRWSvXyEDAjj7fY_2Bjz-xwbB376dXPPvpIeTgEzrPYbKU64cDyiHiTgZo7gXiGtZw_ywYHUnFeB52Juv1jvXzOCXsv9RFWdy_8JSI3Ypk1mwdug35cA2XyQkPtVkiQmh57p1iFWbbL0prWjAGWNU3czWsX7Q1g5E/s320/DSC00137.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I passed the community library - "community" because it's run by volunteers, rather than trained professionals demanding a living wage to provide a service, and I'm sorry, these last few paragraphs are making me quite depressed - and got caught up in a knot of sixth form boys noisily heading into town. They had new haircuts and all wore suits and I thanked the lord that I hadn't had to do my A-levels while strapped into a collar and tie. I went to a Sixth Form College, and so we were treated like mini adults and allowed to wear whatever we wanted; this being the early nineties, I wore nothing but flannel over band t-shirts, jeans, and Dr Martens boots. So did everyone else, in fact. We'd created our own uniform.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzqqFmCRGzYAHIoLPjaUvdTFVRRX4TCkkq8nZBmd6oqXaJ2c2gBYy_4PMuJxt2HHO7w1ulMv_5ORuc4gAOobTf_-YsWS7NAGdX-mHFDfceGSKGWBYQI3L0qhIUFc0BQ-e1rLIHB1x6GbVAD_bU7lL0QrYAInuxkF7H2zOYxwtjPXDJYxo9X1GvJFm9emiz/s4896/DSC00141.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzqqFmCRGzYAHIoLPjaUvdTFVRRX4TCkkq8nZBmd6oqXaJ2c2gBYy_4PMuJxt2HHO7w1ulMv_5ORuc4gAOobTf_-YsWS7NAGdX-mHFDfceGSKGWBYQI3L0qhIUFc0BQ-e1rLIHB1x6GbVAD_bU7lL0QrYAInuxkF7H2zOYxwtjPXDJYxo9X1GvJFm9emiz/s320/DSC00141.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I turned off the road at The Boat pub and descended to the canalside. There wasn't really much to retain me in Penkridge - the pubs weren't even open - and I didn't fancy getting on the next train home. Instead I decided to walk north to Stafford along the Staffordshire and Worcester Canal. It was a fair old walk, about six miles, but I figured this would be my last opportunity for a proper stroll before the really bad weather set in. I wasn't going to be able to mince down a towpath in driving October storms. <br /> <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcfPOZhJFFjum3Spvwlcq37EVYAdAqnGY2ga9PAxPkJoLh1TiakIHUiaktyNOoL8P9eEtSlhg-wBz4Ps5wK9HCtZis3pen4g4ulIM_z0kKjni2r2sOSoPaX-N2l6w9y4uoR0JjnW_UC1y4HCCC4lext6KbWiyLBxGxGZ0LxLVEFfFrf9iq0M0bXGWMH880/s4896/DSC00142.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcfPOZhJFFjum3Spvwlcq37EVYAdAqnGY2ga9PAxPkJoLh1TiakIHUiaktyNOoL8P9eEtSlhg-wBz4Ps5wK9HCtZis3pen4g4ulIM_z0kKjni2r2sOSoPaX-N2l6w9y4uoR0JjnW_UC1y4HCCC4lext6KbWiyLBxGxGZ0LxLVEFfFrf9iq0M0bXGWMH880/s320/DSC00142.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The homes along the canal addressed it in two ways. Across the river, where there wasn't a path, a mobile home park embraced the waterside living. Every caravan had a terrace, or a patio, or a wooden seating area, as close as it could get to the canal.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBPE6FilVv-wS34ELKYzpDTA3kK2IlHA69ik_fG3wIDTJT3geb-8OJjuQAq_FTi6Jr95W21DhUuQ7OI3FjzRJoByRuVUZZJye2fvOBIyCc_bnZVy6Kjbj-xK_1ix7iKZ2g6tcVafBpT6cX041rU7dO_L5ncLLVPnSTtM4_OPynw736TlUI1T9Mt6T3u-IX/s4896/DSC00144.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBPE6FilVv-wS34ELKYzpDTA3kK2IlHA69ik_fG3wIDTJT3geb-8OJjuQAq_FTi6Jr95W21DhUuQ7OI3FjzRJoByRuVUZZJye2fvOBIyCc_bnZVy6Kjbj-xK_1ix7iKZ2g6tcVafBpT6cX041rU7dO_L5ncLLVPnSTtM4_OPynw736TlUI1T9Mt6T3u-IX/s320/DSC00144.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>On the side I was walking, however, the homeowners hid behind high fences and walls. They guarded their privacy and their yards from prying eyes. You caught a snatch of grass, a hint of tree between the slats of the fence, then there was a locked gate. I can imagine it feels less than secure, having a publicly accessible path running at the rear of your home, but it was a shame that the only way they could take in the watery view was to go into an upstairs bedroom. One house bucked the trend. They had put out a bench by the towpath, with a sign inviting you to take a rest, a lovely little touch of humanity. It was too early in the walk for me to sit down but I gave it an approving tap as I passed.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92d-EvK1goiP-Eu4erBnNYaF4nBTBbymoSVMYPPXq5TO2_VdKOpX0DKbpX0Z_J4AWwzSD5H_m3Gz6Y7_hs-V2DWlbkm8TZnCZKVS8igNkGnaJELIyLbW3-JSxYB11S4VYVERBvUcElFUDTZNoWtbfwMhEDpjAp55eBHeL_AvwkADqV9xwt0zsdmWTLY5Q/s4896/DSC00145.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh92d-EvK1goiP-Eu4erBnNYaF4nBTBbymoSVMYPPXq5TO2_VdKOpX0DKbpX0Z_J4AWwzSD5H_m3Gz6Y7_hs-V2DWlbkm8TZnCZKVS8igNkGnaJELIyLbW3-JSxYB11S4VYVERBvUcElFUDTZNoWtbfwMhEDpjAp55eBHeL_AvwkADqV9xwt0zsdmWTLY5Q/s320/DSC00145.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>For a while, there were moored barges, their owners starting the day lazily. A woman sat on the open back with a cigarette and a cup of tea. A man mopping the roof from the path. Another jumping down with his dog, ready for the first walk. A lock closed off the section of canal and separated it from the next. Now I was on my own.<br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOcL3w-kxNMHxqp0qw7jNuTaa-b1nv1loWayWrJYAYfj9MuQMNYRdEVtDDRoPLhUszyPxn9s4Uf661XSxyXJloutWqkRgyp4U5dU-aSypF1EtP9CMdv4IOkUqQQUEx2QH-zDSfIBdtELxqqE7RvFyWcMMHn68KBfEZCvlNcZnnp1hlnKrkVbijQo9p7zRx/s4896/DSC00147.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOcL3w-kxNMHxqp0qw7jNuTaa-b1nv1loWayWrJYAYfj9MuQMNYRdEVtDDRoPLhUszyPxn9s4Uf661XSxyXJloutWqkRgyp4U5dU-aSypF1EtP9CMdv4IOkUqQQUEx2QH-zDSfIBdtELxqqE7RvFyWcMMHn68KBfEZCvlNcZnnp1hlnKrkVbijQo9p7zRx/s320/DSC00147.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I'll admit it now: I wanted to be alone. Sometimes I get the urge. The need to be away from everyone. It's hard to do, in this tiny packed island we live in, but sometimes I need to escape. To walk without any thoughts. To stroll without a deadline or an obligation. To escape.<br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtugpkNvCG2BgbkZVO7DSEpFDLyYOnIlNUOuCOAB5h7ERJ1PsPJrxAkj9zmxnFIcLNpZxRfWKjlutId-hQCc8maQ_i9BY7j5aBtCYgShzFoxgfetyEvoipquEevVOP7iQqtn88jHSAS1qocMDvntL3njzryV3HUJ564N8cRRAynZeGnraPPt2vY5N17aqx/s4896/DSC00150.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtugpkNvCG2BgbkZVO7DSEpFDLyYOnIlNUOuCOAB5h7ERJ1PsPJrxAkj9zmxnFIcLNpZxRfWKjlutId-hQCc8maQ_i9BY7j5aBtCYgShzFoxgfetyEvoipquEevVOP7iQqtn88jHSAS1qocMDvntL3njzryV3HUJ564N8cRRAynZeGnraPPt2vY5N17aqx/s320/DSC00150.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I was soon passing under the M6. It's remarkable how many times I've walked under motorways since I started collecting this map. The Midlands are a knot of highways and we're all forced to submit to them. I feel like eighty per cent of my blog posts have involved the phrase "viaduct" or "underpass" or "concrete". The strangest part is that I'm following public transport the whole time, and yet I keep encountering huge road projects. Beneath the motorway everything went dark. There weren't any lights to help guide the pedestrians or the boat users. It was a slash of black, a walk through a void, with distant sunlight burning at either end in pockets of hope.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ILm9H_42oHgOCmE4qlRO11sj1EeOYkdnX0JuyUvRjrjPkoXh3WfMpUx2aBb0m3ysDWfLuR_7ZqAIF0V8yGXTwUpEcNCk6ogFXly8p5B1StZDapDR0bYkdzN-jZAxEEBZcBI5fwFNDI_zTv9_gATZcbqAC5XUDw2lZple9tsqNto1GyGEJcw7bLyyBhS0/s4896/DSC00153.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ILm9H_42oHgOCmE4qlRO11sj1EeOYkdnX0JuyUvRjrjPkoXh3WfMpUx2aBb0m3ysDWfLuR_7ZqAIF0V8yGXTwUpEcNCk6ogFXly8p5B1StZDapDR0bYkdzN-jZAxEEBZcBI5fwFNDI_zTv9_gATZcbqAC5XUDw2lZple9tsqNto1GyGEJcw7bLyyBhS0/s320/DSC00153.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I kicked a wayward stone into the canal and delighted in the satisfying "plop" as it entered the water. The grass tickled my ankles, made them wet; the sun hadn't dried off the morning's dew. It began to rain. Slow, lazy rain, half-arsed, soaking into my shirt, but it was still too warm for a coat and I didn't feel like stopping. It only looked like a shower anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO2_uKi7JlUQ_s37R7koURhEtKhGj9T-NWm5uZQsnYnR7lckzAYfru3e7G73VVwCuoK7V0sa6HjfeAMtaFeyumUQMryHT3KLCfEX6FT9CWx9fc65pbJV7UwM6R9Ao8S640RJJoXUxfSO1-C2HnRgQRH77Uj5JgEWVL7ynXbgmoS7M8VU-UvOqR58GKmE5V/s4896/DSC00155.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO2_uKi7JlUQ_s37R7koURhEtKhGj9T-NWm5uZQsnYnR7lckzAYfru3e7G73VVwCuoK7V0sa6HjfeAMtaFeyumUQMryHT3KLCfEX6FT9CWx9fc65pbJV7UwM6R9Ao8S640RJJoXUxfSO1-C2HnRgQRH77Uj5JgEWVL7ynXbgmoS7M8VU-UvOqR58GKmE5V/s320/DSC00155.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>A boatyard promised canal tours and boat building; they'd buy your boat for cash. A man emerged from one moored alongside the towpath. He was rough and dirty, his hair a mess, a scraggly beard and a thick grey jumper with a hole in the stomach. He was carrying a shower tray and looked surprised to see someone walking here. Then it was another lock, with the towpath descending alongside, its cobbles slick with the rain. I walked gingerly, to try and avoid a fall, but no, of course there was a skid. The one time there was a person to see me and I slipped.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBlVRCpk6PZg1x0b4Hb3Ou5WNOboj6NvTA-YkN70nwaLJq-9gjkiXvB0TaNrzjZris60WhiDAGlPWw9wR3OJdovSpxPuUKVUlW6ZiYWMHpdfJqSq3WtdiaY20RkDofN5DVPHayOnMZgu8eJjuvw2tIJBaplQowIy1rX0WKA_4xI9Zt0crU1q1teZ3GFptF/s4896/DSC00156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBlVRCpk6PZg1x0b4Hb3Ou5WNOboj6NvTA-YkN70nwaLJq-9gjkiXvB0TaNrzjZris60WhiDAGlPWw9wR3OJdovSpxPuUKVUlW6ZiYWMHpdfJqSq3WtdiaY20RkDofN5DVPHayOnMZgu8eJjuvw2tIJBaplQowIy1rX0WKA_4xI9Zt0crU1q1teZ3GFptF/s320/DSC00156.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>For a while, the path was shadowed by the road, separated from the carriageway by a low fence. They split apart again and the traffic returned to being a sound. Trees curled down over me, some of them bright with berries. Autumn was coming in and they were offering up their seeds for next year. I squashed them under my boots.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD9pBlNIGr5HIjr3GAEvYpECinGIGiCKA3LR8s45C8MBfYJbWdkXDFlERJHxUdUR_EYaqvS2IiJqJL8S9TDycpIHfgCZUKuRSjX6eBYZRaTKHMVQmWq686GvB0RncPjKpkdZ13IjRLUBBHA1Cb90ijnZ4NC6byTN6Vu8jP5mU4TC39RGtZN26x5Su-_zcA/s4896/DSC00159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD9pBlNIGr5HIjr3GAEvYpECinGIGiCKA3LR8s45C8MBfYJbWdkXDFlERJHxUdUR_EYaqvS2IiJqJL8S9TDycpIHfgCZUKuRSjX6eBYZRaTKHMVQmWq686GvB0RncPjKpkdZ13IjRLUBBHA1Cb90ijnZ4NC6byTN6Vu8jP5mU4TC39RGtZN26x5Su-_zcA/s320/DSC00159.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Acton Trussel - which sounds like a 1930s gentlemen's outfitters - appeared across the canal. There were a few houses on my side, mostly farm house looking buildings, but across the way there were 1970s detached houses. I could see the odd BMW on the drive and conservatories giving an all-weather view of the water. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Z08AQWH6_5nKFYcT6nVbJ9FxVCDFQupt9CiqGEibCE80N8H5DGdrUW4H7gdXXb-JKeDhEteVHcAeIf2vhA1PsuEyEazp5xNqENRhJu7vqUOnlYdYdPijOco6CZaQPkCBpDgu9keKA7H9-ZvFjakx-m49REA7jDjhXWE1lKa6ht5fAxpCziZwYFNs2KQp/s4896/DSC00165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Z08AQWH6_5nKFYcT6nVbJ9FxVCDFQupt9CiqGEibCE80N8H5DGdrUW4H7gdXXb-JKeDhEteVHcAeIf2vhA1PsuEyEazp5xNqENRhJu7vqUOnlYdYdPijOco6CZaQPkCBpDgu9keKA7H9-ZvFjakx-m49REA7jDjhXWE1lKa6ht5fAxpCziZwYFNs2KQp/s320/DSC00165.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I paused under a bridge to wipe down my glasses and the lens of the camera. The rain had become a fine mist. The air was wet, a general clinging moisture, so that I seemed to be getting drenched from every side. It wasn't worth wearing my jacket now. All it would do was be another wet layer. I stood on the bank and took a few breaths. It was an hour since I'd left Penkridge and my mind was starting to turn in on itself. The canal views weren't captivating enough to distract me; it was a single path without deviation. My brain whispered to me.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUFVsUk5g-0l1e3PQgxs1WMlBm7htEIuCPjdqgZmmADE98qjddv21GTyUSzLc-WRO1kDmnP7ihti7ItNndpeVcneU6Ns3jmpbMLMPMnh7CYBREW95UEPaIVmzLFiVw2xPjD2AwHQZ2gkomo6g1YL6zbtHP0OfH4SGMdcZipkuNVaf2ivMzfvwfR20v20CY/s4896/DSC00168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUFVsUk5g-0l1e3PQgxs1WMlBm7htEIuCPjdqgZmmADE98qjddv21GTyUSzLc-WRO1kDmnP7ihti7ItNndpeVcneU6Ns3jmpbMLMPMnh7CYBREW95UEPaIVmzLFiVw2xPjD2AwHQZ2gkomo6g1YL6zbtHP0OfH4SGMdcZipkuNVaf2ivMzfvwfR20v20CY/s320/DSC00168.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Fortunately, I found a way to concentrate my mind shortly afterwards. A grey boat pulled away from the bank about ten yards ahead of me and I realised, to my horror, that he was going the same way as me. We were going to accompany one another - him never going fast enough to leave me behind, me never slow enough to fall back.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv4dY_tl9R4EhQTswGHP8r0RME0fW4xLAR6OLvZxU7SpJkEsHH3L5aix96NRgptH_210buHR7Jcb50GIRt7c4yNfXFY10A22lt1kbVoOwIpVyDYVmiKG9PKx3MZedeF5j4n1Vslq7PxEjjZI3vhAGps0Vo4qxlfWg__-NcUmz_oOhewFAWRluvrZGzXZMi/s4896/DSC00170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv4dY_tl9R4EhQTswGHP8r0RME0fW4xLAR6OLvZxU7SpJkEsHH3L5aix96NRgptH_210buHR7Jcb50GIRt7c4yNfXFY10A22lt1kbVoOwIpVyDYVmiKG9PKx3MZedeF5j4n1Vslq7PxEjjZI3vhAGps0Vo4qxlfWg__-NcUmz_oOhewFAWRluvrZGzXZMi/s320/DSC00170.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I burned with hatred for that boat. It was ruining my day. I couldn't relax or enjoy the scenery because of that boat. I couldn't be alone with my thoughts because they were soundtracked by a <i>ugga-ugga-ugga</i> of a diesel engine. A few minutes before, my thoughts had been going to some wildly dangerous places, so in a way the noise was doing me a favour by drowning them out. That wasn't the point. I raged inside, absolutely livid with the boat and its pilot.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojS-dsnVjVggbOvRPhOTLs0yWAlU22rEMjDBLylmMEg48k2Xr2y4h01AwYcixB5jNufUz1-ARRp6QM-gQgEBvgY9Ssvp6cCjkU9e-jgkaz9UIRDs83VvF4k_2r-Jo7zIZQqMSBphIl49OgF8AXzrzmmet5PozhLUXYDF_jLFsqd2L59bdeiiBtzVBBTms/s4896/DSC00171.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjojS-dsnVjVggbOvRPhOTLs0yWAlU22rEMjDBLylmMEg48k2Xr2y4h01AwYcixB5jNufUz1-ARRp6QM-gQgEBvgY9Ssvp6cCjkU9e-jgkaz9UIRDs83VvF4k_2r-Jo7zIZQqMSBphIl49OgF8AXzrzmmet5PozhLUXYDF_jLFsqd2L59bdeiiBtzVBBTms/s320/DSC00171.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>After a good mile of me muttering insults at the oblivious boater, we reached Deptmore Lock, and I realised I'd be free of him. I strode past as he moored up to wait his turn, my nose high in the air, revelling in the victory in this competition he'd had no idea he was in. On the other side of the lock though: dammit. A boat was again pulling away, this one crewed by a pair of retiree couples, noisy and boisterous and having a whale of a time. Absolute bastards. I couldn't face being accompanied again so I broke into a record breaking stride. I pushed myself as far as I could to get away from them. I concentrated so hard on burning away, I didn't notice I'd left them behind a long time ago. I paused for breath after a while and realised I was quite alone again.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7YFxPCagHqtNfGrsj7k1zb1eGhI_GTvsSotfZhPXLn4uLRpWmCAp_iE3j0fsGGONB9kAVL6bdz43I7E2u3Ea2CrDYCug6ENkiyWDZqOLYcajuX0fsqEQt1uUO_L0O2ZiYVEQe6EQcMqK-3uxLoitJ3i1XeoF1a_0wRGhppb9bn76IFEcQiXoY8PzqwJ_1/s4896/DSC00172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7YFxPCagHqtNfGrsj7k1zb1eGhI_GTvsSotfZhPXLn4uLRpWmCAp_iE3j0fsGGONB9kAVL6bdz43I7E2u3Ea2CrDYCug6ENkiyWDZqOLYcajuX0fsqEQt1uUO_L0O2ZiYVEQe6EQcMqK-3uxLoitJ3i1XeoF1a_0wRGhppb9bn76IFEcQiXoY8PzqwJ_1/s320/DSC00172.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><div><br /></div><div>I was on a part of the canal where few walkers ever came. The path was overgrown and my bare legs were stroked and stung by nettles. I tried to remember; is it better to walk forcefully through them or to try and edge round them? There's that phrase, grabbing the nettle; does that mean if I go quickly the stings won't work? Whatever I did, it didn't matter. Soon my shins were numbed from the onslaught. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOA-WKptJCUgKtWQ04TyQ8CrcOxJA6eNrWmXmIWCnyDHIJ6QzMqAvijyPk5ZkvpogGuD7luwv_4Qu0jL26MdXnkNPwASr8W6DZsgMn5HJKQRikrgUvYJ03qLYbaAr9kMcd-4wUa9b8wi4TIm4xkNSeuHFpCe-qpMh30nIqrN1w1kDJnkJIVMQgq-D7S0Lv/s4896/DSC00174.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOA-WKptJCUgKtWQ04TyQ8CrcOxJA6eNrWmXmIWCnyDHIJ6QzMqAvijyPk5ZkvpogGuD7luwv_4Qu0jL26MdXnkNPwASr8W6DZsgMn5HJKQRikrgUvYJ03qLYbaAr9kMcd-4wUa9b8wi4TIm4xkNSeuHFpCe-qpMh30nIqrN1w1kDJnkJIVMQgq-D7S0Lv/s320/DSC00174.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Once again, my side of the canal was wild and unkempt while across the way it had been civilised. Stafford Boat Club, a marina of barges and a discreet clubhouse behind tended hedges, was followed by a public park. I could see dog walkers through the trees and empty playgrounds. On my side, an information board informed me that I was by the Radford Meadows, a wetland where the River Penk flooded and provided breeding grounds for birds and wildlife. I'd noticed the gap in Stafford on the map, a pause separating the town into two dumbbells of population, and it was interesting to see the reason developers hadn't swept in and colonised the land.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisg3rmQW0uu3UBHzD-fl8jgCKJTBrQZ3U4dqW1WiRuoSXgKI6kjU_YPOZPHk_SRrmOJSkZKTwXsTTP8l0mUR045kv6LuVgGNiS0nFKaGbxyWvmQazTVEWM1kzARjDLpngC5MwQ8RNc0xdNz2JeBGDKpebCcoJBql7ZHXW52NEuFIz8ld-MV7csKbpnstou/s4896/DSC00180.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisg3rmQW0uu3UBHzD-fl8jgCKJTBrQZ3U4dqW1WiRuoSXgKI6kjU_YPOZPHk_SRrmOJSkZKTwXsTTP8l0mUR045kv6LuVgGNiS0nFKaGbxyWvmQazTVEWM1kzARjDLpngC5MwQ8RNc0xdNz2JeBGDKpebCcoJBql7ZHXW52NEuFIz8ld-MV7csKbpnstou/s320/DSC00180.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Humans were making themself known in other ways. There was a neat pile of beer cans and a pair of boxer shorts tucked into the long grass, writing a story I'm not sure I wanted to read, and then the muddy track became concrete. It felt unsafe after the rough walk of the last miles; slick with rain and slightly angled towards the water. I pictured myself tipping into it and vanishing under the brown surface, and the dark thoughts swelled up again. I was glad to spot a car showroom and then, beyond that, steps to take me up to the road.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJgYkgvwNDyyoRRofimyBxb98A2b__VDnPAIZ9Wz76qaarykYs2LmVwsedSkIFqQ9jXtgKktStGQtaEQXtlVP-F7Ex8ocVkkTh5A5X8aoD1JtxF8oOs_q0C_RyfN4KpUdGlKVHwEi9gh0oo2VdmWeK9yzKW_5HM3-sm6pIu8BWbk7-CRyeuKqmiM43UFQD/s4896/DSC00181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJgYkgvwNDyyoRRofimyBxb98A2b__VDnPAIZ9Wz76qaarykYs2LmVwsedSkIFqQ9jXtgKktStGQtaEQXtlVP-F7Ex8ocVkkTh5A5X8aoD1JtxF8oOs_q0C_RyfN4KpUdGlKVHwEi9gh0oo2VdmWeK9yzKW_5HM3-sm6pIu8BWbk7-CRyeuKqmiM43UFQD/s320/DSC00181.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I appeared on the A34 beside a large pub and I was suddenly acutely aware of what a mess I looked. Soaking wet, covered in filth below the knees, my hair slicked against my head. I looked like I'd actually been in the canal and had pulled myself out. I paused in a bus shelter, trying to see if there was a way to make myself look half decent but no: I was a lost cause. I pressed on into town.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSRiJxftuWc686STYNILcE8KE859q0C9QsE3eXM3v4kwYuSbXYeuZeFg4gKV-axF_0wYA6NV1Q55cuQCwVZ4S_xqtxRuLOMz-2Q4fw0EEo7U1m8j_igpyxnqsaug8HHevHT7zqBJ0T1A5ziIvGtu6-ZmGpLZnFe-JPPRlbGRcJT_mpM7EbekqD4S4uuZWZ/s4896/DSC00184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSRiJxftuWc686STYNILcE8KE859q0C9QsE3eXM3v4kwYuSbXYeuZeFg4gKV-axF_0wYA6NV1Q55cuQCwVZ4S_xqtxRuLOMz-2Q4fw0EEo7U1m8j_igpyxnqsaug8HHevHT7zqBJ0T1A5ziIvGtu6-ZmGpLZnFe-JPPRlbGRcJT_mpM7EbekqD4S4uuZWZ/s320/DSC00184.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The main road was lined with 1930s houses, interspersed with newer developments. I had to take a major detour around a roundabout because it had been built to access a retail park and the developers weren't really interested in pedestrians coming in. The number of spaces on the sign that were unoccupied by shop names made me think they shouldn't be quite so fussy.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxk0e9w6eIdNU2UgXvJn294ofSRCheqLZ7rD_jsRdEDcD754AOSjJ4l_IN_RxnwV0N4-5TPKHRpaxA-Gd-p0ov-aDCnJz1G7IgJnIy7ns9uTkWhxazGA9v-tQfN-bDCZDG4U_Ef0wzH89RUJI6GscLPEAgOkaoVNu8xk__9mFGtjaJXcyGTF1cdVDCGSM/s4896/DSC00187.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGxk0e9w6eIdNU2UgXvJn294ofSRCheqLZ7rD_jsRdEDcD754AOSjJ4l_IN_RxnwV0N4-5TPKHRpaxA-Gd-p0ov-aDCnJz1G7IgJnIy7ns9uTkWhxazGA9v-tQfN-bDCZDG4U_Ef0wzH89RUJI6GscLPEAgOkaoVNu8xk__9mFGtjaJXcyGTF1cdVDCGSM/s320/DSC00187.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Beyond the railway was a building site. This had been the home of General Electric for many years, a large factory just off the Lichfield Road. However, in 2019, GE's parent entity the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/30_Rock">Sheinhardt Wig Company</a> consolidated its manufacturing to one site in Rugby, and now this is going to be 350 new homes in a development called "Victoria Gate". I'm not sure why it's going to be called Victoria Gate, but if you want to live between an A road and a mainline railway this is the spot for you. I don't know where you'll work, though. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tB9vdU6vnvnUK9JOPAqgeHuxL9NVz_JkCfrifJoo4CiuLFD7-N8_E8IdPrDu8_w1pbCh09MNUY7RUmbh6u4Q3MzDlfT8flr4_gRPKr8rJH8TdsGqh9rmM5FmgiSSA6S-qjkp_W6zy7DDbW6VCcJFhsknx0LdCeva6jq2eQunH7zJ1s6KZZeaXYzXwtSY/s4896/DSC00188.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tB9vdU6vnvnUK9JOPAqgeHuxL9NVz_JkCfrifJoo4CiuLFD7-N8_E8IdPrDu8_w1pbCh09MNUY7RUmbh6u4Q3MzDlfT8flr4_gRPKr8rJH8TdsGqh9rmM5FmgiSSA6S-qjkp_W6zy7DDbW6VCcJFhsknx0LdCeva6jq2eQunH7zJ1s6KZZeaXYzXwtSY/s320/DSC00188.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Perhaps you could work in a shop, as I passed a second out of town retail park, and wondered if Stafford Council actually wanted its town centre to survive. There was a run of small hotels and B&Bs and then a convent nursing home. I'm not sure if this means it's a nursing home for elderly nuns, or if the nuns do the caring; I hope it's the former, because from what I know about nuns (i.e. I have seen <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SL7f2X3FYEk">The Blues Brothers</a></i>) they're not the most empathetic sorts. <div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz7XJ4ClCNzOkox-thIwfd49-fPbyDqo8uruaqKe2K9zgeanDjWMKAt5GnocxiZ_8xnbJxhxgy1AC2bhWjTsmOi5HoKr_QoEDMUWVNYFsC34lPanUDgAtylk1AzBteRHzKoopE0-LWKIX9gvl3vjgT6ztrNWCiL9GGkkrRjYyaY6Q-lGxyk43sT0pCP_nv/s4896/DSC00193.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz7XJ4ClCNzOkox-thIwfd49-fPbyDqo8uruaqKe2K9zgeanDjWMKAt5GnocxiZ_8xnbJxhxgy1AC2bhWjTsmOi5HoKr_QoEDMUWVNYFsC34lPanUDgAtylk1AzBteRHzKoopE0-LWKIX9gvl3vjgT6ztrNWCiL9GGkkrRjYyaY6Q-lGxyk43sT0pCP_nv/s320/DSC00193.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I crossed over a gyratory - sorry, <i>island</i> - and marvelled at the distinctive spire of the Stafford Baptist Church. Rather than being a simple tower, it was made of exposed beams, as though the tiles had been stripped away. It was very distinctive and modern, so I was surprised to learn that it's original to the building, and dates from 1896. The architect was from Birmingham, Ewan Harper, and I was impressed by his style.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisytIibu-jslFzo_Rn19HvHmbPLBn2pmTBSshiYAYDj9WXg6_xdom7NwvLlaohGYqTVforxcAIjsRdXOWzVMr10BiLNppT-GqbduVOynNk4IVe6QKEi08yySxUoB3G91WDF-9IShtN5TsLNTM1MDJ8rt2IZAO6hBtAjY9fWtZANXmlHzTgjWq7trMhAgtT/s4896/DSC00196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisytIibu-jslFzo_Rn19HvHmbPLBn2pmTBSshiYAYDj9WXg6_xdom7NwvLlaohGYqTVforxcAIjsRdXOWzVMr10BiLNppT-GqbduVOynNk4IVe6QKEi08yySxUoB3G91WDF-9IShtN5TsLNTM1MDJ8rt2IZAO6hBtAjY9fWtZANXmlHzTgjWq7trMhAgtT/s320/DSC00196.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I'd reached the town centre proper now. A 1930s cinema stood empty. The posters on the outside - <i>Jungle Cruise </i>and <i>Candyman</i> - showed it had been open relatively recently, but I guessed that Covid destroyed its business. I must admit, I've only seen three films at the cinema since lockdown: <i>Barbie </i>(once), <i>See How They Run</i> (once, because my mum wanted to see it) and <i>No Time To Die </i>(seven times). Admittedly this is partly because as I've got older I've developed an intense dislike for other human beings and being crammed in a room full of them as they laugh and talk and eat and breathe is intolerable to me now. I passed Stafford's Civic Centre - I love a Civic Centre - but I skirted the town proper.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRRc4maj6bV0jrIbqP_6Fx3iEgJ5avr71XV6xTYhmUxN7knyeaqGwaHumU0AoUwu62dgAltrz6v3BKacioqUXGyRJb9b504Ty9WF_R_mQRdxjMEAsb3rAqjkptxG4GxU5wWQ6FjaiFCN1qw7uJ5AaPlJgk2z-luAuSilTnnk0ESpK98NrGQ07c8D_ApKM/s4896/DSC00199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRRc4maj6bV0jrIbqP_6Fx3iEgJ5avr71XV6xTYhmUxN7knyeaqGwaHumU0AoUwu62dgAltrz6v3BKacioqUXGyRJb9b504Ty9WF_R_mQRdxjMEAsb3rAqjkptxG4GxU5wWQ6FjaiFCN1qw7uJ5AaPlJgk2z-luAuSilTnnk0ESpK98NrGQ07c8D_ApKM/s320/DSC00199.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I was in a bad mood. I was wet and miserable and I wanted to go home. I passed the town's old mill wheel and entered Victoria Park which was, I will admit, lovely. On a summer's day it must be absolutely wonderful, with its lawns falling down to the river, and its bowling greens, and even an aviary full of cockatoos and budgies. On that miserable day, however, the shelters were mainly occupied with students from the nearby college eating their lunch, and the paths were empty.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhra6Tgfc7rXhU3TP9oZMo9a5XnudaZDgXzbYdtGZTIwv9VfvXTeHkJ0guphp-HCZZ5VD7ZULJg1kTWfmmUmmEI7okURccdNYcIuaoVRRPssHwtVOQ-kPPwrq2m0CNL0RSQscWdOc6AU_ix3XPrMtkSnqwT2BaqI_gxAlwcIWI4yVqcC2ch0mo6Z8i87c7_/s4896/DSC00201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhra6Tgfc7rXhU3TP9oZMo9a5XnudaZDgXzbYdtGZTIwv9VfvXTeHkJ0guphp-HCZZ5VD7ZULJg1kTWfmmUmmEI7okURccdNYcIuaoVRRPssHwtVOQ-kPPwrq2m0CNL0RSQscWdOc6AU_ix3XPrMtkSnqwT2BaqI_gxAlwcIWI4yVqcC2ch0mo6Z8i87c7_/s320/DSC00201.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>The last time I was in Stafford, <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2012/02/testing-limits-of-friendship.html">with Ian and Robert a whole <i>eleven years ago</i></a>, I was extremely uncharitable about the station. In fact I called it a shithole. That was too harsh. Admittedly, it's no St Pancras - but what is? It has some nice lines and shapes. The porte-cochere has that pleasing upward curve - even if it's now inaccessible to vehicles, therefore losing its entire purpose - and who doesn't love a massive Double Arrow on a tower?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj40F9l38Cj9M2XkSvOrdi44SdOqF06BTPYpu-CDAMj35ZSkOtB6G5YhQGvoFY7Y4BoCLPomI9kLQkVvDhwZT1MbHnlLG22BFQoay_qFjU8U0pzAuEXhQrji15AZYa8SGYdNKJCHVzQRVxGnjLZ2xY_CUFn0LwokaT-rkMXrnBOBeRXO955r83ZQt0wUZIT/s4896/DSC00209.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj40F9l38Cj9M2XkSvOrdi44SdOqF06BTPYpu-CDAMj35ZSkOtB6G5YhQGvoFY7Y4BoCLPomI9kLQkVvDhwZT1MbHnlLG22BFQoay_qFjU8U0pzAuEXhQrji15AZYa8SGYdNKJCHVzQRVxGnjLZ2xY_CUFn0LwokaT-rkMXrnBOBeRXO955r83ZQt0wUZIT/s320/DSC00209.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It is, effectively, Coventry on a budget. The interior isn't great - it's been "modernised", so a Starbucks has been wedged in one side, and there are signs and screens cluttering up the space. On one side was a "customer information" desk - a small standee like they have in supermarkets to give out free samples, staffed by two women in uniform. The refurb was done when Virgin Trains ran the station so of course that means there's red and grey everywhere, completely inappropriately. Richard Branson should be punished for many reasons - he unleashed <i>Tubular Bells </i>on the world, let's not forget - but his insistence on splashing that brash red all over stations where it absolutely didn't work is pretty high up the list. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Ft-bv0rC-E2bjv1YOVBeOi1paWa5roIone6gcoBtMIUDQlnKZHlC-ebTkxjNZxb3rdkYkUegkYGKuviutS2z04MOeH4hPZ7M92un6a48j70WWFFflfnDcOZQ8ksPDwm5349fUczhBBPk2tBVmo-yGhbRY1eFuKsfA97pTu9TNalenusl9m74Y981H5EI/s4896/DSC00222.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Ft-bv0rC-E2bjv1YOVBeOi1paWa5roIone6gcoBtMIUDQlnKZHlC-ebTkxjNZxb3rdkYkUegkYGKuviutS2z04MOeH4hPZ7M92un6a48j70WWFFflfnDcOZQ8ksPDwm5349fUczhBBPk2tBVmo-yGhbRY1eFuKsfA97pTu9TNalenusl9m74Y981H5EI/s320/DSC00222.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It distracted from some of the parts of the station that were pleasing - the dark wood ceilings, the broad staircases with their concrete walls, the sheer efficiency of the place. You could easily get around from one spot to the next. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZRVrqPwIujENiiLuqq3_iLIxnCR-xn8hLcsJIxbG0E7o1AA7Kj7TMelp4G211y--3UNOLzE9h5fk0zvq2zfQTtC9hVFIkq6nHGHHfLXqSfbS3HVCwWnnO6-LSF3zNXMpe_hLGDDFZnapPt0CSAr3w5XEdCcM7LVkdGwQZaAXrravu_w_7RzTEOQ-oEC8/s4896/DSC00229.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZRVrqPwIujENiiLuqq3_iLIxnCR-xn8hLcsJIxbG0E7o1AA7Kj7TMelp4G211y--3UNOLzE9h5fk0zvq2zfQTtC9hVFIkq6nHGHHfLXqSfbS3HVCwWnnO6-LSF3zNXMpe_hLGDDFZnapPt0CSAr3w5XEdCcM7LVkdGwQZaAXrravu_w_7RzTEOQ-oEC8/s320/DSC00229.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I really, really hate children's artwork in public places. Save that shit for your mum's fridge. </div><div><br /></div><div>I paused in the toilets to swap my soaking wet shirt for a dry t-shirt I'd thought to pack. Instantly my mood lightened. Never underestimate the power of the weather to affect your mood. Well, the weather, and a generally gloomy disposition that doesn't need much provoking to go down a dark alley. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghILvCnfFJp4ZtLo4HKmGjXroxcKdJ6a7nT2o7KLLCF4KJtRLNxuO3L6-5ZJri0LRyWf_5GwsazlkDIchKWNzhBbQSmvXsK2Hf3qSU5GUsxAYQCUtb8hwdQ7Kx404DiF_tX3o_XhDob7ddSeam5BqW3fymP8bUbtecoQkf8Yx6oGb0hV3peZO0SHM7_yXn/s4896/DSC00213.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghILvCnfFJp4ZtLo4HKmGjXroxcKdJ6a7nT2o7KLLCF4KJtRLNxuO3L6-5ZJri0LRyWf_5GwsazlkDIchKWNzhBbQSmvXsK2Hf3qSU5GUsxAYQCUtb8hwdQ7Kx404DiF_tX3o_XhDob7ddSeam5BqW3fymP8bUbtecoQkf8Yx6oGb0hV3peZO0SHM7_yXn/s320/DSC00213.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I think my hair might actually look better there than it did in the first photo.</div></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-30030835048589370112023-09-07T14:07:00.001+01:002023-09-07T18:19:53.155+01:00DART to the Past<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4MqdPqmO7jZUotcZPTUHpkRjAR02aJUE_Kk1a_oZn2UfqJeEs0Mb1JJ9W3yKdmgRfz8j9HAIFvFqw8WhahMCeWRFT2Z0gfjn8Qzijs8gIDAlAsq-6dljQea2a3I_3AkS44Edgk1088Td6EieAZ0wwMoOf6YMKALwd3oQuUzkI_J09eOKsuE1otaYzXDW_/s4032/IMG_4157.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4MqdPqmO7jZUotcZPTUHpkRjAR02aJUE_Kk1a_oZn2UfqJeEs0Mb1JJ9W3yKdmgRfz8j9HAIFvFqw8WhahMCeWRFT2Z0gfjn8Qzijs8gIDAlAsq-6dljQea2a3I_3AkS44Edgk1088Td6EieAZ0wwMoOf6YMKALwd3oQuUzkI_J09eOKsuE1otaYzXDW_/s320/IMG_4157.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>When the Borough of Luton decided to build an airport in the 1930s, they had the perfect spot for it. To the south east of the town was a large, flat plateau, raised above the Lea valley, which would be ideal for a runway. They opened an airport there in 1938, and for seventy-odd years London Luton Airport has operated out of this spot.</p><p>The problem with this location is: it's a large flat plateau raised above the Lea valley. Road and railway engineers choose the path of least resistance when building transport links and so they'd sent their connections through the valley. It meant that even though a busy railway line with fast connections to the capital passed less than a kilometre from the terminal building, getting it onto the airport estate would've meant huge amounts of tunnelling and bridges to overcome that massive height difference.</p><p>A station was built in the 1990s, Luton Airport Parkway, but that was still a mile away from the airport proper, and so shuttle buses had to be laid on. Until, finally, they built a dedicated people mover: the Luton DART. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVpFLjW2LrRPbnqTmHXGlIXqqevTC9Ju0h8-xlxH2J9Wb3EoJWIFuGZpF27oWGOqvlsJRjAOHEczAuiSvVfh7KH-pihknOMY5iyYXaXxa6-KNmoMUz9VGFEJ7Xs1fZgp2KShfneSv1onotozTyrdohY6bRBdfA6o0RuQpTzH2i-ITrk3-bkxh6Mwecr4cM/s4032/IMG_4153.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVpFLjW2LrRPbnqTmHXGlIXqqevTC9Ju0h8-xlxH2J9Wb3EoJWIFuGZpF27oWGOqvlsJRjAOHEczAuiSvVfh7KH-pihknOMY5iyYXaXxa6-KNmoMUz9VGFEJ7Xs1fZgp2KShfneSv1onotozTyrdohY6bRBdfA6o0RuQpTzH2i-ITrk3-bkxh6Mwecr4cM/s320/IMG_4153.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The airport station is, weirdly, entirely separate from the terminal. I'd have thought the logical thing would be to integrate the two - have an exit directly into arrivals - but instead you leave the terminal building and walk through the outdoors to the station. It's not, technically, an underground station; although there is an overarching roof, it's open to the elements at the sides, meaning it looks more like a pavilion. <div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioet2Dp5Mv-e1wFt7Mj4ZBLehuC6idKEj6wwsuxxAGKGfTNK75haZYR_Ol-JM3ZAoPJBvn3r0y7bRHjPOuIN4Te3-3OogrwZV9lj5GLn5DJvEnAnnyibqAg8uStgcpXmvC-Ckm6xXlUv-bTiHne5Dl02i07UDBsWVv7fdzZX3xt5JKw1TiYwel9yQJrwom/s4032/IMG_4154.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioet2Dp5Mv-e1wFt7Mj4ZBLehuC6idKEj6wwsuxxAGKGfTNK75haZYR_Ol-JM3ZAoPJBvn3r0y7bRHjPOuIN4Te3-3OogrwZV9lj5GLn5DJvEnAnnyibqAg8uStgcpXmvC-Ckm6xXlUv-bTiHne5Dl02i07UDBsWVv7fdzZX3xt5JKw1TiYwel9yQJrwom/s320/IMG_4154.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I'd bought my ticket before I'd even arrived, using one of my many railway apps. This is where I need to inform you that a ticket from Luton Airport to Luton Airport Parkway station costs four pounds and ninety pence. This is on top of any railway ticket you'll buy to go onto another destination and is for a trip that will take less than four minutes. It is, of course, an outrage and a con. An all areas Day Saver on Merseyrail is £5.95 and lets you run amok across the whole network for a day. Also, the ticket gates absolutely refused to recognise the QR code on my e-ticket at either end of the trip, so it's not only expensive, it doesn't work properly.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiusv3K0CezeissYiX9D4OueakK8Ogx1nrP-yYPpe8jcZ47FafaUK-VtiyPcz8Ghc5XQ5IrGt-U0mvM1JfB7xS-UxUYy9uwwCJLhavWaNA38uJ3tQ98U7rMHo8J2se_nBLSBSj4ljZ5YeelBtUNdxDA2HaqQMf4UK9pWPMizE-OhwBY5V_q3DaR1jn2e9EX/s4032/IMG_4159.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiusv3K0CezeissYiX9D4OueakK8Ogx1nrP-yYPpe8jcZ47FafaUK-VtiyPcz8Ghc5XQ5IrGt-U0mvM1JfB7xS-UxUYy9uwwCJLhavWaNA38uJ3tQ98U7rMHo8J2se_nBLSBSj4ljZ5YeelBtUNdxDA2HaqQMf4UK9pWPMizE-OhwBY5V_q3DaR1jn2e9EX/s320/IMG_4159.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Still, you can't help feeling impressed as you descend into the station hall. A huge wide concourse, platform edge doors, rotating LED screens. It's what you'd want from an airport station - easy to use and efficient. The station only opened in March this year and it still had a glow of newness about it. Mind, this was in July, before it started getting a proper hammering over the summer holidays; it's probably a little worse for wear now. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8UTkaqE4rT1FcpRiPsc2pajfWcy7dxv9lQHFGULBLzxa0kYk3908OROaQPocAZScTMt_w9W4_4HVV5Ot1K8Wt9mdq1vDs98fYmA4-9c_JpZ41bL67H-ZJxrrnloI7GIdZcbUrIOxIN9y3O1sGsVHnjZlp3dJeBQCpkpRDm3c1IGy_dc4diuEHhDOpdUCr/s4032/IMG_4163.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8UTkaqE4rT1FcpRiPsc2pajfWcy7dxv9lQHFGULBLzxa0kYk3908OROaQPocAZScTMt_w9W4_4HVV5Ot1K8Wt9mdq1vDs98fYmA4-9c_JpZ41bL67H-ZJxrrnloI7GIdZcbUrIOxIN9y3O1sGsVHnjZlp3dJeBQCpkpRDm3c1IGy_dc4diuEHhDOpdUCr/s320/IMG_4163.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>These aren't trains, technically. The DART is a cable railway, with two separate cars and systems; there's no way to move one to the other side. Since all they're doing is going back and forth between two points this makes sense. (There is passive provision for an intermediate station, serving the car parks, plus the potential to extend to a future terminal two). <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzcUKWxQt2GXTaNiEkkSKOK0KxOIvy-I1nw3J2Rk-X96u-uIcAxylFIuQzh6e36VKf-GGBoot1kqaN_VBMC_iuXSbXTL6Gr2xjnCLOaienLLG_NWM1zC_4PSziwKDI2X7HBH8mY19zE9PhiA0LrEBEL19nRrlG523hqA2uLYPl333kqD76hJQP8p9Qw29/s4032/IMG_4161.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzcUKWxQt2GXTaNiEkkSKOK0KxOIvy-I1nw3J2Rk-X96u-uIcAxylFIuQzh6e36VKf-GGBoot1kqaN_VBMC_iuXSbXTL6Gr2xjnCLOaienLLG_NWM1zC_4PSziwKDI2X7HBH8mY19zE9PhiA0LrEBEL19nRrlG523hqA2uLYPl333kqD76hJQP8p9Qw29/s320/IMG_4161.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>As I waited for my train, two workers came out of a locked door and onto the platform. A small elderly lady pounced on them and asked in a heavily accented voice, "which side is the train to London?"<div><br /></div><div>The two men sighed. Clearly this wasn't the first time they'd been asked this. They explained this was the shuttle to the station, and that was where you'd get the train from.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHEenI8NI4t9_wU1YWNG0t1mAagyzorJ8QNH2A8d2t0zSZgCHITgqBoLyf4-1-GIFVAOs8Qs04qGqWSVF-GBVfogqbKSi978bx_75k4TZcnXEzdVmXH4upR8_r82vIj_DfFcVCIM1RK3p5XmB9ojMovAopYr1S4589o8_rQ-bA8T4WBM0obySb-rA4WRmC/s4032/IMG_4166.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHEenI8NI4t9_wU1YWNG0t1mAagyzorJ8QNH2A8d2t0zSZgCHITgqBoLyf4-1-GIFVAOs8Qs04qGqWSVF-GBVfogqbKSi978bx_75k4TZcnXEzdVmXH4upR8_r82vIj_DfFcVCIM1RK3p5XmB9ojMovAopYr1S4589o8_rQ-bA8T4WBM0obySb-rA4WRmC/s320/IMG_4166.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>On board they explained to her that this confusion happened all the time, and another man joined in with the discussion. The confusion comes from the information in the airport. According to one of the men, it tells you the times of trains to London, Bedford and so on, from Parkway station, and fails to mention the little shuttle you have to take to get there. "They need to sort it out!" he concluded, exasperated.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWcnEV1eJFUP6VZyFepDmS6axa8rdmwKM7fn-6lzzfHEkOZHK3Nkf8-Ijl7VQJomQbI1OfNOBxy1YmRcdZD-nZqlJT673-gcsTGokqR4KzzYtHvQvf84iUG07SRwZhXyqLBJUFEnOljbxzmrp9LOTzLiwVamQg1mdQx4LM1iL9z8ApKEok0egM_PsBb22t/s3088/IMG_4168.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWcnEV1eJFUP6VZyFepDmS6axa8rdmwKM7fn-6lzzfHEkOZHK3Nkf8-Ijl7VQJomQbI1OfNOBxy1YmRcdZD-nZqlJT673-gcsTGokqR4KzzYtHvQvf84iUG07SRwZhXyqLBJUFEnOljbxzmrp9LOTzLiwVamQg1mdQx4LM1iL9z8ApKEok0egM_PsBb22t/s320/IMG_4168.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>On board it's what you'd expect - longitudinal seating, grab rails, plenty of room for luggage. The doors closed and we slid out of the station, through tunnels at first, then crossing the Airport Way on one of those bridges that I 100% guarantee you was referred to as both "iconic" and a "gateway" in the PR blurb. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDoJMHeDbOmPzpOo0QoYQsCPkgfQMZqQZ0ZLJfgX84kKgeIt6EAX3EJKg-0UtmDOOP4qyE41BTa9FGPuSzchZoAFXznULFkYHyza1-gyajX60nVGhzKkKUt2DOE1HyK2opGj_VXsBURrhCqtIpDBxMxX9zrAe-Vimz1IbyXxwlTZt2VrFtvQK7ySD24Zo/s4032/IMG_4169.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDoJMHeDbOmPzpOo0QoYQsCPkgfQMZqQZ0ZLJfgX84kKgeIt6EAX3EJKg-0UtmDOOP4qyE41BTa9FGPuSzchZoAFXznULFkYHyza1-gyajX60nVGhzKkKUt2DOE1HyK2opGj_VXsBURrhCqtIpDBxMxX9zrAe-Vimz1IbyXxwlTZt2VrFtvQK7ySD24Zo/s320/IMG_4169.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The DART station at the far end is an extension to the existing station and on something called "Bartlett Square". This is where I was firmly reminded that it's been a long time since I came back to Luton. That side of the station had once been Vauxhall Motors. Now it was "Napier Park", an entirely new district of apartment blocks built for people who were priced out of the capital. Although a two bedroom flat in <a href="https://strawberrystar.co.uk/property/chevette-court-kimpton-road-29/">"Chevette Court" is £333,000</a>, so you still need a fair amount of cash for it.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6VzBDSmH0LeoTmVG-3s3Bw3nQfOwMYV-7rDlYPQBst4o8ue5WOdOcmsIEF3yuM6pSKxRbcdx_20SI-936J2BUi-ButxgD8rN1-0TE-5COBk6DRvxmzZGo6y3wZzmATreLkm_91yQGgn9tV7gzZSxFAb2yd8-ZCZr5df6HxwAgCPCBrtqHeeklTFg1SGG7/s3088/IMG_4170.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6VzBDSmH0LeoTmVG-3s3Bw3nQfOwMYV-7rDlYPQBst4o8ue5WOdOcmsIEF3yuM6pSKxRbcdx_20SI-936J2BUi-ButxgD8rN1-0TE-5COBk6DRvxmzZGo6y3wZzmATreLkm_91yQGgn9tV7gzZSxFAb2yd8-ZCZr5df6HxwAgCPCBrtqHeeklTFg1SGG7/s320/IMG_4170.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Through the ticket gates is a large concourse and a new footbridge down to the railway. It's all efficient and gleaming and works brilliantly, but still: <i>four pound ninety.</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdKSIuVXZkPqU0yDmEVjPGjG42pWK5fuySDHtCKqjs3SJqqtzu43F7WmeiuqXBiUCiUh93b6rrNaNRzP5sYLm8ETWb9dXyu69IdCJxbFj-9bBEkT5ZzQum03KF_b2XHbGWEhFzgseHD1CDqsccLDZUoMhzqAErKsdYZeqbIPUOmnAIm_ojS0E-2P66tonU/s4032/IMG_4012.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdKSIuVXZkPqU0yDmEVjPGjG42pWK5fuySDHtCKqjs3SJqqtzu43F7WmeiuqXBiUCiUh93b6rrNaNRzP5sYLm8ETWb9dXyu69IdCJxbFj-9bBEkT5ZzQum03KF_b2XHbGWEhFzgseHD1CDqsccLDZUoMhzqAErKsdYZeqbIPUOmnAIm_ojS0E-2P66tonU/s320/IMG_4012.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I was heading north, into Luton, for a small nostalgia trip. The BF's plane from Berlin wasn't due for another couple of hours, so I thought I'd take the opportunity to wallow in my past. I no longer have any close family in the town, so I've no reason to go back any more, and even when I did visit I rarely ventured into the centre. It was an opportunity to see what had changed.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDeg3C2vzVoRMHHwSSbIf8RW8Uz53sSL3rTd9421eLZUjDDBLFRfXFFNkAoVKrGyfGFXZaXACj7jmKdN1xBTt1Ktr4NEL4YArWrhjODMaMn6gBJGbONx7ZGkjA_bA8ur9qo9ptKoxd0aZDZvm89tYNEXj6slkyfj80QArzG0Z3zgr1aF9v0l4yTLqeHWwB/s4032/IMG_4179.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDeg3C2vzVoRMHHwSSbIf8RW8Uz53sSL3rTd9421eLZUjDDBLFRfXFFNkAoVKrGyfGFXZaXACj7jmKdN1xBTt1Ktr4NEL4YArWrhjODMaMn6gBJGbONx7ZGkjA_bA8ur9qo9ptKoxd0aZDZvm89tYNEXj6slkyfj80QArzG0Z3zgr1aF9v0l4yTLqeHWwB/s320/IMG_4179.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>One thing that hadn't changed was the overwhelming crappiness of Luton station. They seemed to have fixed the roof that was leaking last time I visited, <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2011/01/you-can-go-home-again.html">in 2011</a>, but the travel centre had vanished, and it was still dark and miserable and badly laid out. They had at least removed the piss-scented footbridge that carried you into the town centre, though the reason they'd managed this was they'd torn up a working railway line. There used to be a freight route between Luton and Dunstable that stopped having trains on it, but was still in perfect working order; the local transport geniuses tore this up and replaced it with a guided busway between the two towns, meaning the exterior of the station is now a bus exchange. It's not great.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipv1tj3TD6YeC4PfBWmfLSOkwhFVpUN69l8Ovw27Y5fMU7b6JzWReIVWqN-KXLMiQw7GeKSK88Zd9D9ZThddfkOTEQPvsnfF4AtALjj95LBNfd6-L5LqzyesSDTYPb68vNMZfIHyKHFVo1TFU4sLY7Wnckd1vQwJ6cvr5oLuBfudG1UBlPIifYvbKjQ1XD/s4032/IMG_4182.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipv1tj3TD6YeC4PfBWmfLSOkwhFVpUN69l8Ovw27Y5fMU7b6JzWReIVWqN-KXLMiQw7GeKSK88Zd9D9ZThddfkOTEQPvsnfF4AtALjj95LBNfd6-L5LqzyesSDTYPb68vNMZfIHyKHFVo1TFU4sLY7Wnckd1vQwJ6cvr5oLuBfudG1UBlPIifYvbKjQ1XD/s320/IMG_4182.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I had a dream involving me and Russell Tovey and Paul Rudd last night, Inspirational Wall, but I think if I tried to make it happen I'd probably get arrested.<br /><i><br /></i><div>Luton has pedestrianised the roads between the station and the shopping centre too, to try and make it more of a destination and welcoming environment. It certainly made me smile, though perhaps not for the same reason as people who didn't grow up in the town.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTT1Pz8hEDXVfoKxOxDZzmKik5WTCiMkzreBOBL69ao7ppfWwm8hhmFbml3xwtynwO-QuXlQJGKdLeXdTbjY6shV4h7j0FWkSiOx54XqeLjZbTPk3XPtDIGltOy58cAbUjjNLZNvDpiF7-7mvo_hLO17X9MK8K7sp7ZHNQKSv6hkhGJb-gYVrSUzgMUAeN/s4032/IMG_4187.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTT1Pz8hEDXVfoKxOxDZzmKik5WTCiMkzreBOBL69ao7ppfWwm8hhmFbml3xwtynwO-QuXlQJGKdLeXdTbjY6shV4h7j0FWkSiOx54XqeLjZbTPk3XPtDIGltOy58cAbUjjNLZNvDpiF7-7mvo_hLO17X9MK8K7sp7ZHNQKSv6hkhGJb-gYVrSUzgMUAeN/s320/IMG_4187.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Some old buildings have been demolished to create an open space leading down to the River Lea. Even though it rises in the town, the Lea has always been hidden away in culverts and under buildings. They're clearly trying to make a feature of it now with this amphitheatre and then, floating above it on sticks, pink, fibreglass flamingos. <br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrCR2P8mbe99MdNQ5x_qqcgwqhBGwGauP_Z6vFkJh7rCIq5nMN2DnkKGiurcZh-t2c5-fUZoTEJPRyzTALo_k7HJ7AUkAxOq3skDP-LYpeBpy658cQDQGZgZWLFFiWmYACc-IycEyBjq-nwms-TIey1DfvobMYgetRpzHV0fRu3Z6GgYnHzT7SeCJcQfhB/s4032/IMG_4185.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrCR2P8mbe99MdNQ5x_qqcgwqhBGwGauP_Z6vFkJh7rCIq5nMN2DnkKGiurcZh-t2c5-fUZoTEJPRyzTALo_k7HJ7AUkAxOq3skDP-LYpeBpy658cQDQGZgZWLFFiWmYACc-IycEyBjq-nwms-TIey1DfvobMYgetRpzHV0fRu3Z6GgYnHzT7SeCJcQfhB/s320/IMG_4185.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I actually laughed out loud, utterly delighted. When the Luton Arndale Centre was first built in the 1970s, its centrepiece was an indoor fountain. Not just any fountain: a fountain filled with giant, oversized, <i>pink</i>, fibreglass flamingos. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh91yNTv6SIu8V1EL6ZoOcdVTW0NspzcqiALY3ITzCmZkXF_lvGBYss9iC3BC5FXDkR2G08tELuJjOnBmN_Ynvg8PN50qOE8CJGzvAfFRCAq6xXNyT_jkaKKYAU9uicZ2iBJSBpDWwH5rpqIy7aJCR3lbMz25ubAmq1kkmbew4CP6w3hZIx2RH95Mhg4wlC/s958/Screenshot%202023-09-07%20115733.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="958" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh91yNTv6SIu8V1EL6ZoOcdVTW0NspzcqiALY3ITzCmZkXF_lvGBYss9iC3BC5FXDkR2G08tELuJjOnBmN_Ynvg8PN50qOE8CJGzvAfFRCAq6xXNyT_jkaKKYAU9uicZ2iBJSBpDWwH5rpqIy7aJCR3lbMz25ubAmq1kkmbew4CP6w3hZIx2RH95Mhg4wlC/s320/Screenshot%202023-09-07%20115733.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>They were kitsch, they were tacky, they were vulgar. They were also, it has to be said, <i>home</i>. The flamingos were there for twenty years until a 90s refurb of the Arndale saw them rudely evicted. At the time, everyone was glad to see the back of them, but over the years, nostalgia has taken over. <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-beds-bucks-herts-62997802">The council even launched a hunt for the statue last year.</a> Seeing those new flamingos, flying over the river, seemed like the town embracing its identity at last. Yes, Luton's a bit terrible. But let's be proud of it!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyq-SGCiFauOjcXdP36ExBkWID0zqqJOYZwBcDJjkZM05cm0FvaActKjY4965ksWMzRHbUo5fd0mlrW13rrXpFIyu--_LJ2_rn51ak5jP_F79ke_82YmWEMaurfedA0h6SawJOkEeyQ7HVNXC0lJ0uMiwarulDaUolkb3W-uhGtn9d60Grg6ukO_cSOZHT/s4032/IMG_4191.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyq-SGCiFauOjcXdP36ExBkWID0zqqJOYZwBcDJjkZM05cm0FvaActKjY4965ksWMzRHbUo5fd0mlrW13rrXpFIyu--_LJ2_rn51ak5jP_F79ke_82YmWEMaurfedA0h6SawJOkEeyQ7HVNXC0lJ0uMiwarulDaUolkb3W-uhGtn9d60Grg6ukO_cSOZHT/s320/IMG_4191.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The Arndale is now technically "The Mall Luton", but I refuse to call it that, and so does any right minded person. It's been radically rebuilt since I was growing up. The big brown plastic seating has gone; there are glass panels in the ceiling to let in natural light; the mix of shops is radically different. Like most town centres Luton has suffered over the last decade but it felt particularly pointed when I was operating with a 1980s filter overlaid over everything. Debenhams (famously firebombed by animal rights activists) was closed and shuttered; Woolworth's was now a Lidl; there was no Marks and Spencer at all. There had been two separate HMVs, and now there was none, while other stores had downgraded in size. Tesco's upstairs, where I used to buy my Lego, was now a Sports Direct. And WH Smith, my beloved WH Smith, a place where I spent literally hours as a child, was like all their stores these days - thoroughly disappointing, little more than a newsagent with a post office wedged in the back. .</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKsLfRAoX9iSovrlXzEMZUSoNgpaaqbOxINZyX4yA5S68YvQhGWyssC6zg1T6lZA5LBDKYsYEEPSYQ2-rw9jjTB3jWF7w89mArcM13TTx7utZ83XtNC02yzlOUbNOBp2YfpLiWRwCIJ9Q60ffBx10qGljSVEDCAXR_f-BEREeL61qaoxD0002_O_Xn7auG/s4032/IMG_4192.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKsLfRAoX9iSovrlXzEMZUSoNgpaaqbOxINZyX4yA5S68YvQhGWyssC6zg1T6lZA5LBDKYsYEEPSYQ2-rw9jjTB3jWF7w89mArcM13TTx7utZ83XtNC02yzlOUbNOBp2YfpLiWRwCIJ9Q60ffBx10qGljSVEDCAXR_f-BEREeL61qaoxD0002_O_Xn7auG/s320/IMG_4192.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I had decided I was going to treat myself to an experience long denied to me. Smith Square has an upper gallery round it, which in my day was how you got to the top floors of Debenhams and Woolworths. Also on that top floor was a restaurant called <i>Greenfields</i>. This was, to my mind, quite clearly the most glamorous place one could eat in the Western Hemisphere. Just the fact that it was <i>upstairs in the Arndale</i> was giddying. It had stained glass, and cascading ivy, and it seemed to glow on that balcony, calling to me. And now, finally, I could go.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2CoMUM9d86nBcPJz0BqOXfSmfybQHEZ2GiZIxS4XxAOWkHjv251wXOKKdsPVJuH1mq11fVF7GxohA6_sHnORATLIENtmkiK8MrYj5rE8lZsA1N_C-190-OlU9wzgW28J9nPzX9O3Zfj-o6Mj5JP0nff5Fd6VF0yutP4FkS-TKH2nYtUtYBPc0SbwR2GOH/s4032/IMG_4194.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2CoMUM9d86nBcPJz0BqOXfSmfybQHEZ2GiZIxS4XxAOWkHjv251wXOKKdsPVJuH1mq11fVF7GxohA6_sHnORATLIENtmkiK8MrYj5rE8lZsA1N_C-190-OlU9wzgW28J9nPzX9O3Zfj-o6Mj5JP0nff5Fd6VF0yutP4FkS-TKH2nYtUtYBPc0SbwR2GOH/s320/IMG_4194.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>For the benefit of younger readers, I should explain. In the old days - and by old, I mean the seventies and eighties - working class people didn't eat out. We just didn't. Why would we go to a coffee shop when there was coffee at home? Why would we spend our own money on food and drink that was more expensive? Why would we <i>pay</i> to have a sit down? Around my teens, we started going to a Beefeater on our birthdays (<a href="https://www.beefeater.co.uk/en-gb/locations/bedfordshire/the-warden">the Warden Tavern</a>, still there folks) but this was very much a special occasion. There was absolutely no way on earth my mum and dad would spontaneously drop into a restaurant for a meal. We'd have to dress up a bit.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjICxFmg6g2WBbd5-tizjDJPj1ivmW1TaZ0EuJU780E2tU2sABX78HQ0aIMy1g_A5VXWIb9Ex9-qh3phLYEuORuTdvgmIAX19CecBzer4lYe702_WjsMCL0b11TY50LydrivNHc4PbH-EOn_GatTOpZBPPtjhabmCunW8uExi16e2BhmeeUorkMCWPlc5L3/s4032/IMG_4196.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjICxFmg6g2WBbd5-tizjDJPj1ivmW1TaZ0EuJU780E2tU2sABX78HQ0aIMy1g_A5VXWIb9Ex9-qh3phLYEuORuTdvgmIAX19CecBzer4lYe702_WjsMCL0b11TY50LydrivNHc4PbH-EOn_GatTOpZBPPtjhabmCunW8uExi16e2BhmeeUorkMCWPlc5L3/s320/IMG_4196.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>What was especially delightful about eating in Greenfields in 2023 was it was almost exactly what it must have been like eating in Greenfields in 1983. I don't think anything had changed in that time. Perhaps the chairs and tables were a bit more contemporary, but there was still the faux-Tiffany stained glass, the trailing ivy (which turned out to be plastic), the lino. The manageress who showed me to my table was a fearsome woman who smiled cheerily at me and the other customers then unleashed hell on her tiny teenage waiting staff. I expect she started out as a tiny teenage waitress herself and was regurgitating her traumas on a new generation.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigPYbiGodzYguFRN7kv9Zbie_KE7FMpksrahbCMoXgvNQkPq3jBJqDj1_YMLuQg3tu2KENNcfxHlFVMzPB3_nFww6DsxqzgbRKLSNW9JjKTUnFiNfie3-92GJVLvmp5wziKRm_I-hRH6EUz4TxqxGa-tnx3UuA7G4GdWZTAxvzQN5d29zaiqg61gi-KDfy/s4032/IMG_4197.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigPYbiGodzYguFRN7kv9Zbie_KE7FMpksrahbCMoXgvNQkPq3jBJqDj1_YMLuQg3tu2KENNcfxHlFVMzPB3_nFww6DsxqzgbRKLSNW9JjKTUnFiNfie3-92GJVLvmp5wziKRm_I-hRH6EUz4TxqxGa-tnx3UuA7G4GdWZTAxvzQN5d29zaiqg61gi-KDfy/s320/IMG_4197.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>My full English probably hadn't changed for forty years either. There were no artisan sausages or hand reared eggs - everything was extremely processed. It was overdone and a little gristly. I forgave everything, however, because (a) this was <i>Greenfields</i> and (b) they served it with fried bread, and nobody gives you fried bread any more. I guzzled it all, trying not to think about my blood pressure, and wondered how much longer it would be here for. The clientele were all pensioners, and the scary lady boss knew them by name; apart from the waiters, I was the youngest one there. When they die I expect Greenfields will die too.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJuEeZHE1Crm9IzM2332x0yHYeXiIyZ6Npk91-8RKQlha-FUJMwxiDgX3R557KzJMcKZGiSltVy9TvWSPP7mEfqYAimEc34WlhzR_yjCQe077CWgeDNVfm5WVcKvMbORsHlzNigzU91gaAE7O3IwDL1GLqXD0ZkpqELY9SYn7uacHohxkRWM_FXFspp4U5/s4032/IMG_4204.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJuEeZHE1Crm9IzM2332x0yHYeXiIyZ6Npk91-8RKQlha-FUJMwxiDgX3R557KzJMcKZGiSltVy9TvWSPP7mEfqYAimEc34WlhzR_yjCQe077CWgeDNVfm5WVcKvMbORsHlzNigzU91gaAE7O3IwDL1GLqXD0ZkpqELY9SYn7uacHohxkRWM_FXFspp4U5/s320/IMG_4204.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I paid up (£9.45; the prices have definitely not remained in the Thatcher years) and went out onto George Street, Luton's main thoroughfare. This was always a little sadder than the Arndale, a bit more down at heel. The Arndale demolished half a dozen streets when it was built and now blocks off the entire town. It also created a situation where if you weren't in the Arndale, you may as well not exist. The only big shop outside of it was the British Home Stores and, well, we all know how that turned out. The Cannon cinema where I saw many a film growing up - reeling, horrified, out of <i>Superman IV; </i>queuing up George Street West for <i>Batman</i>; going to see <i>Problem Child</i> with a gang for my mate Sanjay's 14th birthday and feeling incredibly mature eating in Pizza Hut afterwards without a single adult chaperone - was still empty, a beautiful listed building rendered obsolete by a multiplex down the road, searching for a purpose in the 21st century.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOID7cJoB4f1YGyxHDFjFvJLz5ozdys0OsVm1oW2n9xabKgCLn2V-AzTND3qNOw-OIJaRCw6B-OIuwamfEO_1Kt8dEQ1yWe-s4HbJZ58hM1q9O0QqJZINWyNvc6Iu-hAlqlOkiIyh_iAeVQ0Mn1to9FJ7jtMKT_tyHiic8YsvUb-AK02r046oF03DYbdQe/s4032/IMG_4207.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOID7cJoB4f1YGyxHDFjFvJLz5ozdys0OsVm1oW2n9xabKgCLn2V-AzTND3qNOw-OIJaRCw6B-OIuwamfEO_1Kt8dEQ1yWe-s4HbJZ58hM1q9O0QqJZINWyNvc6Iu-hAlqlOkiIyh_iAeVQ0Mn1to9FJ7jtMKT_tyHiic8YsvUb-AK02r046oF03DYbdQe/s320/IMG_4207.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>At the end of the street is Luton's Town Hall, which is actually the second on the site. The first town hall was burnt down by an angry mob of unemployed ex-soldiers on, and this is not a joke, Peace Day 1919. I'm perversely proud of the fact that Luton managed to turn a commemoration of peace into a riot. Yup, those are my people: trash.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0PBWxRJWS7lZfZIzeJw10R-lCnI9rw1ZcOy1rN4-858j6JXjkfYDoTwsjae35WXgPGdDCsL1Jn71FRuaOvVF6hefViyulH4HsdKXOTHBCh2OwSlC9EOWQ3pGx46QIbdDPvBGbDHEVMXOro6p8NqrTuNru8tsDwK_B7CtdXIVoaFxn-0IixuWVkIbHsPj7/s4032/IMG_4212.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0PBWxRJWS7lZfZIzeJw10R-lCnI9rw1ZcOy1rN4-858j6JXjkfYDoTwsjae35WXgPGdDCsL1Jn71FRuaOvVF6hefViyulH4HsdKXOTHBCh2OwSlC9EOWQ3pGx46QIbdDPvBGbDHEVMXOro6p8NqrTuNru8tsDwK_B7CtdXIVoaFxn-0IixuWVkIbHsPj7/s320/IMG_4212.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>St George's Square has also had a makeover; they've made it more of an open gathering space, removing the low bedding, putting in new lights. They've also got rid of the staircase up to the Arndale where the druggies used to hang out, the staircase that had <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Carlisle_(British_politician)">John Carlisle Is A Cunt</a> </i>graffitied on it, one of those political protest messages that for some reason the council workers never felt the need to scrub off. (Going to John Carlisle's Wikipedia page for that link informed me that the rampant homophobe, supporter of apartheid, and and advocate for both the gun and tobacco lobbies, has been dead for four years, and I must say by way of tribute: good). <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDy7c-rIE7DS-5jPTJLJv04XN4ovnaPJUYI8l_OHnRr0GmZrsFyfoO5Ef7FORJNL11nHzrIDy3RbHBfvLzd3_KSUFWZ8ln5fg_bW0Q24nHOq9MKSc5xQxd0Wbj-BAMmqUBNKVFOR13RAtpDBNgjlcArI8WuOCNeuqzL0Dh_rgLZx13EiQa_jA0VvHxS1z/s4032/IMG_4217.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDy7c-rIE7DS-5jPTJLJv04XN4ovnaPJUYI8l_OHnRr0GmZrsFyfoO5Ef7FORJNL11nHzrIDy3RbHBfvLzd3_KSUFWZ8ln5fg_bW0Q24nHOq9MKSc5xQxd0Wbj-BAMmqUBNKVFOR13RAtpDBNgjlcArI8WuOCNeuqzL0Dh_rgLZx13EiQa_jA0VvHxS1z/s320/IMG_4217.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I was headed for the library. Most people, on returning to their home town, will look up old pubs and nightspots; I headed for the place where I spent most of my youth. I would spend hours in Luton Central Library, reading entire books while sat there. My mum would take me into town and leave me in there while she shopped, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn't cause any mischief and would still be there when she got back. <br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRp_r3wNmNkuW8Jsynjaq-THdQnquPEGUAhAJEcE822csRAbmhWZHYdLuJz9R6UOB345S0SV0hOQtUsB7w9VdmALgjB-GrruV4CehcTebh9fe5GFpcB21fzUTg9dJytWEXPOAWD2Uctijs0aOEjB6GiEmBQGHAtJ-ew1ccCYO3rvK3egl8Zibaa-VBFNvQ/s3808/IMG_4222.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3808" data-original-width="2673" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRp_r3wNmNkuW8Jsynjaq-THdQnquPEGUAhAJEcE822csRAbmhWZHYdLuJz9R6UOB345S0SV0hOQtUsB7w9VdmALgjB-GrruV4CehcTebh9fe5GFpcB21fzUTg9dJytWEXPOAWD2Uctijs0aOEjB6GiEmBQGHAtJ-ew1ccCYO3rvK3egl8Zibaa-VBFNvQ/s320/IMG_4222.JPG" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Luton Central Library was a gleaming piece of modernism, opened in 1962, and when I was visiting as a boy it still had a distinctive Festival of Britain afterglow. Its entrance hall was cool marble, and dark floors, with a small waterfall in the corner by the stairs. The main library hall - just past the record library - was gleaming glass and polished tiles, with heavy wooden desks arranged around a balcony. Above that was the reference section, separated from the rest of the room by a glass wall, its microfiche machines humming and its card catalogues begging to be fingered. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8GiDOMKlJi77sId0LjFT8Jpvhm5jWwXRGZmF1CDR5YZH8kGz_ohaWXgKH-L5vJ_itr86RCvEK0gkth5Viy89nzDGWUqdEv0ACyCj_u1I5cv6ZlhFy_HC4yizes_6UApb1x6LQoBa6Cu-8W2uOVRLLhtiYelaQ96CyMkL8GsWbR23joH89IuWeVA0RgR48/s4032/IMG_4228.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8GiDOMKlJi77sId0LjFT8Jpvhm5jWwXRGZmF1CDR5YZH8kGz_ohaWXgKH-L5vJ_itr86RCvEK0gkth5Viy89nzDGWUqdEv0ACyCj_u1I5cv6ZlhFy_HC4yizes_6UApb1x6LQoBa6Cu-8W2uOVRLLhtiYelaQ96CyMkL8GsWbR23joH89IuWeVA0RgR48/s320/IMG_4228.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>The library has, I'm afraid to say, been modernised. Carpet covers that slippy marble floor. The furniture is simpler and off the peg. The waterfall has gone. It's also lost an awful lot of its books. Where there used to be walls of them, bay after bay - I could still remember what section was where: film and television <i>there</i>, foreign language <i>there</i> - now there was at most half the volume, with desks and computers everywhere else. The reference section was mainly computers now. The microfiches were probably in a skip.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxpCpgr4-59_puE5nj-TVL8n0o1orspD0FEk0ew_RIdlYVOqlaZ4PQvqEBlBfrWd2Xhs5PdBxEPhhtt_m_4KFXNhcd_MKrdTTOwWilmChmXuDms4R65wQh68xOBSic61avD-zwMsQVZhBwIbL9RSx33tvOreW81w-iLfksPqpy3QE1Um8qVWsaxTGmpe2K/s4032/IMG_4238.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxpCpgr4-59_puE5nj-TVL8n0o1orspD0FEk0ew_RIdlYVOqlaZ4PQvqEBlBfrWd2Xhs5PdBxEPhhtt_m_4KFXNhcd_MKrdTTOwWilmChmXuDms4R65wQh68xOBSic61avD-zwMsQVZhBwIbL9RSx33tvOreW81w-iLfksPqpy3QE1Um8qVWsaxTGmpe2K/s320/IMG_4238.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I found the local history section and thumbed a few choice books. A history of Luton's pubs had a few I'd visited; the book dated from the early 90s, and noted that a Yates' Wine House was a recent stylish addition to the town. (When I moved to the north I discovered that only in Luton was Yatesies anything approaching "stylish"). I found a copy of <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Story-Luton-James-Dyer/dp/0900804114">The Story of Luton</a></i>, written by my dad's old history teacher, and which I would read every few months. (I should really get round to buying my own copy some day). I also found a reminder that Luton's more recent history is a lot less pleasant.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9qOnhmY30WOM6sI5ff9r5ohXzndFw-GhCUr5y1d6jR2re8Xeq5TnEX7yRX57O1m0wnRB0wyQzAizaHSD3ZYvYJAjWy4HVucqq7WeAy5Oo4o9V4iH3YoslYvwoWFq8PK5cwsJAkMERKG6WVfms2pq0xHHSD_tu6GNsrikHSYkZYWwBZGX6RYh_VRH4u9O0/s4032/IMG_4230.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9qOnhmY30WOM6sI5ff9r5ohXzndFw-GhCUr5y1d6jR2re8Xeq5TnEX7yRX57O1m0wnRB0wyQzAizaHSD3ZYvYJAjWy4HVucqq7WeAy5Oo4o9V4iH3YoslYvwoWFq8PK5cwsJAkMERKG6WVfms2pq0xHHSD_tu6GNsrikHSYkZYWwBZGX6RYh_VRH4u9O0/s320/IMG_4230.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Tommy Robinson, head of the English Defence League and massive, massive arsehole, is from Luton - in fact, he grew up in Farley Hill, like my dad's side of the family. Other Lutonians include sex trafficker Andrew Tate, hideous transphobe and homosexual embarrassment Dennis Noel Kavanagh, and "Britain's most notorious prisoner" Charles Bronson; on the plus side, there's national treasure Nadiya Hussein, <i>Strictly</i> winner Stacey Dooley and me, so we're not all bad. It is a little bit embarrassing that the town only ever seems to turn up on the news when another extremist or racist claims it as their home. Mind you, I haven't lived there full-time since 1995 so I'm fast approaching calling myself an Honorary (Plastic) Scouser.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW0j065kXlropmEM7unYKNFgLUXRoLDBb7cj0_94lQ6Guu8gwpWBiyaqEGcFN0iq3K0Rh9lOoq0zXNK1fS3qzXdMc-uuMQiY3La14_8uiI4mSbqq5HvdQwtOpSNv4XIya0Vk-lIU-_2tGxV1gOdDi-pUuXBap45rr83yrySY05TYp5NBaOuxVrMwtls9xe/s4032/IMG_4240.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW0j065kXlropmEM7unYKNFgLUXRoLDBb7cj0_94lQ6Guu8gwpWBiyaqEGcFN0iq3K0Rh9lOoq0zXNK1fS3qzXdMc-uuMQiY3La14_8uiI4mSbqq5HvdQwtOpSNv4XIya0Vk-lIU-_2tGxV1gOdDi-pUuXBap45rr83yrySY05TYp5NBaOuxVrMwtls9xe/s320/IMG_4240.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>After a while I needed a drink and a wee so I crossed Bridge Street to the Galaxy Centre. When I was very young, this was the Co-op Department Store; my nana worked there, and we'd go to the grotto at Christmas. It was knocked down in the 1980s and then the site sat vacant for twenty years while everyone tried to work out what to do with it. After a while, they got desperate for someone, <i>anyone</i> to build on it, which is presumably the only reason they gave permission for the Galaxy Centre.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaPwsnnbUg4kdx1aawTzf1NXjxYuYSPtW1NQ45sG0yrrUefH36TGOIxItnBlEyc81kqDGuVAFWt7UD4HDbi9vJtS198P3rwrtecKctmpjdG70VejNkTFWr2p5mSxn2nj9ox5tI1ZNhIrOJ78mV9kARfpKSaFZkbPcdrNckGBxsLG7_2mHS2GKfaw9GhdqZ/s4032/IMG_4247.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaPwsnnbUg4kdx1aawTzf1NXjxYuYSPtW1NQ45sG0yrrUefH36TGOIxItnBlEyc81kqDGuVAFWt7UD4HDbi9vJtS198P3rwrtecKctmpjdG70VejNkTFWr2p5mSxn2nj9ox5tI1ZNhIrOJ78mV9kARfpKSaFZkbPcdrNckGBxsLG7_2mHS2GKfaw9GhdqZ/s320/IMG_4247.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Incorporating a cinema, bowling alley, gym and various chain restaurants, the Galaxy is utterly without merit, the architectural equivalent of a Tesco carrier bag, bland and covered in ads and somehow worse than a big patch of empty ground. It is astonishingly hideous and badly designed - its main entrance faces <i>away</i> from the town, towards the back of a car park that has since been demolished. It somehow makes the Arndale look subtle and characterful.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioAx0cqUjbydu8kX25chTdMb_vitSyQgsPG-EHmXIuJRZf0s_lZTeQmM73B3gQ6QQTQmLbQqsVv7ifka1VSyPN0nCT54HQ9qBDPsWihee9gJGgG7vuRHfJU8k5_ftPbT1_73yT1kSWShPaBdJItu3BIm-_NwQdeLx68fUMTWRi468_3OF6D77y3cO3XBmM/s4032/IMG_4249.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioAx0cqUjbydu8kX25chTdMb_vitSyQgsPG-EHmXIuJRZf0s_lZTeQmM73B3gQ6QQTQmLbQqsVv7ifka1VSyPN0nCT54HQ9qBDPsWihee9gJGgG7vuRHfJU8k5_ftPbT1_73yT1kSWShPaBdJItu3BIm-_NwQdeLx68fUMTWRi468_3OF6D77y3cO3XBmM/s320/IMG_4249.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I had a Pepsi Max in the (huge, ugly) Wetherspoons, used their toilet, then exited onto Manchester Street. I had one last nostalgia trip to make, what we'll call the Rainbow Tour of Luton. The realisation that I was gay was a slow, drawn out process, marked by denial, then assuming it was a phase, then waiting for the phase to end, then realising <i>oh shit I'm stuck with this</i>. In my late teens, there were some small, incremental spots in the town that will always be markers on my route to fabulousness.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsgsihEhpZE1ATzPy69jzSaUTZP-qnKgOe_EwqYSbdyM8PyeD3YqldpDG8KomqLBzwJHAC5IV-wktdLIgpdS7O3q_rpzbM1sGFVdw7o8qi9nMglFozuPZDHQxyyK4bsSbPd6td4768T7mQ9Tsj6YGF9WFFZe0fslK-7VSuz0WxvsNEsFBE6LMt5MatbagC/s4032/IMG_4251.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsgsihEhpZE1ATzPy69jzSaUTZP-qnKgOe_EwqYSbdyM8PyeD3YqldpDG8KomqLBzwJHAC5IV-wktdLIgpdS7O3q_rpzbM1sGFVdw7o8qi9nMglFozuPZDHQxyyK4bsSbPd6td4768T7mQ9Tsj6YGF9WFFZe0fslK-7VSuz0WxvsNEsFBE6LMt5MatbagC/s320/IMG_4251.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>This newsagent, for example, which was the first place I ever bought a homosexual publication - <i>Gay Times</i>. I decided that this newsagent was sufficiently out of the way so that I wouldn't be recognised, and then I never had to go back there either. The small Asian lady behind the counter put it in a brown paper bag to hide my shameful purchase and I stuffed it in my backpack to read furtively in the park. Round the corner, there was <i>Shirley's Temple</i>, Luton's only gay bar, notable for being the place that made me realise, yep, I was gay, and I liked it. I'd been on my one and only date with a girl - whose name I can't remember, embarrassingly - and we'd been to see <i>Casper</i>. (SEXY). Afterwards we were walking round town in the hot summer air and we passed Shirley's. The door was open, because it was so warm, and I could see inside where men were laughing and dancing and chatting. And I remember very distinctly thinking, <i>I wish I was in there instead of out here</i>. That poor girl.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEy6H2xJDXvfwEWP2ZZqiF7_jhdfJSfS014BJrJ4OpESJWEsFwkEdWnLnvxdUXcbT7Yg93alm3WTXmK2UKd-iTmJhmauwb8QkiVSZAYKGCl-be218vgslQgtQ-qkbwKPVivaQANM-6DOx6s48uRIJSmg3ncPyJdi7WCB1ofoeJAvl0wrwLXcY-gNtiL-qs/s4032/IMG_4254.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEy6H2xJDXvfwEWP2ZZqiF7_jhdfJSfS014BJrJ4OpESJWEsFwkEdWnLnvxdUXcbT7Yg93alm3WTXmK2UKd-iTmJhmauwb8QkiVSZAYKGCl-be218vgslQgtQ-qkbwKPVivaQANM-6DOx6s48uRIJSmg3ncPyJdi7WCB1ofoeJAvl0wrwLXcY-gNtiL-qs/s320/IMG_4254.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Shirley's is now, like a lot of old pubs in Luton, a block of flats. The Coliseum on Gordon Street, where I celebrated my 17th birthday, is apartments; so is the Inkerman Arms, a couple of streets away, which also tried to be a gay bar. I went there during the holidays after I'd officially come out as A Homo and was au fait with this kind of establishment; I copped off with a bloke there, and he introduced me to his mate, and a week later I copped off with that same mate in Shirley's. Common.</div><div><div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWMDDeIy2JudxCFTOJ17Mw7X-nFKUu-9Auq6ygbeRUPxp91SVNSDOKCsbF6ebrBiGS_mmuUSu7XN777zt90yngP95W-b0ZfqDD9pXFqGwfVSF2Wh6HxNqUQmn4IYg_jY-eUgJGk-WtyxzOURoXf-nr8H21PI0z63nFZ4WH1Hs9Xsg3UrnTrHrONudKUcvY/s4032/IMG_4257.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWMDDeIy2JudxCFTOJ17Mw7X-nFKUu-9Auq6ygbeRUPxp91SVNSDOKCsbF6ebrBiGS_mmuUSu7XN777zt90yngP95W-b0ZfqDD9pXFqGwfVSF2Wh6HxNqUQmn4IYg_jY-eUgJGk-WtyxzOURoXf-nr8H21PI0z63nFZ4WH1Hs9Xsg3UrnTrHrONudKUcvY/s320/IMG_4257.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>The BF was back now, and he picked me up for the drive back up to Birkenhead. Before that though, he wanted to see a landmark. Luton Town FC had just been promoted to the Premier League, and he'd been agog when I'd told him about Kenilworth Road, their tiny ground tucked down the back streets of Bury Park. He wanted to see it for himself.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3kHNnC2YaNHfb3qtc9cDMj_sMy_7dHFhwerXrZPYWqzZ62ikkZRiPcrBHliDywC2ns9mgyhHqgk-ckP2qbdJxCZEgYikJKjtX0FGCn1IduK5mtz-suasVLuYOnBMBAFIbx83NBwyB_iG8bnfo19hvpK-OW-NulC1B_V-ofPMmq4pMy5fpjVvrwmhuVyj/s4032/IMG_4274.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3kHNnC2YaNHfb3qtc9cDMj_sMy_7dHFhwerXrZPYWqzZ62ikkZRiPcrBHliDywC2ns9mgyhHqgk-ckP2qbdJxCZEgYikJKjtX0FGCn1IduK5mtz-suasVLuYOnBMBAFIbx83NBwyB_iG8bnfo19hvpK-OW-NulC1B_V-ofPMmq4pMy5fpjVvrwmhuVyj/s320/IMG_4274.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It was a hive of activity that day as the workmen tried to bring it up to a decent standard before the start of the new season. Luton have been trying to leave Kenilworth Road for about forty years, but have never had the money for a new ground; there was the infamous <a href="https://medium.com/@AvaisShaukat/luton-town-the-kohlerdome-de1bac8068cc">Kohlerdome</a> proposal by the motorway, and suggestions of moving to Milton Keynes until they bought Wimbledon, and now there was a plan for a new ground on what used to be Power Court by the parish church, but nothing has ever actually happened. Suffice to say, the BF was astonished to see the tiny little ground, with its tin roofs and its access via narrow alleyways behind terraced houses. We went round to Oak Road so he could see the most famous part, the access to the Away end via an entrance that's actually under people's houses. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkVGOl1dNy6taCilxd9tqxVQHO0cNczO-hzsP9Y5NT1_sOW7dUDVYpeWzNNwIZWwzXZ_rW6FPkABn8OI7r4VeNWfH3Y2vH27vMoxYylmrvlhTjXRepNCfFVrUhr6FpuUS1-OR-bDe5xgXsgxvNvaZj3RZiD09DnSa1mkdv5QLONHo9AgeXjFyYK6zorsj/s3065/IMG_4276.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2732" data-original-width="3065" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLkVGOl1dNy6taCilxd9tqxVQHO0cNczO-hzsP9Y5NT1_sOW7dUDVYpeWzNNwIZWwzXZ_rW6FPkABn8OI7r4VeNWfH3Y2vH27vMoxYylmrvlhTjXRepNCfFVrUhr6FpuUS1-OR-bDe5xgXsgxvNvaZj3RZiD09DnSa1mkdv5QLONHo9AgeXjFyYK6zorsj/s320/IMG_4276.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>When Luton hosted its first Premier League match last week, I noticed that this is now called the <i>Dominos Oak Stand</i>. I would also like to register my objection to the commentator constantly calling the ground "the Kenny"; that's not a thing, nobody calls it that, it's <i>Kenilworth Road. </i>It looks like Luton won't be around in the top flight for long, judging by their early performance, but I hope they make an awful lot of money over the course of the season. Maybe they'll finally be able to move out and the people of Bury Park will get a bit of peace of a Saturday afternoon.</div><div><br /></div><div>We drove out of town, to the motorway, and I realised that this was probably the last time I'd ever go to Luton. I couldn't see another reason to visit. It's not what it was. It's kind of a dump. But it'll always be home.</div></div></div></div></div></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-12756385294063114822023-09-03T15:48:00.003+01:002023-09-03T15:48:52.584+01:00From Amstelveenseweg To Zuid<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdN6I-wtJFSONB7xA88AMwdswcrvksnD4GOBD_r7uSnPIl5ksdf44l_HrTZOqUG9d16eHVcU4qJMzHew8EJCMNPfmXV_Ylu9ygjC5psq_e_9lvRmFPIkyG7BQqLRRZYAG34n3PTuyL0ps7S9MDAeozz-cL0zJtwzrAb3cJXW-8vNKH_zn519R1wmzdexiA/s856/Screenshot%202023-07-08%20121035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="856" data-original-width="850" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdN6I-wtJFSONB7xA88AMwdswcrvksnD4GOBD_r7uSnPIl5ksdf44l_HrTZOqUG9d16eHVcU4qJMzHew8EJCMNPfmXV_Ylu9ygjC5psq_e_9lvRmFPIkyG7BQqLRRZYAG34n3PTuyL0ps7S9MDAeozz-cL0zJtwzrAb3cJXW-8vNKH_zn519R1wmzdexiA/s320/Screenshot%202023-07-08%20121035.jpg" width="318" /></a></i></div><i><br />The entire Amsterdam trip, linked for your ease of use:</i><p></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/07/amsterdammmm.html">Amsterdammmm</a> </b>- <i>How we got here, aka In Luton Airport No-One Can Hear You Scream. </i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJa9MD_RGBVmK9oLJwk162SZI3iSoMo_XH1sR_6LPGS765m4MCoDAYdqrKvTPw2M6uiFICSHrqK_1o2NzgV5S2_byWQICMIArl9JMBY-ffLCIzBeDiYGWyXQdkQhrLUeVC4JgsxK2zXCd542p0085QaiWjdMhgoPzQIiQn8XVXCamEcM2mfayF5Mj1NAjZ/s4896/DSC09576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJa9MD_RGBVmK9oLJwk162SZI3iSoMo_XH1sR_6LPGS765m4MCoDAYdqrKvTPw2M6uiFICSHrqK_1o2NzgV5S2_byWQICMIArl9JMBY-ffLCIzBeDiYGWyXQdkQhrLUeVC4JgsxK2zXCd542p0085QaiWjdMhgoPzQIiQn8XVXCamEcM2mfayF5Mj1NAjZ/s320/DSC09576.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><b><i><p><b><i>Day One: the M50/51/52 (and a little more)</i></b></p></i></b><p></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/07/north-and-south.html">North and South</a> - </b><i>Noord, Noorderpark</i></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/07/ik-denk-over-je-na-amsterdam.html">Ik Denk Over Je Na, Amsterdam</a> </b><i>- Rokin, Vijzelgracht, De Pijp, Europaplein</i></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/the-futures-bright-futures-orange.html">The Future's Bright, The Future's Orange</a></b> <i>- Zuid</i></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/places.html">Places</a></b><i><b> </b>- Amstelveenseweg, Henk Sneevlietweg, Heemstedestraat, Lelylaan, Postjesweg</i></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/sunshine-and-rainbows.html">Sunshine and Rainbows</a> </b><i>- Jan van Galenstraat, De Vlugtlaan, Sloterdijk, Isolatorweg</i></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/heart.html">Heart</a> </b><i>- Amsterdam Centraal</i></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/the-interesting-englishman.html">The Interesting Englishman</a></b> <i>- Muiderpoort </i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhy2OTcQW5uKx1zgxudj28ZF5ZQIuqGsdBuRKOBh8JKAe06MMQp4eKx2MnzOGaOHnQeKlMi1yhk-pksZlC2JAJ8XCv0p3Ix0xgDBzPbH2SyqmtMbdPFR12w9Moq_HqEkGou1bK4FrFoT0AoO-ZaDJOtbc7DyVv0gTH7qBsUjK4XeTLbgnDbTMFp0mYc6L/s4896/DSC09829.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhy2OTcQW5uKx1zgxudj28ZF5ZQIuqGsdBuRKOBh8JKAe06MMQp4eKx2MnzOGaOHnQeKlMi1yhk-pksZlC2JAJ8XCv0p3Ix0xgDBzPbH2SyqmtMbdPFR12w9Moq_HqEkGou1bK4FrFoT0AoO-ZaDJOtbc7DyVv0gTH7qBsUjK4XeTLbgnDbTMFp0mYc6L/s320/DSC09829.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><i><b><p><i><b>Day Two: the M53/54 (plus a couple of others)</b></i></p></b></i><p></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/the-saga-continues.html">The Saga Continues</a> - </b><i>Gaasperplas, Kraaiennest, Ganzenhoef, Verrijn Stuartweg</i></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/another-day-in-paradise.html">Another Day In Paradise</a></b> <i>- Diemen Zuid, Venserpolder, Van der Madeweg, Spaklerweg, Amstel</i></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/happy-places.html">Happy Places</a> </b><i>- Wibautstraat, Weesperplein, Waterlooplein</i></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/battleground.html">Battleground</a></b> - <i>Nieuwmarkt</i></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/a-bitch-that-needs-to-be-tamed.html">A Bitch That Needs To Be Tamed</a></b> - <i>Gein, Reigersbos, Holendrecht, Bullewijk</i></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/de-finishlijn.html">De Finishlijn</a> </b><i>- Bijlmer ArenA, Strandvilet, Duivendrecht, Overamstel, RAI</i></p><p><b><a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/09/thoughts-over-beer.html">Thoughts Over A Beer</a></b><i> - a random rant about how Britain has gone to the dogs.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPVIv9burN-BeAVb2hpmNs4DhZvUssANkUZVCcQmcjIFsn57ecob-Al3_04HajeRoRKyWm3AyZIpFsy86WSORzT0zAc0p4zG4dtLNjJ5uFq1cdXG21zujfXyMAGeOV2fw8WDRrvbBf1JumE9yBE8Dt8u13eijcnrGB-rhyF9AKg96EzqJZbq-MKwn1AEGN/s4032/IMG_4116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPVIv9burN-BeAVb2hpmNs4DhZvUssANkUZVCcQmcjIFsn57ecob-Al3_04HajeRoRKyWm3AyZIpFsy86WSORzT0zAc0p4zG4dtLNjJ5uFq1cdXG21zujfXyMAGeOV2fw8WDRrvbBf1JumE9yBE8Dt8u13eijcnrGB-rhyF9AKg96EzqJZbq-MKwn1AEGN/s320/IMG_4116.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><i><p><i>I hope you enjoyed reading about my Amsterdam trip. The stats don't seem to say people were hammering on the door of the blog but it doesn't matter; I certainly enjoyed writing about it. I'll be back to bits of the UK soon enough... though there is one epilogue to the trip still to come.</i></p><p><i>Oh, and here's a bonus: when I arrived in Amsterdam I obviously had to get from the airport to the city, and the best way to do that is by train. So here I am at Schiphol station, about to ride a Dutch train for the first time. I couldn't find a way to wedge it into the blog so it's here. It's a compulsion, ok?</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdnPekUzSuGu9PhXRlSF9rZUXDL4251bc8DrYEFnr2q7oakIz8GaIkmO-9V5ABwFRQ9ot25FjCY2KHZVKFbjbmRk8FRbq9AQxB1w8Fr7dFI_eE0t3eoDF1tdjdOHNA64BzWeiUVJdtraNE4U3yWZndpjhrCRKrbdudWWs1RAnRIHEQmN2_0gFCwoQWPHoR/s3088/IMG_4067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdnPekUzSuGu9PhXRlSF9rZUXDL4251bc8DrYEFnr2q7oakIz8GaIkmO-9V5ABwFRQ9ot25FjCY2KHZVKFbjbmRk8FRbq9AQxB1w8Fr7dFI_eE0t3eoDF1tdjdOHNA64BzWeiUVJdtraNE4U3yWZndpjhrCRKrbdudWWs1RAnRIHEQmN2_0gFCwoQWPHoR/s320/IMG_4067.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><i><br /></i><p></p></i><p></p>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-67786593916174748412023-09-03T15:13:00.006+01:002023-09-03T15:13:42.421+01:00Thoughts Over A Beer<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhggR6qOEAT1MQNORpad_IAZOWiVVx_MYytXGGw92ukjEtuhYdZNFp8hfhWlR5jdDYmJvjTcJG3vapuCdN2P2OUrZHxdDu9NlpoR6LpklzjyMzIjPWIAfBl4GirMVCLcMiJC3cSUmXqgDzKjHJhTXKLdHOuqoINlAs58sU7ocIOYxi4No0F9UckI8WnFlF1/s4032/IMG_4137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhggR6qOEAT1MQNORpad_IAZOWiVVx_MYytXGGw92ukjEtuhYdZNFp8hfhWlR5jdDYmJvjTcJG3vapuCdN2P2OUrZHxdDu9NlpoR6LpklzjyMzIjPWIAfBl4GirMVCLcMiJC3cSUmXqgDzKjHJhTXKLdHOuqoINlAs58sU7ocIOYxi4No0F9UckI8WnFlF1/s320/IMG_4137.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>This was, unbelievably, the very first beer I had the whole time I was in Amsterdam. There simply wasn't time for me to stop. And when I did stop, I had an early start the next day, so I didn't want to do it hungover. Now it was the final few hours of my time there so I went to the hotel bar and treated myself to a pint and some peanuts.</p><p>So what have we learned? Well, firstly we've learned I'm very easily amused. I'm glad I don't have to go into the office after a trip away and go through all those tedious "what I did on my holiday" chats.</p><p><i>"Did you have a good time?"</i></p><p><i>"Yeah, it was brilliant."</i></p><p><i>"Amsterdam, eh? All that sex and drugs and partying?"<br /><br />"Nah, I just hung around a load of railway stations in the suburbs."</i></p><p>"..."</p><p>Hey, it's a relatively cheap trip. Discounting my flights and the hotel, of course. But I bought a GVB four day travel pass through the app on my phone. One QR code, 96 hours of travel on train, bus and tram, and it cost me... €26.50. About twenty three quid. That feels obscenely cheap. The all zones price cap in London is <a href="https://tfl.gov.uk/campaign/new-fares">£14.70 <i>a day</i></a>. Admittedly, London is much larger, but that's still more than twice the cost for the same period of time. It was so easy to use, too; wafting an app at the various readers was a doddle.</p><p>It was yet another example of how to do a transport network right. Make it efficient and clean. Put it everywhere. Make it cheap. You'll get people using it all the time. Wandering around Amsterdam has turned me from a public transport advocate into a militant. Take cycle lanes, for example. Since I came back to the UK I've become absolutely obsessed with the size of our roads. The acres of wasted space. The way you could quite easily slot in segregated, clearly marked cycle routes along the majority of main roads. Not these useless shared spaces with pedestrians, not a painted line on the road; a kerb, a cycle lane, and another kerb next to the pavement. Fully separate and safe. I'm going down the <a href="https://www.google.co.uk/maps/@53.3811531,-3.1016776,3a,75y,309.85h,88.32t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sXzRVE4OdJlOCfA8XFA6kMQ!2e0!6shttps:%2F%2Fstreetviewpixels-pa.googleapis.com%2Fv1%2Fthumbnail%3Fpanoid%3DXzRVE4OdJlOCfA8XFA6kMQ%26cb_client%3Dmaps_sv.tactile.gps%26w%3D203%26h%3D100%26yaw%3D68.580765%26pitch%3D0%26thumbfov%3D100!7i16384!8i8192?entry=ttu">Upton Bypass</a>, for instance, and looking at all the pointless grass verge, acres of lawn that has to be maintained and cut, and which could be sliced into for a decent bike lane. You'd still have plenty of grass and trees behind it but there would be room for you to cycle unthreatened, with your family.</p><p>Or the trams. One of the reasons it took Amsterdam so long to built its Metro was because it already had a fantastic tram network. It had steel rails running all over the city, centred on a central railway terminus. You know who else had a brilliant tram network? Liverpool. And Manchester. And Birmingham. And a load of other UK towns and cities that still have wide roads that were built to handle trams. Why aren't we putting them back? Why aren't we investing in our towns?<br /><br />I came away from Amsterdam profoundly depressed about my own country. We're a nation that's accepted we're not going to get much better. Keep calm and carry on, Blitz spirit, make do and mend. Which is fine when there's actual bombs falling on cities but it's 2023. The only thing stopping us is ambition and resolve. Instead of taking taxes and investing the money in our cities, we get a small amount of cash thrown out every once in a while to make it look like something is happening. London can finally get Crossrail, seventy years after it was first suggested, but there's no chance of it getting Crossrail 2. Birmingham can only extend its tram line through the city centre one or two stops at a time, and it can get a second line so long as it's mainly on old railway lines and doesn't get in the way of the cars. Manchester's had all the Metrolink extensions it's going to get now; that little gap between East Didsbury and Stockport town centre will never be filled, no matter how much it makes sense. And as for the other smaller cities? No chance. I don't even mean second tier cities like Portsmouth or Hull or Norwich; I mean somewhere like Leeds, which has one big station in the middle of half a million people and after that it's a lot of buses. </p><p>We've no ambition. Amsterdam's first metro was a single tunnel in the city centre then going above ground in the suburbs - every large city in Britain should have that at the bare minimum. There should be a Merseyrail-style link and loop under Manchester and Birmingham and Leeds and Bradford and Bristol and all the others, to get people across town, to free up platform space in the big termini, to make the routes faster and more efficient. Yes, it'll be expensive, but that's what taxation is for, and you can make it back by building more densely around those stations. People will pay more for a home or an office that's close to a station with a train every five minutes, that's near a tram stop with connections across town. A bus stop can be taken away, a bus route can be cancelled, but if you put in infrastructure? That's sticking around, and so people are confident they can rely on it. They can lay down roots. You can build higher and thicker and make neighbourhoods.</p><p>Amsterdam was a city that was alive, a city that was driven by its public transport network. The city was crafted around a concept of getting as many people moved as quickly as possible at all times, and then, as a secondary consideration, cars were permitted as well. They were undoing the mistakes of the past by driving motorways underground and minimising highways. They're removing 1500 on-street parking spaces a year.</p><p>They can do all this because they've made alternatives to cars desirable. If you build it, they will come. Our politicians talk about making our cities better for non-drivers, but they don't follow through on it. If you punish the driver while cutting buses and trains, you've failed both constituents. You can't, for example, get rid of ticket offices without there being an effective and easy to use alternative ticketing system in place. Amsterdam's Metro stations are all unstaffed, but they're also all fully accessible, have ticket machines in them, and feature help points and information boards. They can afford to do without the ticket office because they've put the investment in. </p><p>I've spent over a month writing about my Amsterdam trip, which means I've spent over a month reflecting on what's good and what's bad about it. On pretty much every metric it beats the UK. It has advantages, of course - when you literally make your own land out of the sea, you can lay it out however you like, and there are considerably fewer hills than, say, Sheffield, so cycling is a lot more attractive. It just felt like a place where you could exist and thrive without a car. Where in Britain can you say that?</p><p>This is all very depressing. I'm back here, getting pathetically excited that Merseyrail is finally letting its new trains onto the Wirral; I've not actually <i>seen </i>one yet, but I believe they're around. Yay! Our fifty year old trains are finally being replaced! How amazing! I can't wait to buy a relatively expensive paper ticket to access them. </p><p>Ah well. What do you reckon for next time? Copenhagen? Rotterdam? Lisbon? I joke of course. This time next year we'll all be so much worse off than today, because this is a nation in decline and nobody wants to arrest it. It'll be like <i>Children of Men</i>, but not quite so upbeat and jolly. It's hard to be optimistic when you've seen another world.</p>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-34751418458380296182023-08-30T13:58:00.002+01:002023-08-30T13:58:58.248+01:00De Finishlijn<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcpL6HsuMHISg8efnhJFLtNvt81xq-NEhRW-4CYGZyspZorwTryYd5e2yiCm8AgDAyCTjJmdLqR_xNz-4o7XCXZ6kpTl4tW6beNtp0JgGVLCsS9JFLNjMvSIGYSgZCIBBLJk-ndTGsJTF9ypIFfxW9cbrSjF_fVDJe7sCjNPl95ILbo3uhVNzDBtvJKZg/s4896/DSC00001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcpL6HsuMHISg8efnhJFLtNvt81xq-NEhRW-4CYGZyspZorwTryYd5e2yiCm8AgDAyCTjJmdLqR_xNz-4o7XCXZ6kpTl4tW6beNtp0JgGVLCsS9JFLNjMvSIGYSgZCIBBLJk-ndTGsJTF9ypIFfxW9cbrSjF_fVDJe7sCjNPl95ILbo3uhVNzDBtvJKZg/s320/DSC00001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I was, in truth, getting tired of the Amsterdam Metro. <i>(Reader's voice: YOU'RE TIRED?)</i> Not tired of the stations, not tired of the city, but just tired of the relentlessness. This was, don't forget, meant to be a leisurely three day quest, and instead it was crammed into two. Add in the general stress of it all and my brain was getting a little fritzed. On top of that, my feet ached. I'd not worn my big sturdy walking boots because I wanted to get through airport security without any problems; the trouble is, now I was learning that Vans aren't really built for pounding the pavement, and they're certainly not very good when it comes to cobbles.</p><p>I uncurled myself from the seat on the train and stiffly walked towards the escalators at Amsterdam Bijlmer ArenA station. (Yes, that final A is a capital as well, work with it). At least it was an impressive station. Comprehensively rebuilt in 2007, there's an intriguing mix of colours and textures that really impress.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQgQG2qNPAEeHgPC9CWNW2l4mdaq76zQB_vFh8PXN6tCvFZUB4AJNgrFSfgHApX7yKaRoGGFrsLKjMCXZPSLbiMNBPzi0PtoePs2ojfSgfR5b9S7dAo58BcChDhllC2efUjtQcQUvx8zNi9V-cNJKAlNrXlIGw7aFZEH0mS3rpjzn2z13gNHkhfss5NpZ/s4896/DSC00003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQgQG2qNPAEeHgPC9CWNW2l4mdaq76zQB_vFh8PXN6tCvFZUB4AJNgrFSfgHApX7yKaRoGGFrsLKjMCXZPSLbiMNBPzi0PtoePs2ojfSgfR5b9S7dAo58BcChDhllC2efUjtQcQUvx8zNi9V-cNJKAlNrXlIGw7aFZEH0mS3rpjzn2z13gNHkhfss5NpZ/s320/DSC00003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>There's something quite sci-fi about it, quite <i>Star Wars-</i>y; those shooting roof pieces feel like they could be the roof of an X-Wing hangar. Deep voids lead down to the passenger concourse. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6woVPusw-SFun6SyOlOPXuZ26FMth2fBTgmZeXDSWSNzXbo7s9p2CJwlmP7EduQl7HfWZY9Uljg8e9cWuG2d58sMy8bQnfpd8tMQZpi7OfzkWc-o570hpzecOSq2OxopCrZDL2CYhfwNMU8C9zVmdZRh-c35LDO-9X8IJWYP5gDTyd-AMeAODJkS74Rzi/s4896/DSC00005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6woVPusw-SFun6SyOlOPXuZ26FMth2fBTgmZeXDSWSNzXbo7s9p2CJwlmP7EduQl7HfWZY9Uljg8e9cWuG2d58sMy8bQnfpd8tMQZpi7OfzkWc-o570hpzecOSq2OxopCrZDL2CYhfwNMU8C9zVmdZRh-c35LDO-9X8IJWYP5gDTyd-AMeAODJkS74Rzi/s320/DSC00005.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>All this space is, of course, to accommodate the thousands of people who pass through on their way to the complex of entertainment spaces just outside. Amsterdam put in a bid for the 1992 Olympics, the ones that went to Barcelona, and the centrepiece was a brand new stadium here in Bijlmer. Though that failed - Amsterdam went out in the first round, before Birmingham - the spot was still suitable for a new football ground for Ajax.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQaMzp-bekQvVBFweibutTegt086HrvtVk9PkA4XvNWcteAHkrDGG1YOi2pLBqpXc7kDoyeXfvYbzAVN_IudKHnDsOLxYGDCsK7Dibzvt11023vou8YK8ARphMSoArA26jDU8816skYjLhv5zwXVsHjGEgTuzWJV9LStxZuhTH8tLUcip_CsANUUtvxuhP/s4032/IMG_4128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQaMzp-bekQvVBFweibutTegt086HrvtVk9PkA4XvNWcteAHkrDGG1YOi2pLBqpXc7kDoyeXfvYbzAVN_IudKHnDsOLxYGDCsK7Dibzvt11023vou8YK8ARphMSoArA26jDU8816skYjLhv5zwXVsHjGEgTuzWJV9LStxZuhTH8tLUcip_CsANUUtvxuhP/s320/IMG_4128.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Even I've heard of Ajax. They're one of those European teams you can name off the top of your head, like Spartak Moscow or Real Madrid or Borussia Mönchengladbach. Ajax have won the European Cup/Champions League four times, and that is the beginning and end of the football chat here, because even looking at the Wikipedia page for them bored me senseless. All I wanted to know was if they were any good and suddenly I'm being bombarded with tedious stats and factoids. (Also, the last time I tried talking about football, <a href="https://www.carriedunn.net/">Queen of Women's Soccer Carrie Dunn</a> swept in and corrected all my points about <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2017/08/talking-shop.html">Manchester City Women</a>, so I'm not doing that again). <div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8BKP73mth-i29lwfyASwiHQuSJOPgONaV2cBCaDRhFaUd6GtiCZiWxvYmEJx1KQMphcKoXwLZMIKawQ2CWGpaIklg6kEGkObrG1wiJLxPNHHGQDJK5aMeBOknzDGxxVdQU_xaLP2aV6zBEpL4dbD46Tuf9VbA61BPfVB7oFrf9j7WIo7TymApPeF3fONT/s4896/DSC00010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8BKP73mth-i29lwfyASwiHQuSJOPgONaV2cBCaDRhFaUd6GtiCZiWxvYmEJx1KQMphcKoXwLZMIKawQ2CWGpaIklg6kEGkObrG1wiJLxPNHHGQDJK5aMeBOknzDGxxVdQU_xaLP2aV6zBEpL4dbD46Tuf9VbA61BPfVB7oFrf9j7WIo7TymApPeF3fONT/s320/DSC00010.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The plaza outside the station is very Wembley; a series of alluring traps to get people to spend money on their way to and from an event. The night before I visited, Coldplay had played; I believe they're a very popular beat combo. I mean, I know <i>who</i> Coldplay are, I've just never heard one of their songs and had it permeate into my brain to the extent that I recognise it as a Coldplay song. Actually, that's not quite true - there was an advert for BMW that played before <i>No Time To Die </i>and on about the sixth viewing of it I found myself pulling out my phone and Shazaming to find out who was doing the music. It turned out it was Coldplay's <i><a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/0939D7aT18uBDS2MTjWzct?si=b862af1d734043bf">Higher Power</a></i>, but I wouldn't take that as a win for Chris Martin, because I also became enamoured with the music they used for the <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ix7TUGVYIo">Matrix Resurrections</a> </i>and <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGi3Bgn7U5U">House of Gucci</a> </i>trailers; I'm in a very vulnerable state when there's a new Bond film about to play. </div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg669X_SXEhZjpp8Mnoy6YFY86wWFLPSQ7dYzl0FDMMe11yhVfqDzzJt32tS40TILFCR5pv1JGsImjcsulpqBTOIhPUGR9eyttYLVRfmvalYPuC_g6UJ16atW0zWwfypvlYaPKbYOGS1JGkLQe9TIrNuyoRY_LTU4pp8lnkW2Z2cwmk39V1hrudBM7inCoc/s4032/IMG_4130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg669X_SXEhZjpp8Mnoy6YFY86wWFLPSQ7dYzl0FDMMe11yhVfqDzzJt32tS40TILFCR5pv1JGsImjcsulpqBTOIhPUGR9eyttYLVRfmvalYPuC_g6UJ16atW0zWwfypvlYaPKbYOGS1JGkLQe9TIrNuyoRY_LTU4pp8lnkW2Z2cwmk39V1hrudBM7inCoc/s320/IMG_4130.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The music venue next to the stadium had posters showing people who'd previously played there and - hang on, who's that next to Sting?<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIv9xElOy2sD4AeNg9AERTaxCjKY4CTw670UY7EvtQTsWIdopcn2B50VBo6NfEZdnOyIi5WJA6ThKQ253ZMejpmPPH97R8j7wjH-J5eVXOvGafTAIWDW1q6xvKAfyljM7FNC03X9U9-7QSapPTfXRFjeeVi8qxZw-qSdscHmUTyOg5C0pyARzibMifyWHY/s4032/IMG_4129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIv9xElOy2sD4AeNg9AERTaxCjKY4CTw670UY7EvtQTsWIdopcn2B50VBo6NfEZdnOyIi5WJA6ThKQ253ZMejpmPPH97R8j7wjH-J5eVXOvGafTAIWDW1q6xvKAfyljM7FNC03X9U9-7QSapPTfXRFjeeVi8qxZw-qSdscHmUTyOg5C0pyARzibMifyWHY/s320/IMG_4129.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I felt strangely proud seeing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLhgFEi9aNUb2BNrIEecCGXApgeX7Yjwz8">Trixie & Katya</a> there with the greats. Those weird little Season 7 Drag Race queens - who didn't even win - were now featured artistes. This must be what it feels like to buy a band's first album and then see them explode a few years later. I know gay culture permeating mainstream Dutch society is hardly a revolutionary concept - even I was starting to get bored of the rainbow flags everywhere - but it was a nice reminder that not everywhere in the world has lost its mind over drag queens. They're entertainers, Barbara, and they're not here to groom your kids.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh40JQopAumciFyGMtGRaAyoXibDoEkQrjpfERHWv2_VnqiAx1DLetcyfNGJCUX0FC_obHQTxrL4Nv23SoeTPG7Jgb5Dpj3sgk-i4vepCCLRUJsLtUTYxVygNOT1gW460tADxGjbKfff5Wmv5MlVvJh1BGp4FprLKZrTefgJDkB-28pWSJ_LAwwMjRyT2Mj/s4896/DSC00015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh40JQopAumciFyGMtGRaAyoXibDoEkQrjpfERHWv2_VnqiAx1DLetcyfNGJCUX0FC_obHQTxrL4Nv23SoeTPG7Jgb5Dpj3sgk-i4vepCCLRUJsLtUTYxVygNOT1gW460tADxGjbKfff5Wmv5MlVvJh1BGp4FprLKZrTefgJDkB-28pWSJ_LAwwMjRyT2Mj/s320/DSC00015.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I walked down a side road, past a restaurant called <i>Burger Bitch</i> because we can no longer have nice things. A cafe had put out a board: <i>"Why have abs when you can have Kurio's kebabs?"</i> and here, have a link <a href="https://kuriosamsterdam.nl/">Kurio</a>, because that sort of marketing must be supported. There were also public urinals, cross shaped plastic depositories for those attending the events to use, because men are disgusting.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-4E-FuPSy_TYzBfKONi9oi1iVl6CRnzrsGj0j3Leb-JZPbTPUQ7y5EwHDtRvSjxgd6aOvhpiFP7YK6sqvkU7g7KexnZcb_PgKd-xvRRRBPkyJhzf6mZFuRO5Qrekolh4yodlwIgpwRkt6UPRXbJwyM-CKDQ-qIqrFWC2EZUVuE15Zm6xKGqyg9jSDixiW/s4896/DSC00017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-4E-FuPSy_TYzBfKONi9oi1iVl6CRnzrsGj0j3Leb-JZPbTPUQ7y5EwHDtRvSjxgd6aOvhpiFP7YK6sqvkU7g7KexnZcb_PgKd-xvRRRBPkyJhzf6mZFuRO5Qrekolh4yodlwIgpwRkt6UPRXbJwyM-CKDQ-qIqrFWC2EZUVuE15Zm6xKGqyg9jSDixiW/s320/DSC00017.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Round the front of the arena was a statue to the most famous Dutch player of all, Johan Cruijff, the man the stadium was named after. There'd been calls to dedicate the stadium to him from the start, but the City of Amsterdam has - in my opinion, very sensible - rules against naming items after living people. You can't risk the person turning out to be a later in life arsehole - imagine if there was a JK Rowling Bridge or a Right Said Fred Park or an Elon Musk Penitentiary (actually I would support that one). After Cruijff died, however, the family gave permission for it to be renamed in his honour (and please note that I'm using the correct Dutch spelling of his surname, not the internationally used version of <i>Cruyff</i>). <br /><div><br /></div><div>I have to be honest - the stadium's not a looker. While the <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/the-futures-bright-futures-orange.html">Amsterdam Olympic Stadium</a> is a classic design, one that was highly influential throughout the world, the Johann Cruijff ArenA is a hulk, a big heavy lump. A retractable roof means it has strong braces arcing over the top and much of its exterior was covered with commercial advertising. It has none of the charm or elegance of, say, Anfield, though I will say the experience of arriving and departing and the immediate environs are infinitely better. I'm looking forward to all those Eurogays who fell for Liverpool during Eurovision heading to the city again for Taylor Swift and then having to deal with the Sheil Road Circular and the somewhat "earthy" pubs outside.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnzU3OpZpGge7AsjlnunBkwPGfxLMAVe7U5kMiwXrWTu1WHGvA8dshqtLYANL41Lh__FHepqVjhln_LthkYI-rdimmA9Uxm6XS7J3tEKvB6Kq40mwlbAdOGl4do4Ovu7oGapHGDBqlt1mHuPx48GghR5n610hDu5PUHrPn9dA4NvupCfiv_kkgiQfupo8P/s4896/DSC00022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnzU3OpZpGge7AsjlnunBkwPGfxLMAVe7U5kMiwXrWTu1WHGvA8dshqtLYANL41Lh__FHepqVjhln_LthkYI-rdimmA9Uxm6XS7J3tEKvB6Kq40mwlbAdOGl4do4Ovu7oGapHGDBqlt1mHuPx48GghR5n610hDu5PUHrPn9dA4NvupCfiv_kkgiQfupo8P/s320/DSC00022.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>It was while I was stood there among happy families who'd just paid twenty three Euros for a <a href="https://english.ajax.nl/shop/product/ajax-thuiskousen-2023-2024-6286">pair of socks in the club shop</a> that I realised I'd not taken a picture in front of the station sign. It's no exaggeration to say my stomach lurched in horror. That's how tired I was - I was forgetting the essentials of my trip. I'd been so keen to take a picture of the stadium when I left the station I'd completely forgotten about it. I dashed back, walking twice as fast, a slight sense of panic inside being quashed by the reassurance that I would soon sort it. Imagine I had got home to England, downloaded all the photos... and realised one sign was missing. It would have been a tragedy.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJUjV2sVBMI3RTeHZ5A8k_i-Uk_ve4eGAFNCjddvlB08xdPfl8bN19hNO7LKudq0gIl5lkfOCIyuzVmDAFM6IwCO3456QTsF-cVdJwZYEK8M-HfIKCMGqGdCb2cI-8upY41W2enmAdQNizjT5woYuzdGwe5GolTAYeWCuptM5vp00WnE484g4HSqwXtu4i/s4896/DSC00021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJUjV2sVBMI3RTeHZ5A8k_i-Uk_ve4eGAFNCjddvlB08xdPfl8bN19hNO7LKudq0gIl5lkfOCIyuzVmDAFM6IwCO3456QTsF-cVdJwZYEK8M-HfIKCMGqGdCb2cI-8upY41W2enmAdQNizjT5woYuzdGwe5GolTAYeWCuptM5vp00WnE484g4HSqwXtu4i/s320/DSC00021.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Phew.<div><br /></div><div>Now I had to trek back the way I came, past those same smiling families, only a bit sweatier and more panic ridden than I was before. On the way I passed the ArenA's <i>other</i> station, tucked round the back and simply called <i>Halte Amsterdam ArenA. </i>This is a single platform, only accessible from the direction of Diemen Zuid, which exists purely to separate, shall we say, <i>contentious</i> fans from one another. If there's a game between Ajax and one of its fiercer rivals, the other station can be brought into use, allowing the away fans into the stadium via a purpose built bridge that keeps them well apart from the home fans. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbaqadsOzLUS5FK4xk8jl_j8QNiwCF97n2HERVLdmC7QGhqGA0_o-cI_0NmRfv0v-kxQcu344zVCejzyodTJh3iT_HSGYAfQfDWiKGitIEsFnZHAzQlQCdUozx8PV1vQi7RryIk1PusppGJ6kr50r0CG2gkZ6SyHmY7o5AMULB5DtisXDNbutcewKt_zcb/s4896/DSC00023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbaqadsOzLUS5FK4xk8jl_j8QNiwCF97n2HERVLdmC7QGhqGA0_o-cI_0NmRfv0v-kxQcu344zVCejzyodTJh3iT_HSGYAfQfDWiKGitIEsFnZHAzQlQCdUozx8PV1vQi7RryIk1PusppGJ6kr50r0CG2gkZ6SyHmY7o5AMULB5DtisXDNbutcewKt_zcb/s320/DSC00023.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I hate that we have effectively normalised this behaviour. That we have, as a society, simply accepted that if you get a load of football fans together they might fight and attack one another, and what we should do is build physical barriers and architectural get outs to mitigate the damage. I bet Trixie and Katya's fans didn't have to be corralled and guarded in case a tranche of manic Violet Chachki supporters came running over the hill, ready to pulverise them with sharpened stiletto heels.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiO3QntbTQtF3hNQTWyy0DWFb-FFfSGd0nY_eZ669j4yuRmUH2J7qmYsVgRo38lPlZC4CEaxhxzefI6pKYjW0hSKnH3LqE0MOR1EAM1DotSZy6HXkDmF5l6ZBR_Z3Vz0ANQm7A1IP0UymkOVEh27WGP51WQ3q5ltrpeQD15mAEobQTEF3OD4pmGnwfH8ZJ/s4896/DSC00024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiO3QntbTQtF3hNQTWyy0DWFb-FFfSGd0nY_eZ669j4yuRmUH2J7qmYsVgRo38lPlZC4CEaxhxzefI6pKYjW0hSKnH3LqE0MOR1EAM1DotSZy6HXkDmF5l6ZBR_Z3Vz0ANQm7A1IP0UymkOVEh27WGP51WQ3q5ltrpeQD15mAEobQTEF3OD4pmGnwfH8ZJ/s320/DSC00024.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>A walk past more football pitches brought me to Strandvliet station, ArenA's little brother and a handier station to use if you don't want to go anywhere near the commercial quarter. Much like Sandhills will soon be to the new Everton stadium, Strandvliet was a quiet station that got a massive tourist attraction dropped on its doorstep. They hastily rebuilt it to accommodate the crowds, with a special entrance for match days - something I sadly don't think is going to happen at Sandhills. No, that's not fair; apparently it's going to get a special Fan Queuing Area. So that's alright then.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPUkGfMQ0H7s7iy71D-SYbF_VB_yEhPwZQeXg78uQs6Ry-14AlxceafgXoF3I60h5yo7KpJSaN6pmfjoS69fM3RIfOljH8bV4kbE_w-_Of1BhZIRrA2xYBCHrcSSIL5KAEJBxVK4vhGuzil4Z3t5hJSBIhxTmYFR2DVp36s9k20trkaM42JgD_EFvh6sM_/s4896/DSC00026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPUkGfMQ0H7s7iy71D-SYbF_VB_yEhPwZQeXg78uQs6Ry-14AlxceafgXoF3I60h5yo7KpJSaN6pmfjoS69fM3RIfOljH8bV4kbE_w-_Of1BhZIRrA2xYBCHrcSSIL5KAEJBxVK4vhGuzil4Z3t5hJSBIhxTmYFR2DVp36s9k20trkaM42JgD_EFvh6sM_/s320/DSC00026.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>One thing I forgot to mention about the refurb of the Oostlijn stations was the coloured glass entrance. Above the open front, a high window was put in with abstract glass colours. It let more light into the ticket hall and also gave each station its own identity. At Strandvliet there were rainbow colours, which extended to the windows over the escalator as you ascended to the track.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnHgav4H78GIaIjljK0TqG2MERJudgox7cFihByNLU-dJ0-B-inzOP7Ru9YlZtdGQMzPhOU3mFNaXqPKNWUA-8jhVwBnXWIjuKxMmd4z6XwClo2Tgyx3O3b53584Ralcnufty-dL7Itz3UMdcgvCy049bOfMLY_eOOl5MRY1-bEToJqwzdql73IsjkSTaD/s4896/DSC00028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnHgav4H78GIaIjljK0TqG2MERJudgox7cFihByNLU-dJ0-B-inzOP7Ru9YlZtdGQMzPhOU3mFNaXqPKNWUA-8jhVwBnXWIjuKxMmd4z6XwClo2Tgyx3O3b53584Ralcnufty-dL7Itz3UMdcgvCy049bOfMLY_eOOl5MRY1-bEToJqwzdql73IsjkSTaD/s320/DSC00028.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Duivendrecht came into existence because of its location. There wasn't anything here until 1993; the trains went on to Van de Madeweg, which was known as Duivendrech Centraal because, well, it was in the middle of Duivendrecht. However, the Ringspoorbaan - a rail line from Schiphol across the south of the city - was constructed in the early 90s, and at the point where it met the metro line, they built an interchange.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3RaHDLvK-DWbht5qmxXe-BNropk_EUDFKtOYU4z6jsTUX5KdYGOMl0NRfwOscWrmQnx6PihSBqZNZ0d3IPpkYuJ0-sq_SnnGxJu0Fm7Xmfoq9IjRzLWFjDQWn0b66xjwO7c_rM68wAzsVJuSdwUeNNOM4NTPjSEvuXdK5b7A9wE6XwsxNFAYcxKsclvnd/s4896/DSC00032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3RaHDLvK-DWbht5qmxXe-BNropk_EUDFKtOYU4z6jsTUX5KdYGOMl0NRfwOscWrmQnx6PihSBqZNZ0d3IPpkYuJ0-sq_SnnGxJu0Fm7Xmfoq9IjRzLWFjDQWn0b66xjwO7c_rM68wAzsVJuSdwUeNNOM4NTPjSEvuXdK5b7A9wE6XwsxNFAYcxKsclvnd/s320/DSC00032.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>It very much feels like a station that was constructed because they thought they should, rather than there being a specific need for it. It's big and airy and full of glass and steel, but it doesn't feel like a hub. I got off the train with one other person, who went down and through the gates alongside me and waited outside to be picked up by a friend. He looked at me a little askew, as though he was surprised to see anyone else there.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOsKqh8okXUFwzD9vu3OdvAnlYviPaEQ_jIFxrijNTZL9vzl9fIOgWmaUcGVIQz3wd-KkpQfQQ94_cEEvfdtE-cL9sGrlduS7czoA4fHic_nNt9jVD5aLM_gM1bBa8hqXqE0_WZkvZ3JOdNsrggf4yCOWsJl9HwmV4txzaTZaoApnKwgapXMo1bahJ1V84/s4896/DSC00036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOsKqh8okXUFwzD9vu3OdvAnlYviPaEQ_jIFxrijNTZL9vzl9fIOgWmaUcGVIQz3wd-KkpQfQQ94_cEEvfdtE-cL9sGrlduS7czoA4fHic_nNt9jVD5aLM_gM1bBa8hqXqE0_WZkvZ3JOdNsrggf4yCOWsJl9HwmV4txzaTZaoApnKwgapXMo1bahJ1V84/s320/DSC00036.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>There's space for buses outside, and a park and ride, but both were unpopular with the public. Eurolines operate coaches from here, but that's about it. I walked outside and took my picture under the ostentatious sign.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgmtSrhsW_WLwYyrmYc1-n4bRFeFydGkp6EzBDfgaz65jAlawvIyeW5Tr4oK2urvTlOfLhjHnlb88y4WlA8QWz18L_IMyeuIZeQ6FIHZqWpirDZ_KwCukHI81PSeYCyPS9gOSq0pVShsksz-hZWye_yBXN60BU9gWkkACTGliM0LS0kTtERy1Nf681Riyv/s4896/DSC00041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgmtSrhsW_WLwYyrmYc1-n4bRFeFydGkp6EzBDfgaz65jAlawvIyeW5Tr4oK2urvTlOfLhjHnlb88y4WlA8QWz18L_IMyeuIZeQ6FIHZqWpirDZ_KwCukHI81PSeYCyPS9gOSq0pVShsksz-hZWye_yBXN60BU9gWkkACTGliM0LS0kTtERy1Nf681Riyv/s320/DSC00041.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The road out of the station complex is long and straight and really quite dull. I think it says a lot about the amount of pedestrian usage it gets that a tree had fallen across the footpath and nobody had thought to move it. It had been there long enough for most of its green leaves to turn brown. The highlight was a heron, which stood on the path and watched me approach with a certain amount of arrogance. It didn't seem inclined to move, as though I encroaching on his territory, and I was within a metre or two and wondering if it was possible or even wise to pet a heron when he lifted his wings and lazily flew off and into the trees. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ETB8StJhoTlM0dpMtv1RBNHZA3GNPuJLqWTnwHhcX45zNmBcH64e62zixv-DQosU6C4wBloQ3nrrHAGKW0PfBefBU8jv-w49Jh0f8fzRz5Vk4DhRIldUO3cWueJhoeqHdCH1tXY2QU5pvdPUHC2et1jFccY7YMUC9laHmuSEAtva2ObQWnXB0uVxPQfo/s4896/DSC00044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ETB8StJhoTlM0dpMtv1RBNHZA3GNPuJLqWTnwHhcX45zNmBcH64e62zixv-DQosU6C4wBloQ3nrrHAGKW0PfBefBU8jv-w49Jh0f8fzRz5Vk4DhRIldUO3cWueJhoeqHdCH1tXY2QU5pvdPUHC2et1jFccY7YMUC9laHmuSEAtva2ObQWnXB0uVxPQfo/s320/DSC00044.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I was deposited on a huge junction with a massive depot for the postal service, but I turned right, past small units and car dealerships. The grinding engines of the city. I crossed another street, and then swore, quite loudly.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcvJAIgEzBYoXSBczuGeAUZOf0Q6HcGXl9HnYOUibnt6UY7ylsHQaAT0jNUN40bQW7twqVfunnYIDwSOsq9GFUhd46jyU60_u6dnyopfFRlUYl9so3vO9lv1bGburS1eo1b579QUR_MSSDOs6gjFY9x1fr73rHR9-AfPFM1SAwt3khEg0V0ZH-NeBp4E5K/s4896/DSC00052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcvJAIgEzBYoXSBczuGeAUZOf0Q6HcGXl9HnYOUibnt6UY7ylsHQaAT0jNUN40bQW7twqVfunnYIDwSOsq9GFUhd46jyU60_u6dnyopfFRlUYl9so3vO9lv1bGburS1eo1b579QUR_MSSDOs6gjFY9x1fr73rHR9-AfPFM1SAwt3khEg0V0ZH-NeBp4E5K/s320/DSC00052.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I'd been here before. <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/another-day-in-paradise.html">A few hours ago, in fact</a>. I'd thought I was simply in another industrial estate but no, there was that cash and carry again, and there were the pictures of food again, and then I was passing under the motorway with the lollipops painted on the supports and the big silver sewage machine was up ahead. <br /><div><br /></div><div>I felt terribly disheartened. I was tired and sweaty and grumbly, and now here I was on the same grimy strip of traffic blasted tarmac. It was my own fault of course; if I'd turned left out of Van der Madeweg station this morning, I would've gone a far more interesting route. I could've gone through a housing estate where all the streets were named after space - Lunaweg and Meteoor and Astronautenweg - and maybe gone to the Duivendrecht precinct on Telstarweg. Then the metro junction and the pumping station would've been a nice surprise in the afternoon. I'd planned badly.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimG2_fPgf0h-v8HrfoUA4gG0bHCt8MEKq4APWwxkwtMdnWicCckfGrptyVW22lM1lUAsY_IYDP6AHCU9CffME-CT3-en6MDfaM8hS2a97BQrlYHS1ix17o2ZUtCdC7M2b2nOzzBLu_kGXIyh_TbRIR4VHBadV1QxZ1aqcmu6yakGVpcMjWPrqfM4GNhTfh/s4896/DSC00056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimG2_fPgf0h-v8HrfoUA4gG0bHCt8MEKq4APWwxkwtMdnWicCckfGrptyVW22lM1lUAsY_IYDP6AHCU9CffME-CT3-en6MDfaM8hS2a97BQrlYHS1ix17o2ZUtCdC7M2b2nOzzBLu_kGXIyh_TbRIR4VHBadV1QxZ1aqcmu6yakGVpcMjWPrqfM4GNhTfh/s320/DSC00056.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I crossed the road, going between gaps in the traffic rather than pushing the button, because I was knackered and dejected. The road shadowed the metro line, and I passed a group of enthusiastic looking young people in hi-vis jackets and helmets being marshalled by a man from the GVB; I wondered if they were engineering students, or apprentices with the transport network. They were far too pretty to be fellow train nerds.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2i6Qxk3aGvtJQtxa7vGAggk56Wx37_Ji2Jg7glPns254q_svpGY-c5Yd3aJnnwYgRK9cXLonLV81GU0U0DN2zgs6PhmOLNTgnDNi9_b4ETp025kgytUC2ZJeNyOWQ7WUhnJ0Be7bm27EmBCQBzds_KHSe4ec0oqTgsDhqXh_ZxQIeZtGb21Jaqj-WDDCv/s4896/DSC00057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2i6Qxk3aGvtJQtxa7vGAggk56Wx37_Ji2Jg7glPns254q_svpGY-c5Yd3aJnnwYgRK9cXLonLV81GU0U0DN2zgs6PhmOLNTgnDNi9_b4ETp025kgytUC2ZJeNyOWQ7WUhnJ0Be7bm27EmBCQBzds_KHSe4ec0oqTgsDhqXh_ZxQIeZtGb21Jaqj-WDDCv/s320/DSC00057.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Two men stopped their conversation as I passed, leaning on their parked BMWs and watching me suspiciously, pausing in whatever illicit trade they were engaged in. I feigned disinterest, while secretly wanting to know everything about what they were up to, and walked up to the station at the end of the road.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsoRgRJlVuN9D0Vag49sPL7IaIiKm7Z5oJALJQKeZR2jzQB0J67rwC-fyNvu7votOiMJQz1tDy5W9Ak71Cm9JMrlqY0t0EiHMNYd0dNWpAwWWmtebYnUu9LZPT8FADjhgojOtFBOoRLeBI_J-lsk6sHKWBEa7__q1eYM7sgE19oMFig0lG5C_bo48YozUD/s4896/DSC00058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsoRgRJlVuN9D0Vag49sPL7IaIiKm7Z5oJALJQKeZR2jzQB0J67rwC-fyNvu7votOiMJQz1tDy5W9Ak71Cm9JMrlqY0t0EiHMNYd0dNWpAwWWmtebYnUu9LZPT8FADjhgojOtFBOoRLeBI_J-lsk6sHKWBEa7__q1eYM7sgE19oMFig0lG5C_bo48YozUD/s320/DSC00058.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Overamstel was added to the network in the 90s, when the Amstelveen tram-train line came into existence, and now it's a handy spot to change between the green 50 and the orange 51. We'd moved off the Oostlijn now, onto the newer line I'd mainly collected the day before, and so it didn't get the same refurb. This meant, sadly, no tiled station name. Instead I had to put up with a shiny one under the viaduct.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuMtYzSLIhx3oIuVlkckgeHzBWdH5JYqvW6_LFlnt677GcYzAklHrTYfQAJVm3NDMPwuiOW-BQ-HcsID_2AFa5-UxtJufaKuFP9HDcCX1sVDq7Un1MYCXRdmLG_zUmb0zx12WJSeBAYUkJiLe-jk2VOri7dVrH9gPwXkOTwTjWOPrXyXu0afZ4bqw3eUaZ/s4896/DSC00062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuMtYzSLIhx3oIuVlkckgeHzBWdH5JYqvW6_LFlnt677GcYzAklHrTYfQAJVm3NDMPwuiOW-BQ-HcsID_2AFa5-UxtJufaKuFP9HDcCX1sVDq7Un1MYCXRdmLG_zUmb0zx12WJSeBAYUkJiLe-jk2VOri7dVrH9gPwXkOTwTjWOPrXyXu0afZ4bqw3eUaZ/s320/DSC00062.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>I promise you that says Overamstel up there. I didn't know the sunshine was exactly on it when I took the photo. Look, I've fiddled with the colours, and you can clearly see a <i>stel</i>.</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTNt4AsyTFMP480D_CeiOOmrt4rXGFWp-BLzVFlL5lxSgcXLPKlGhsD3jFxKhyhNLPZkoWWlErsy-2q6MmQZqvlu6H-SQz-eNQpO2kPxxOJcuoYKtCAx4fmKB3LFlj5HLBVfhzV88D7NMdjA5vyEwJCjpMbTdUvvP2nRnYx4yTsT9a8e8Zq51G36OgoT0/s4192/DSC00062-EDIT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4192" data-original-width="3144" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpTNt4AsyTFMP480D_CeiOOmrt4rXGFWp-BLzVFlL5lxSgcXLPKlGhsD3jFxKhyhNLPZkoWWlErsy-2q6MmQZqvlu6H-SQz-eNQpO2kPxxOJcuoYKtCAx4fmKB3LFlj5HLBVfhzV88D7NMdjA5vyEwJCjpMbTdUvvP2nRnYx4yTsT9a8e8Zq51G36OgoT0/s320/DSC00062-EDIT.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Once again, if you want me to go back and get a proper photo of the sign, feel free to send cash to my <a href="https://ko-fi.com/merseytart">Ko-fi</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNeQ0KEVmTUL8STIfSG6XGd3Xa90IJivnJxvZBwHxAQYEx7u71SrpPPVP_x3jKFkFZJopmJXxRTkzz0AyfFRNOqfZyGPX00lQX6jun9NXvcD5sM97ZhYC8YqlH8mAXUQPUe73nmVFNh1fqSvLu8Hgk1qHdOoN0qnHJWshTr7Eb1aoY-PVzB4Btbr_vceFB/s4896/DSC00065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNeQ0KEVmTUL8STIfSG6XGd3Xa90IJivnJxvZBwHxAQYEx7u71SrpPPVP_x3jKFkFZJopmJXxRTkzz0AyfFRNOqfZyGPX00lQX6jun9NXvcD5sM97ZhYC8YqlH8mAXUQPUe73nmVFNh1fqSvLu8Hgk1qHdOoN0qnHJWshTr7Eb1aoY-PVzB4Btbr_vceFB/s320/DSC00065.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>This was it. One more train journey and I'd have done it. Every station on the Amsterdam Metro, collected, visited, photographed. Two days and a lot of walking. I was tired but exhilarated. This was genuinely one of the best things I have done in my life <i>(Reader's Voice: Jesus Christ)</i> and I enjoyed every second of it. In some ways, I didn't want it to end. In others, I was glad it was over.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybFnNQVEqfINHgRsmDfs5lk8kDx-OlIfzCWxYAQTs_CtFMmwFF1HTb_dWgoa_6MJrkfXKOSfb-7qij8JmT5pUke2f1eBjFvCAZNbWRXBQMxHwO6_QFcmdrrrGigTLwOiu-ykpK-0m88qWXnotW7cRbem9DX1T7CGLMekkCzHz5wyk0_d9ZRVgVFJFtAHF/s4896/DSC00066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybFnNQVEqfINHgRsmDfs5lk8kDx-OlIfzCWxYAQTs_CtFMmwFF1HTb_dWgoa_6MJrkfXKOSfb-7qij8JmT5pUke2f1eBjFvCAZNbWRXBQMxHwO6_QFcmdrrrGigTLwOiu-ykpK-0m88qWXnotW7cRbem9DX1T7CGLMekkCzHz5wyk0_d9ZRVgVFJFtAHF/s320/DSC00066.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Towers and glass told me I was back in the business district of the city. This was Amsterdam Rai, the station for the conference complex I'd been to a million years ago when I did the <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/07/ik-denk-over-je-na-amsterdam.html">Nord-Zuidlijn</a>. The 52 passes right underneath Rai station but they didn't build an interchange, instead putting Europaplein station directly outside the convention centre and removing the lengthy walk passengers on the 50 and 51 needed to take. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghE7AisaFJTZbgtSoaXdDjEAJRy9VhnqLOjsZBrK9Hg7hYuztVbWwGUEHc6C4aIKMnNfONE0RzpRfgeLPCWs_AmoX7ypaPyE0pU8shcHvt9aaM0KOwTBIRyFArdRBFEiPX2eBjQtmVfAuM0za2cEr0FRu-GxLVzJgD7nJ_BjkrEzRJb15XHRbzOZSdQcCc/s4896/DSC00067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghE7AisaFJTZbgtSoaXdDjEAJRy9VhnqLOjsZBrK9Hg7hYuztVbWwGUEHc6C4aIKMnNfONE0RzpRfgeLPCWs_AmoX7ypaPyE0pU8shcHvt9aaM0KOwTBIRyFArdRBFEiPX2eBjQtmVfAuM0za2cEr0FRu-GxLVzJgD7nJ_BjkrEzRJb15XHRbzOZSdQcCc/s320/DSC00067.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It was another rail/metro hub, though rather better used than Duivendrecht. I followed the crowds down, thinking of how I'd shared a lift with two of the delegates for the dementia conference at the RAI in the hotel that morning, and they had studiously avoided making eye contact, even though they were both wearing lanyards showing they were going the same place. I walked out into the road outside the station, raised my camera, and took my last Amsterdam station selfie.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zqboNQ1O0qJH09jgGmymABVkr1GIWclnb3F-ATSw3wKMiydPhpX_s3V_jPyl-w9CRuLLs_H_wZGwsqQw70nCTtSoJpH_H5yIeMiT1IDST6lc26-z1h5b7cy46bzZMRV5WI6jabGLxY0Ecv2gjT-K7fKPw4rUmbJjIkK17I5RXMSfxQ7qLuO3oW1syMpb/s4896/DSC00070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zqboNQ1O0qJH09jgGmymABVkr1GIWclnb3F-ATSw3wKMiydPhpX_s3V_jPyl-w9CRuLLs_H_wZGwsqQw70nCTtSoJpH_H5yIeMiT1IDST6lc26-z1h5b7cy46bzZMRV5WI6jabGLxY0Ecv2gjT-K7fKPw4rUmbJjIkK17I5RXMSfxQ7qLuO3oW1syMpb/s320/DSC00070.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><div><div><div><div><div><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-79961993499582731192023-08-28T12:57:00.001+01:002023-08-28T12:57:10.343+01:00A Bitch That Needs To Be Tamed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuumzt_eF2Oi_kpV5cIPNasQGwxNeAt5PxhXNAzkl9XTdumLSGSUA8uyto7Ui5IjaxxBIQchTOETV76mCmlZ4yEA5WW9GEZC_hKOG6NrdueRIpiMXSvrW5xsxPrhO9mf6OBIpIiGgywONfPsVuIhUMrvR4AR9qXAhw4mZcphsaQ3HgU6pYCKcuD_H7spbD/s4896/DSC09935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuumzt_eF2Oi_kpV5cIPNasQGwxNeAt5PxhXNAzkl9XTdumLSGSUA8uyto7Ui5IjaxxBIQchTOETV76mCmlZ4yEA5WW9GEZC_hKOG6NrdueRIpiMXSvrW5xsxPrhO9mf6OBIpIiGgywONfPsVuIhUMrvR4AR9qXAhw4mZcphsaQ3HgU6pYCKcuD_H7spbD/s320/DSC09935.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>The word, <i>Gein, </i>in Dutch, translates to English as "joke".</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgytOGzUs4lb0M7Yfaj0fSKKZ5KSioANzds7xoNv2xZAQaffgrPRVBtBGYg1SeuJFEf-lSabi3_UyZsa9a4Sts-qV3h-uVw6RC5xuidNzLQS2feHZKUFMb15hkXMNkRgNVxyquFx4xTqlYl4Kadp6EWjpi2k4Xdf0jdqajnmkDhqg4s3CHak489jpivB6R7/s4896/DSC09941.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgytOGzUs4lb0M7Yfaj0fSKKZ5KSioANzds7xoNv2xZAQaffgrPRVBtBGYg1SeuJFEf-lSabi3_UyZsa9a4Sts-qV3h-uVw6RC5xuidNzLQS2feHZKUFMb15hkXMNkRgNVxyquFx4xTqlYl4Kadp6EWjpi2k4Xdf0jdqajnmkDhqg4s3CHak489jpivB6R7/s320/DSC09941.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Amsterdam. You shady bitch.<div><br /></div><div>With the M53 now complete, it was time to head back out into the city's suburbs for the M50/M52 branch. This was the final set of stations for me to collect to complete the entire Metro.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg278PZDszyCgnHOloH2uqQYL2jLhaA34dPW49MTMesmrJzL-gNw0DacG13KMDXzlUEWDI8wPV1szUMrNmBo3oYwlm8DM52utiVc6l7hYSQcKWFcyyQCGDJp_jnOymCpvPxwEdlalP2Oc20Ds-C5qoHmC5n6EAm8HR6yx8wpYf-UgRCVXOKyUB9o1Iavi0t/s1318/Screenshot%202023-08-28%20000116.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="808" data-original-width="1318" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg278PZDszyCgnHOloH2uqQYL2jLhaA34dPW49MTMesmrJzL-gNw0DacG13KMDXzlUEWDI8wPV1szUMrNmBo3oYwlm8DM52utiVc6l7hYSQcKWFcyyQCGDJp_jnOymCpvPxwEdlalP2Oc20Ds-C5qoHmC5n6EAm8HR6yx8wpYf-UgRCVXOKyUB9o1Iavi0t/s320/Screenshot%202023-08-28%20000116.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Gein, much like Gaasperplas, was on the edge of the city in every sense. Once again I was out in a world of social housing and relative poverty, of immigrant stores and community centres. The shopping street that extended from the station inland wasn't packed. The main source of activity was the Jumbo supermarket, a chain I've always liked for its "does what it says on the tin" name - <i>"yeah, we're a big supermarket, we're Jumbo, what's your problem?" </i>Beyond it was a water feature with a small terrace lined with tables with chess sets inlaid in them. The bird mess and general scratches decorating the black and white boards hinted that they maybe weren't used a lot.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2iD1NK3dSwmZJz7zUtn_r4FFk0mtSyPqQS_d3zXKmoKbcvxxHe8CG395J03-fVXdgugZcZ1IECatZtc_kokX9FnCvM0aJ5ClT3aixLbeS9yMU2R5o_A_mNLDdCwB3GQJjZeGW8kKk65-r7VVdYA5ajMRvf5vFyDaFLApXzkwM9w4Db69krG3SAcrJAIbx/s4896/DSC09944.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2iD1NK3dSwmZJz7zUtn_r4FFk0mtSyPqQS_d3zXKmoKbcvxxHe8CG395J03-fVXdgugZcZ1IECatZtc_kokX9FnCvM0aJ5ClT3aixLbeS9yMU2R5o_A_mNLDdCwB3GQJjZeGW8kKk65-r7VVdYA5ajMRvf5vFyDaFLApXzkwM9w4Db69krG3SAcrJAIbx/s320/DSC09944.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>From here, a footpath with a cycle route alongside took me through the estate to the next community along. It was heavily shaded with trees and bushes, while the houses turned away from it, showing only their gable ends. If this had been England I'd have been wary, waiting for muggers and rapists and murderers to leap out of the undergrowth. Because I was abroad, everything had that glamorous patina of <i>holiday</i>, and I strolled along, thoroughly charmed, not thinking I could ever experience any kind of danger. I sometimes worry that my sheer levels of stupidity are the only thing stopping me from being beaten to death, that psychopaths look at me and decide I'm actually too dumb to bother with. I passed a bench where a large black man had a speaker system blasting out reggae music; next to him, on the same bench, a toothless man with a can of something in his hand (I'm guessing it wasn't sugar free Fanta) rolled around in a sitting dance. The man with the speaker studiously ignored the person rocking out eight inches from his face; there may as well have been a forcefield between them.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkvq3vnBJn24iYsC7EHXkbGQC7NcjuzazovBt9KQslzL_ygWajZkeraMmj02Im_yWZ00nWB7zaHTH3UIm5j8A0xnCPzODSEdiepuoIDpkytQFDJMamctH9gCc6WJdl1Su1N6Zmi-rohS9b6twa8bLTIRWh5UVbiXUHDR7oyOtya2pVaER9dGcUOlDTEOAn/s4896/DSC09947.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkvq3vnBJn24iYsC7EHXkbGQC7NcjuzazovBt9KQslzL_ygWajZkeraMmj02Im_yWZ00nWB7zaHTH3UIm5j8A0xnCPzODSEdiepuoIDpkytQFDJMamctH9gCc6WJdl1Su1N6Zmi-rohS9b6twa8bLTIRWh5UVbiXUHDR7oyOtya2pVaER9dGcUOlDTEOAn/s320/DSC09947.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Approaching the centre of Reigersbos, I was passed by a middle aged Asian couple. He was bent over, a bag of groceries in his hand, while she wore a big floppy canvas hat and was carrying a gourd. I'm not a biologist. I know nothing of vegetables that you can't get from Sainsbury's Fruit & Veg aisle. All I know is that this lady was carrying a foot long yellow fruit that could've been used as a weapon.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Ba8DiCrqPEAmDqZ-E_Ce25Lz-4l9U-FThgMZUE1bGXq7tgKUM4nIfWL67QGmN-4ogjrAldfWTSbOyrAt1Lljord5zBdt2_S2JbVawGiFFdz4COI3-DfrMX1H0SPGxFBboQFN91WDB29inePtGKkXNM5tW-sY5K825qSDILQe0flHO503trdjZmzUxyMe/s4896/DSC09954.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Ba8DiCrqPEAmDqZ-E_Ce25Lz-4l9U-FThgMZUE1bGXq7tgKUM4nIfWL67QGmN-4ogjrAldfWTSbOyrAt1Lljord5zBdt2_S2JbVawGiFFdz4COI3-DfrMX1H0SPGxFBboQFN91WDB29inePtGKkXNM5tW-sY5K825qSDILQe0flHO503trdjZmzUxyMe/s320/DSC09954.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Reigersbos precinct was almost exactly the same as Gein. Pink paving, a few shops, nothing you'd travel too far to visit. 1970s modernism with concrete and glass. It did, however, have an architectural feature I found utterly thrilling. There are some things that just appeal. I like tilework. I like steps. I like symmetry. I like pointless grandeur. But one of my favourite things is <i>transport going through the middle of a building.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxM84godP1tbWQG-8SIEVxbfK6XcRkBvdwNMAvYrKveF7qdZFTcLdZmRmJSmVveb1EfzGlnChyIEWs5OzLXQ9D_4wjk5lbU1UhOiwjSsgw9emFrSh0vYwxHyBm1xBglNpCrSLN9sUyI8iP_cfF45a6XRfGzRkvpZWV2p46ZpbuBRHzP1-pYBgcgbZRdDCf/s4896/DSC09957.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxM84godP1tbWQG-8SIEVxbfK6XcRkBvdwNMAvYrKveF7qdZFTcLdZmRmJSmVveb1EfzGlnChyIEWs5OzLXQ9D_4wjk5lbU1UhOiwjSsgw9emFrSh0vYwxHyBm1xBglNpCrSLN9sUyI8iP_cfF45a6XRfGzRkvpZWV2p46ZpbuBRHzP1-pYBgcgbZRdDCf/s320/DSC09957.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />It is, in many ways, dystopian, and I'm sure the people who live either side of the metro tunnels are furious several times an hour, but from down at street level it was unbelievably thrilling. It was Gotham or Coruscant or Mega City One, and yes, I know none of those are exactly the ideal place to live, but it was still the future, and I loved it. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0FZqGdccNYD6FiziGOf_9v8n-6eVCmWdeOwUs85EHm98JDBs_CZFzTV-ttPdd6PefKjf4W5yS_os9QZ_sfE5C7onNADTuPgPX4HmwM_NDTbRRiELwbIMt5xz3xV0pcMsVoz4uF6RIGxaHdNfrW5pssMPK287ZYYgt34XCtmpAafoaE6txjZ1hcXkvPvD/s4896/DSC09959.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0FZqGdccNYD6FiziGOf_9v8n-6eVCmWdeOwUs85EHm98JDBs_CZFzTV-ttPdd6PefKjf4W5yS_os9QZ_sfE5C7onNADTuPgPX4HmwM_NDTbRRiELwbIMt5xz3xV0pcMsVoz4uF6RIGxaHdNfrW5pssMPK287ZYYgt34XCtmpAafoaE6txjZ1hcXkvPvD/s320/DSC09959.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Reigersbos station got a similar makeover to Ganzenhoef, except by that point the money was starting to run out. The original 1970s building was demolished and replaced with a steel and glass version but there was none of the flourishes of Ganzenhoef, none of the charismatic moments. It was a rebuild that felt more practical than artistic.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEHcuY272xc0csRKi7ClyaxFYEOhA5O1MjRcWW5gHxYN5CIUKACcmkVjzaN_oHBSBj4WKjlz5Rh0_JGJulgm6DsXKPRGu8oOAjnUX63-bJFGTchSZbnUft36spy0X4BOLPr8z4L5hotE7qjRY-LjhhpojJK84NKP73UEILd6GrjVILPPtpzgS2lT1gu6H2/s4896/DSC09960.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEHcuY272xc0csRKi7ClyaxFYEOhA5O1MjRcWW5gHxYN5CIUKACcmkVjzaN_oHBSBj4WKjlz5Rh0_JGJulgm6DsXKPRGu8oOAjnUX63-bJFGTchSZbnUft36spy0X4BOLPr8z4L5hotE7qjRY-LjhhpojJK84NKP73UEILd6GrjVILPPtpzgS2lT1gu6H2/s320/DSC09960.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>An interesting ("interesting") feature of Amsterdam's transport network is how late they were in building suburban railway stations. I guess the idea was that Centraal was such an effective hub, with trams and buses radiating out from it, you didn't need silly little stops outside the city centre as well slowing things down. It lead to strange situations like Holendrecht, where the metro station opened alongside the Amsterdam-Utrecht line in 1977, but they didn't build mainline platforms until 2008. That's so weird to me. Surely the more interchanges the better?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZSHK0rG9Q2s-VVKlxzfBHL4NK3G7AzSA9BMMd2VVFO2Q_7e5TO5Ec7JiYKUm3oH4S39DmLlG7TNHy4rZ7EI2Xn2md3xBT8HG94PcWtMYZ_ka6g6hIXxQR9LiycEI4RdFsX94Gc4q-raS1_YRN6SwArFbfgzeZBJItaguq7SRqDW2-U6hAVjyeaYGzOGQ/s4896/DSC09963.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZSHK0rG9Q2s-VVKlxzfBHL4NK3G7AzSA9BMMd2VVFO2Q_7e5TO5Ec7JiYKUm3oH4S39DmLlG7TNHy4rZ7EI2Xn2md3xBT8HG94PcWtMYZ_ka6g6hIXxQR9LiycEI4RdFsX94Gc4q-raS1_YRN6SwArFbfgzeZBJItaguq7SRqDW2-U6hAVjyeaYGzOGQ/s320/DSC09963.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>This might be a good time to broach the topic of the refurbishment. You might have noticed, in the many, <i>many</i> sign selfies that I've taken, that the Oostlijn ones usually involve a red tiled frieze. One like this:<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2cm-8jbNa4Z0Q5u72gbm7duzDZkIhnM4re50XcSOcf1RN0j8l_Y6VPXGuwKDT41GV6wFXqQvNr8Dyt_jfCp88homrCazT3xnopQ2OoFjyrQnHWwZVOoqQlP-j0Ym8xnCH-Qmqll-n5YJUIJKdBpDxTP2xHFy-TsNTz1ASzQZzDOmPgxHqBp3WdNoLzwHR/s4896/DSC09966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2cm-8jbNa4Z0Q5u72gbm7duzDZkIhnM4re50XcSOcf1RN0j8l_Y6VPXGuwKDT41GV6wFXqQvNr8Dyt_jfCp88homrCazT3xnopQ2OoFjyrQnHWwZVOoqQlP-j0Ym8xnCH-Qmqll-n5YJUIJKdBpDxTP2xHFy-TsNTz1ASzQZzDOmPgxHqBp3WdNoLzwHR/s320/DSC09966.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>These signs aren't original to the metro's construction. In fact, they're newer than the Nord-Zuidlijn, having been installed between 2016 and 2019. The Oostlijn's problems had continued beyond <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/battleground.html">the riots that greeted its construction</a>. Drugs gripped the city throughout the 1980s, and the metro stations - dark spaces under viaducts with seats and lighting - became a prime spot for dealers and users alike to hang out. A system of methadone buses introduced by the city's authorities to try and alleviate the problem made things worse, as they used the stations as convenient stopping points to treat addicts. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5O05xUtESDpsC5bzttC9SH9YXMGGrrPh21WujHxLKQaqQdmoENgNmbXBg2r-MNYmulZyg58bhbUqWCPoyqHfJjJIM1OxlF_3qh3Z_QeVl4vKk-tLoFlxDNO2l3Lno1KZY9cRJUbbM2dQa8JMYjqu90u4aVlL74iQhXONx61myDqViFuQ9xZjruMVopN8D/s4896/DSC09964.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5O05xUtESDpsC5bzttC9SH9YXMGGrrPh21WujHxLKQaqQdmoENgNmbXBg2r-MNYmulZyg58bhbUqWCPoyqHfJjJIM1OxlF_3qh3Z_QeVl4vKk-tLoFlxDNO2l3Lno1KZY9cRJUbbM2dQa8JMYjqu90u4aVlL74iQhXONx61myDqViFuQ9xZjruMVopN8D/s320/DSC09964.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Amsterdam was also being attacked by another problem: graffiti. The original stations had been designed with ridged concrete walls which the architects proudly proclaimed would make it difficult to scribble on. This was when the worst you could do was use chalk. Unfortunately, spray paint suddenly became commonplace, and those ridged concrete walls became incredibly difficult to scrub clean. The city eventually covered the walls up with drab panelling or a plasticised formulation to cut down on maintenance costs. The lifts were enclosed metal boxes that people used as toilets, to the extent that some stations had cat litter scattered at the bottom of the shaft to absorb all the urine. Add in a general increase in station clutter - ticket gates and cables and lights - and the Oostlijn was tired and run down. One politician, Alderman Eric Wiebes, called it a "bitch that needs to be tamed", which is so brilliantly Dutch they should've immediately made him Prime Minister.<div><br /></div><div>The architectural firm Group A was given the job of restoring the network and making it suitable for 21st century. They stripped back the walls to reveal the concrete again; new treatments developed since the stations were built could be applied and meant they could resist graffiti without compromising their look. Lifts were rebuilt in glass, open for everyone to see, so they no longer acted as urinals. Windows were introduced as much as possible to create open spaces, while at the same time, leaving you with nowhere to hide, while lighting was introduced throughout to illuminate the dark spaces. Each station was given an expanded ticket hall where the machines and services were integrated into the wall to stop vandalism. And then there were those tiled signs, designed by René Knip, finally giving each station the identity it deserves.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidoAPF9zTaoGvdOvPgLeo5uKY7MQQ6RGuzZDrgxcAoRJcdx_9iKF_H0FFXAzH0lzrv-7RHVVJFbSFMdAP2BKs0HnbTGeUGq8Z_aS8Y4Ddl3xYEej08_C4Ilx4JTOkdMuCtPlRQarPsIP_8VI8IcaSRHj4EQ_ttbQ65zlg1UOtMhJ3xz7RSpm-DzM-1tgRL/s4032/IMG_4603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidoAPF9zTaoGvdOvPgLeo5uKY7MQQ6RGuzZDrgxcAoRJcdx_9iKF_H0FFXAzH0lzrv-7RHVVJFbSFMdAP2BKs0HnbTGeUGq8Z_aS8Y4Ddl3xYEej08_C4Ilx4JTOkdMuCtPlRQarPsIP_8VI8IcaSRHj4EQ_ttbQ65zlg1UOtMhJ3xz7RSpm-DzM-1tgRL/s320/IMG_4603.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I had no idea about all this at the time. All I saw was an attractive metro network, clean, tidy, with Brutalist touches that thrilled me and those lovely tiled names. I found it all out afterwards via a wonderful book called <i><a href="https://ribabooks.com/Metro-Oostlijn-Amsterdam_9789462262706">Metro Oostlijn Amsterdam</a> </i>which I highly recommend buying if you've got any interest in station architecture or urban design or if you just like looking at pretty pictures.<br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8YVdU_QkDwwd8Pd8FswYpSzIzxf5iU8tbpNvTVZg7udmO1Vy20ZORm97YX_al7zKcGkdIS-Uo4fCsBh_yIqzOWc3H0J9LGHVSgeqn4MS8s-oysxy5em2e1HwRkIw9mS2WiZXQ-LRl-xzZjwTga-TAZ-0VVh-g0XDRVs4nP2f7AJfhXg3hibYK50E90mwe/s4896/DSC09968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8YVdU_QkDwwd8Pd8FswYpSzIzxf5iU8tbpNvTVZg7udmO1Vy20ZORm97YX_al7zKcGkdIS-Uo4fCsBh_yIqzOWc3H0J9LGHVSgeqn4MS8s-oysxy5em2e1HwRkIw9mS2WiZXQ-LRl-xzZjwTga-TAZ-0VVh-g0XDRVs4nP2f7AJfhXg3hibYK50E90mwe/s320/DSC09968.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Outside Holendrecht, they built a bus exchange, where I had my one and only negative encounter with a member of the Netherlandish public. An agitated man, who I am pretty sure was recently at the hospital next to the station, approached and barked a lot of Dutch at me. I could only stammer a reply of, <i>"I'm sorry, I'm English"</i>, which is, let's be honest, something we should probably say whenever we talk to foreigners. The man was unimpressed and marched off to find someone more able to help.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnNL4d1AXY719BhuGKZvI_K_9IQwZ35DzLBx-FvfGDCs-mBJS1EdJtoteOHs6Ohi1EyR99mWDFvkUnFMBCNssRgb9w8xY-R5ynXh6UdDOoTsa8MV_YjM2ZbbL-1h1X4xS25QJS6FsjHDDUPAe3RrJ29J-FtsoAScwGLWyPjAxDicvZ__Wd991qbXgNFOFz/s4896/DSC09969.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnNL4d1AXY719BhuGKZvI_K_9IQwZ35DzLBx-FvfGDCs-mBJS1EdJtoteOHs6Ohi1EyR99mWDFvkUnFMBCNssRgb9w8xY-R5ynXh6UdDOoTsa8MV_YjM2ZbbL-1h1X4xS25QJS6FsjHDDUPAe3RrJ29J-FtsoAScwGLWyPjAxDicvZ__Wd991qbXgNFOFz/s320/DSC09969.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Across from the hospital was an office park and I vanished into it, following bland avenues between tall buildings. It seemed that this was undergoing some regeneration of its own, with older blocks being demolished and replaced by shiny new ones. What looked exciting and futuristic in 1981 was dated and tired. If they hung on long enough it might become retro and fashionable again.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYg9mUnJnEVd9cgQY62ytxxAs4XT9Z8ZhhWfHKbMBOCxagXiDNxCNM15Fm29uTl4kbPaMhQ-qEZQguM-bJZFCppXlKVV9dIYoIFr6Z_XdGlmsG4AZabCdrzCp9o0V2HIEriyaqQVWiOUytPLaXFKXubRy7jwBocc53TYlILXHYXD8bGKk1xS0T5rgdcI7/s4896/DSC09975.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYg9mUnJnEVd9cgQY62ytxxAs4XT9Z8ZhhWfHKbMBOCxagXiDNxCNM15Fm29uTl4kbPaMhQ-qEZQguM-bJZFCppXlKVV9dIYoIFr6Z_XdGlmsG4AZabCdrzCp9o0V2HIEriyaqQVWiOUytPLaXFKXubRy7jwBocc53TYlILXHYXD8bGKk1xS0T5rgdcI7/s320/DSC09975.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>One thing that made me laugh was that, for some reason I couldn't quite understand, these new gleaming office blocks had all been named after friends of your mum. I spotted Dorothy, Rosalyn and Barbara; presumably Phase 2 will include Elaine, Val and Lynne. I followed the road round, with the noise of the motorway getting louder and louder, and on the horizon was the entrance to the Gasperdammertunnel. If you <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/the-saga-continues.html">cast your mind back</a> you'll remember that I'd actually walked over the top of that tunnel earlier in the day; I was ridiculously pleased to see it again from a different angle. </div><div><br /><div><div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7mlPBvxLiwSi2-9AEyy9u2ZJW5n2CGFTlN87gwbWcE9yW5a6TNJjTR2WKnol0iaA1QEcIqpe7ynWfuEyXX__4EhxcdxxZasqdgYjUJnr_wlL7V_qx4GQEJ1v-mqCzQbcmcGc3h30hfd6nq4AawlgCqg5oG_s-0AwOxWYuVC7li5hw_4VkVikWq7dsnSk8/s4896/DSC09979.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7mlPBvxLiwSi2-9AEyy9u2ZJW5n2CGFTlN87gwbWcE9yW5a6TNJjTR2WKnol0iaA1QEcIqpe7ynWfuEyXX__4EhxcdxxZasqdgYjUJnr_wlL7V_qx4GQEJ1v-mqCzQbcmcGc3h30hfd6nq4AawlgCqg5oG_s-0AwOxWYuVC7li5hw_4VkVikWq7dsnSk8/s320/DSC09979.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Under the motorway was less fun. The Dutch are the tallest people on the planet, with the average for men being six feet, and yet they build their underpasses with seemingly the bare minimum of clearance. I'm only five foot nine but I could reach up and touch the underside of the motorway bridge. The men of the country must be permanently cracking their head on things. Incidentally, what's this obsession among gay men with six foot? Everyone thinks they're scraping that height, and they go all gooey the more over the bar you go. I don't get it. Personally I love a Short King; I like to be able to look over the top of your head. When I first met the BF I thought he was shorter than me, and I remember the disappointment when I stood up and realised he was an inch taller. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZsj53F8fqQBITj44wPWpBX0VtT5xjd_BXaqtf3NnmR2zJVG676PA_QvfbAoZY2wq2bKcPNVrgIo6bm8f3iUtxb8qkcr63NSIeD1vat_DpOIvDNGxHK5QC8arHLj1ihba4kolid-_nT5Mu9UvauwjIhNFpsYEpCFSx3a0Y5rX4IDH7HPxJh1o29wTYywq2/s4896/DSC09982.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZsj53F8fqQBITj44wPWpBX0VtT5xjd_BXaqtf3NnmR2zJVG676PA_QvfbAoZY2wq2bKcPNVrgIo6bm8f3iUtxb8qkcr63NSIeD1vat_DpOIvDNGxHK5QC8arHLj1ihba4kolid-_nT5Mu9UvauwjIhNFpsYEpCFSx3a0Y5rX4IDH7HPxJh1o29wTYywq2/s320/DSC09982.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>On the other side of the road I found myself at the back of a blue and yellow Ikea, because some things are constant no matter where you are in the world. Again, the signage was in both Dutch and English, and once again I must ask of the Netherlands: who hurt you? Why do you hate your native tongue so much?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjMPEv968TCT3b99BFjDHbqBGWUnXQmp7ZjAwPFEXYLjPoX6p6Xzz3oymemITu2fNB8EEj-LbYkpgk-Zr0VImxweNjJE1SNX60gfJXQxXDbwqMzUtmopZg05H0xeE1nHwxCWxnc4nF9J59FVmt7x1VD4lGBdNO3EOAwnfENJH7AVl6wEQEJAYSq6U2XAh/s4896/DSC09986.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrjMPEv968TCT3b99BFjDHbqBGWUnXQmp7ZjAwPFEXYLjPoX6p6Xzz3oymemITu2fNB8EEj-LbYkpgk-Zr0VImxweNjJE1SNX60gfJXQxXDbwqMzUtmopZg05H0xeE1nHwxCWxnc4nF9J59FVmt7x1VD4lGBdNO3EOAwnfENJH7AVl6wEQEJAYSq6U2XAh/s320/DSC09986.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>Tucked in amongst the boring office blocks and hotels was a small garden, <a href="https://deproefzaak.nl/en/de-proefzaak-amsterdam-english-2/">De Proefzaak</a>, which accompanied a tin shed that housed a brewery. It looked scrappy and defiant amongst the ordinary cubes, and I thought back to the community restaurant near <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/the-saga-continues.html">Verrin Stuartweg</a> station that was closing for redevelopment. I wondered how long it would survive here before another business hotel bought the land and turfed them out.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3N3Z5aknx4jFOfsQu94Y8XMxJPS5ddcmJmWdGk7ymgXBG9yreNAASHLArCgo4_3g4vgtwvp_D8uUn7XQaY8xk6hgDgDNkyrTNwPFWzaYoxwsxFJCqiULrPOKFrxVo50Xsc4OwGVxExLrF9hVwjtPBTXRyh0nDFRKVWotLSaK9XTRZNkmMfA90l3HF6o5u/s4896/DSC09989.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3N3Z5aknx4jFOfsQu94Y8XMxJPS5ddcmJmWdGk7ymgXBG9yreNAASHLArCgo4_3g4vgtwvp_D8uUn7XQaY8xk6hgDgDNkyrTNwPFWzaYoxwsxFJCqiULrPOKFrxVo50Xsc4OwGVxExLrF9hVwjtPBTXRyh0nDFRKVWotLSaK9XTRZNkmMfA90l3HF6o5u/s320/DSC09989.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Bullewijk station was simple to get to, a straight path leading to the escalator hall (which <i>Metro Oostlijn Amsterdam </i>has informed me are called "sphinxes", because of the way they poke up over the tracks). Unfortunately, that day the building site next door had spilled over onto the path in a way that I don't think was 100% local authority approved. Heras fencing had been erected to completely seal off the route. The result was a lot of confused passengers trying to work out how to reach the station; in the end we picked through the weeds and grass around the canal, dropping down below the road level, while the workers watched us. They didn't seem to be actually doing anything, of course.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhEPUM5V2_UQSVZHToD6zEVfMicY9Hojahfhcx9jyNsHzGEm4PC35SETYOUEe1sy67X96Y1nUnhF9nTVRn5pczT0gH8r36dGT96hqS6La-GQan-Mm_iL3ouSmiNBFT9CGf3ceu99q6LJUZNqvHkKgM4Acq72JS8gefdJLdOi4ORDB6FM4C7s793NcYytVe/s4896/DSC09992.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhEPUM5V2_UQSVZHToD6zEVfMicY9Hojahfhcx9jyNsHzGEm4PC35SETYOUEe1sy67X96Y1nUnhF9nTVRn5pczT0gH8r36dGT96hqS6La-GQan-Mm_iL3ouSmiNBFT9CGf3ceu99q6LJUZNqvHkKgM4Acq72JS8gefdJLdOi4ORDB6FM4C7s793NcYytVe/s320/DSC09992.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>That sign on the bridge apparently translates as <i>I Stand For You</i>. No, me either. An encouragement for polite behaviour when you spot a pregnant lady on a busy train?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhltZ4dQav_ZcUFRximNa6-IKFFvZnc3OlDnA4MRgfvqH_Yn4fSFiR7V5iE4dPgpQgZYHVg5dE-2asy76tAbGUBcd3S7kbYZLneBg5ADySBC9ymmcscar-CFKALFQzH-xXHjVV69t8QYnUsl9f7-b78uTDd3LYdeWMhHG5UvmeYPw_Inuc4A-wPQX-tVDU/s4896/DSC09995.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhltZ4dQav_ZcUFRximNa6-IKFFvZnc3OlDnA4MRgfvqH_Yn4fSFiR7V5iE4dPgpQgZYHVg5dE-2asy76tAbGUBcd3S7kbYZLneBg5ADySBC9ymmcscar-CFKALFQzH-xXHjVV69t8QYnUsl9f7-b78uTDd3LYdeWMhHG5UvmeYPw_Inuc4A-wPQX-tVDU/s320/DSC09995.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I can't look at those lift shafts the same way since I learned about the cat litter.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoemvvT_WbNC9ZaEBbaD4_72TsFw-_jbDakKY_mlqXbN7vAivsVRw28VEy1p3ZaBEkUBguzc1NQACpB9QeNVYocWIKYJ-0WZt5J8CGhbMAXMM3G8porZtyxKoEoDZTOlu6SEhRWpO-J_nNCW3eONNUHDZzXCzor7e58lQRzkTeydo36L87GHSaLNPURv_a/s4896/DSC09994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoemvvT_WbNC9ZaEBbaD4_72TsFw-_jbDakKY_mlqXbN7vAivsVRw28VEy1p3ZaBEkUBguzc1NQACpB9QeNVYocWIKYJ-0WZt5J8CGhbMAXMM3G8porZtyxKoEoDZTOlu6SEhRWpO-J_nNCW3eONNUHDZzXCzor7e58lQRzkTeydo36L87GHSaLNPURv_a/s320/DSC09994.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-24438011322235731742023-08-27T17:41:00.001+01:002023-08-27T17:41:54.208+01:00Battleground<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLEqtwITPWSnpbI6Wl2EKLsO_97vdlraHs0XYjp_DaDUfq3_x9ReAVQUqSA0g2jxLrSjv84ogWEeCIbronys2y7cClSm-I2HsVSdu9Jk3Eu8eRDGDXFqbqF7lYP6pL4qJ6f__HOmWTyEtup5puw_yh9UmWrO2Izto5KohfjZ9shJ5MscNlFKbE30ZD_B2a/s4896/DSC09931.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLEqtwITPWSnpbI6Wl2EKLsO_97vdlraHs0XYjp_DaDUfq3_x9ReAVQUqSA0g2jxLrSjv84ogWEeCIbronys2y7cClSm-I2HsVSdu9Jk3Eu8eRDGDXFqbqF7lYP6pL4qJ6f__HOmWTyEtup5puw_yh9UmWrO2Izto5KohfjZ9shJ5MscNlFKbE30ZD_B2a/s320/DSC09931.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Most cities would be thrilled to get a Metro. Amsterdam is not most cities.<p></p><p>In the 1970s, the city council and the government were working together to drag the city into the present day, and the metro was part of that plan. The Nazi Occupation had left parts of the centre hollowed out and ruined, even decades later; a new transport network would be the catalyst for the rebuild of these districts, with new office developments and commercial opportunities. It would be marvellous for everyone.</p><p>The first thing that annoyed the residents was the way the subway was being built. In most cities, you get a tunnel boring machine under the ground, and it works away while the world continues on top. Alternatively, there's the cut and cover method, where the ground - often a roadway - is peeled back, you dig down, and then cover it back up when you're finished.</p><p>Amsterdam's wet, sandy foundations made neither of these methods easy. The decision was made instead to construct the line using <i>caissons</i>; enormous, prebuilt concrete tunnel sections that would be sunk into the ground along the route. They connect up to form a long concrete tunnel that can then be filled with the services needed. This is, as you might expect, something of an undertaking. It also needs a huge amount of land, because you need space alongside the route to build the concrete sections and have sufficient space to lower them in. Hey, but that wasn't a problem, was it? After all, it was all getting demolished anyway. And when it was all laid, you'd have enough space left behind to build something really useful on top. Like a big, four lane motorway.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifc46O-VXqEp-iuXIP-PXXI2e919q0k08tGzuy3HDynKT2yK2EGNegECVaJO-Uk6XQhl39hvdFx-RjUpUyKsVkNPFOQkumjBuCT6qUkGMZY-chpKcU4oJav3lHSGu1oIcLFZppwRgoLVXyCXNnuoKXZmxFcOzyY9wsquaNngLqCDfcRjTX0YiPUgE70aVb/s4896/DSC09914.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifc46O-VXqEp-iuXIP-PXXI2e919q0k08tGzuy3HDynKT2yK2EGNegECVaJO-Uk6XQhl39hvdFx-RjUpUyKsVkNPFOQkumjBuCT6qUkGMZY-chpKcU4oJav3lHSGu1oIcLFZppwRgoLVXyCXNnuoKXZmxFcOzyY9wsquaNngLqCDfcRjTX0YiPUgE70aVb/s320/DSC09914.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>As the line crept further and further north, the protests got louder and more forceful. It was particularly contentious around the future Nieuwmarkt station. The <i>reason</i> this area was so run-down and deserted was the Nazis had systematically eliminated the population of the former Jewish Quarter. After they went, a terrible winter hit the city, and with the occupiers unwilling to help the Dutch they had to help themselves. They ransacked the empty homes and buildings around the Nieuwmarkt, stripping them of anything they could use as firewood in the bitter cold. The result was a district that was falling to pieces, right in the city centre, and which never really recovered after liberation.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQSfY74zvV5UFWOZY_1iayw36Rc_ymrLawu5_jUZpl8jldpAezhPlPLbCXLDv--eJuVe0Vo5Mv5Pg5fkmjxzdFxke77QspVNLTDINlnc6_7kq5Dp2CNIylg3jqU1UxXolk0Sb8wtgcJbEhdqHeJoVM-u5T8MGg4DhsxalxhMTjJcrLHdnhIGZeJvV6fp1D/s4896/DSC09917.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQSfY74zvV5UFWOZY_1iayw36Rc_ymrLawu5_jUZpl8jldpAezhPlPLbCXLDv--eJuVe0Vo5Mv5Pg5fkmjxzdFxke77QspVNLTDINlnc6_7kq5Dp2CNIylg3jqU1UxXolk0Sb8wtgcJbEhdqHeJoVM-u5T8MGg4DhsxalxhMTjJcrLHdnhIGZeJvV6fp1D/s320/DSC09917.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p>In the Sixties, though, the hippies moved in. Those empty buildings became squats for people who couldn't afford the city's expensive rents. They made them, if not habitable, then at least occupied. They formed a community and they made it work. And now the city was going to bulldoze them out of the way for a new world of unbridled capitalist indulgence. A place where people were finally able to live cheaply would be replaced by office blocks. The squatters would be turfed out to who knows where.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyBxw9HKxV2hgJJ3ZjlrGCN1WVN2W5PG49-P3eLfYRNEsWJbqW2MfrG4iKQOYj46erVcPGP8JMVJmbea-HQOuvNvO-kbTKiNoAgMhZI86zv0JwjYEejoR0aWvDiIO501rLQf_HNsbbPgEwU7jNQmXIDoKGYoyuuQkzab83mWHrzSKVkzR0IPJ9mePfQ33O/s4896/DSC09918.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyBxw9HKxV2hgJJ3ZjlrGCN1WVN2W5PG49-P3eLfYRNEsWJbqW2MfrG4iKQOYj46erVcPGP8JMVJmbea-HQOuvNvO-kbTKiNoAgMhZI86zv0JwjYEejoR0aWvDiIO501rLQf_HNsbbPgEwU7jNQmXIDoKGYoyuuQkzab83mWHrzSKVkzR0IPJ9mePfQ33O/s320/DSC09918.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>The climax of the resistance came in 1975, when riots broke out around the construction - or, more accurately, demolition - sites. Water cannons were called in, the protesters were subdued, but their point had been made, and now everyone could see it. </p><p></p><p>The city council backed down. The metro would still go ahead - it was too far gone to stop - but the highway on top was scrapped. Also abandoned were plans for new commercial properties and a whole new look to the area. Instead, the street lines were restored to what they had been before, the old historic plan. The offices and shopping centres were scrapped and homes were built instead - social houses, at a reasonable rent, so that the district became a place for people again. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qo-3kGgL3myCQQFZcMJFBYOqcQX10R9u33uuRf9EAgx19MFVwgd9JZkQjMbau3Fq0OKgrcvBrjX1oWZeF-TudmfcXS57LSsSbXWNNvVX0lSN2gIrxguAZN_G1IyrbmNxvohxSI2R55JrgMT6kwkIDhE329EKC4HzgzOfhy7oYPBVMfy7EbAKNAqHCrI-/s4896/DSC09916.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qo-3kGgL3myCQQFZcMJFBYOqcQX10R9u33uuRf9EAgx19MFVwgd9JZkQjMbau3Fq0OKgrcvBrjX1oWZeF-TudmfcXS57LSsSbXWNNvVX0lSN2gIrxguAZN_G1IyrbmNxvohxSI2R55JrgMT6kwkIDhE329EKC4HzgzOfhy7oYPBVMfy7EbAKNAqHCrI-/s320/DSC09916.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Nieuwmarkt station commemorates all this with the artwork on its platforms. There are pictures of what used to be here, the homes and shops and bars that were demolished for the metro. Some parts look like smashed mirrors, or perhaps windows. There are pictures of the protests. And above it all, as you head down to the platform, there's a wrecking ball. A reminder that this progress came at a price.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyX7Gv5Y6b4aSnCxUMkm_1E0G581Or2GTYqS2rDnwMs7VvErihlsta9VcGryoa0lbPUKQwMTDRmQK45qd2mfK1E8p0eDpBqtHEXERBoFo5mt3Ca8tFAYatqx2RHd9WX8AQIRbV4yOR1ZyWn3QrQClpcXwdiEq9IwDImtOJpP_Q6VdnLvjjSD0zCeBgTA2G/s4896/DSC09924.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyX7Gv5Y6b4aSnCxUMkm_1E0G581Or2GTYqS2rDnwMs7VvErihlsta9VcGryoa0lbPUKQwMTDRmQK45qd2mfK1E8p0eDpBqtHEXERBoFo5mt3Ca8tFAYatqx2RHd9WX8AQIRbV4yOR1ZyWn3QrQClpcXwdiEq9IwDImtOJpP_Q6VdnLvjjSD0zCeBgTA2G/s320/DSC09924.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>I love metros. I love underground railways. I get why the residents were furious. It soured the city on underground railways for decades (and then, when they finally built another one but with more traditional tunnelling methods, that also went over budget and caused subsidence; really, Amsterdam had terrible luck with its infrastructure). Part of me thinks that they should've sucked it up for the greater good of the city. You can't fight progress.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkF5rI2WxhMJ2QsoXfnSa087ewkC01CGeUkF539pOhoi1eKWkIwTGj4rg7sD-Au4Z3TmXbUKy3fyhOcwM0qj0E30L8J1at_986EJ4pAszXjsm5dhgIXHV-PeHVSBMMnMt34IbP1ONAmOFiLR4gEO5z3n5ZxQ-KGWOefMEabmEiJEuXuRAt6WaDhk6jnSR/s4896/DSC09929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkF5rI2WxhMJ2QsoXfnSa087ewkC01CGeUkF539pOhoi1eKWkIwTGj4rg7sD-Au4Z3TmXbUKy3fyhOcwM0qj0E30L8J1at_986EJ4pAszXjsm5dhgIXHV-PeHVSBMMnMt34IbP1ONAmOFiLR4gEO5z3n5ZxQ-KGWOefMEabmEiJEuXuRAt6WaDhk6jnSR/s320/DSC09929.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Stepping out into the Nieuwmarkt itself, though, I got it. This was a human place in a way that the areas between Waterlooplein and Weesperplein hadn't been. Low buildings - still a few storeys, but not the envisaged tall concrete behemoths - built in a scattered form around a square. Homes with balconies and the odd playground. A civilised space to live. And now they had a fast underground railway as well. The best of all worlds.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6sGoiuQKdcAsiEzEL6xX24OCbgPIEdU37UNs_aVH0qtXD3Sj3Yb4wmfRCPQ3ZIjYpI-hA4jFRLPDxwOV2TNkSm5OCtxfF-L6zBYIM_OXwnpC3sjpEJdzDzUKwKjryTGVGN2sjIwsSmEuoszmgjbD1fbOH73GJDrlfca_5GAUK42M0ibKkQX1sE8RcGkBF/s4896/DSC09934.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6sGoiuQKdcAsiEzEL6xX24OCbgPIEdU37UNs_aVH0qtXD3Sj3Yb4wmfRCPQ3ZIjYpI-hA4jFRLPDxwOV2TNkSm5OCtxfF-L6zBYIM_OXwnpC3sjpEJdzDzUKwKjryTGVGN2sjIwsSmEuoszmgjbD1fbOH73GJDrlfca_5GAUK42M0ibKkQX1sE8RcGkBF/s320/DSC09934.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I walked around the square. I was now at the edge of the Red Light District, and the rest of my time in the city would be a descent into decadence and hedonism, the likes of which I had never seen before. Sex, drugs, more sex; it was all to come.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRMEgKHr6q957e2rqdW37Uj1McgMLAQrMI_YDJOlkRuL95eQMa3p05Wil9vIBktFC6zFoX2oZ3y2SdjX7RLAQjNDJKWFcp8wbddn4_Tb_r9uAGd90v64WJYI4MZ09G4cd28Rt12nyjIrHL88daLTEtCu_h3DXos2QUZDphUoThtGZKfKntsU0C_IffDjs/s4896/DSC09928.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRMEgKHr6q957e2rqdW37Uj1McgMLAQrMI_YDJOlkRuL95eQMa3p05Wil9vIBktFC6zFoX2oZ3y2SdjX7RLAQjNDJKWFcp8wbddn4_Tb_r9uAGd90v64WJYI4MZ09G4cd28Rt12nyjIrHL88daLTEtCu_h3DXos2QUZDphUoThtGZKfKntsU0C_IffDjs/s320/DSC09928.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Nah, of course it wasn't. I got straight back on the train to go and collect some more stations.</p>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-54521249641548003502023-08-23T12:11:00.001+01:002023-08-23T12:11:22.830+01:00Happy Places<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-zvgZXt-2kGylnScSVas79DVDhTJNypDqW9GrqNnPirRXphz7YgNoUf6tRVEkrkh1SI-L9wA3CYviXS7RBR_Eu7B4J_HOJE_7jfQF6pK2pYm2MjKNBHm22r1V9xOsaXB7jJA7VaqH6qMbrfRBYolk9H3P9evD_S3FbTNtpJoSCk9jSPLLpmoRJvm2eXux/s4896/DSC09854.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-zvgZXt-2kGylnScSVas79DVDhTJNypDqW9GrqNnPirRXphz7YgNoUf6tRVEkrkh1SI-L9wA3CYviXS7RBR_Eu7B4J_HOJE_7jfQF6pK2pYm2MjKNBHm22r1V9xOsaXB7jJA7VaqH6qMbrfRBYolk9H3P9evD_S3FbTNtpJoSCk9jSPLLpmoRJvm2eXux/s320/DSC09854.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Strolling. I've never been good at it. </p><p>I'm a fast walker, too fast probably. My body sweats and complains the whole time but I persist. I'm going somewhere, I'm walking somewhere, I get there fast. There's no point hanging about. Walking with other people becomes a frustration. Why are you holding me back? Why are you dawdling?</p><p>I walked along the side of the Amstel, along the Weesperzijde, and I still wasn't strolling. I was still pounding my way along. But this was a different walk. I was so utterly happy.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrJR5JvzwTpQmspeUzcAdSAWc0_KY9QSSa2cczfb7Gx87m9BgFbU4p5xdl8QoM96PiLvQweo0RQBSykXGJhoxNWtj8plneeWz8SE2TDy-7bqb-QZgcPzO0I7xIcPyNQ86JFYb1J6CQguw9bmaPtZXr9iYTXqcYLfbpTKFMWYsZJNsMC3FvOXXQWnF6iIN0/s4896/DSC09856.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrJR5JvzwTpQmspeUzcAdSAWc0_KY9QSSa2cczfb7Gx87m9BgFbU4p5xdl8QoM96PiLvQweo0RQBSykXGJhoxNWtj8plneeWz8SE2TDy-7bqb-QZgcPzO0I7xIcPyNQ86JFYb1J6CQguw9bmaPtZXr9iYTXqcYLfbpTKFMWYsZJNsMC3FvOXXQWnF6iIN0/s320/DSC09856.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Everything around me delighted. The buildings, the people, the slow moving cars and polite cyclists. The gentle breeze that rolled in across the river. There were houseboats lined up on the shore, neat, preserved, one with a chicken coop with actual chickens pecking about. I felt a lightness I'd not felt in a long time.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVjI1dg7FMQrBWtsK1EhM1ahhB7NAXdQEXl2B5n3PQOJ3i7XH9GGldHypGSpRmz1qL6ap2GgYxNLxXWaJYNVooTw707-4UL4dybTDxV9w4SJY7qtHWkKXQhA5E5Y7dt121VZUYnN2AANxjVOKalZBmoVfwjiFctXAqc3aGSyQ2CGCasCEEkI8fmN5eomA/s4618/DSC09857.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4618" data-original-width="3464" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVjI1dg7FMQrBWtsK1EhM1ahhB7NAXdQEXl2B5n3PQOJ3i7XH9GGldHypGSpRmz1qL6ap2GgYxNLxXWaJYNVooTw707-4UL4dybTDxV9w4SJY7qtHWkKXQhA5E5Y7dt121VZUYnN2AANxjVOKalZBmoVfwjiFctXAqc3aGSyQ2CGCasCEEkI8fmN5eomA/s320/DSC09857.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>It's rare to get an opportunity to be utterly self-centred. We live amongst structures of friends and family and people. If you do exactly what you want to do, it will affect someone else. Your partner won't be as happy as they could be. Your boss will become frustrated. You have obligations and duties and a whole set of other frameworks piled up inside your head.</div><div><br /></div><div>I realised, walking in Amsterdam, just how deep those pressures were inside me. I realised that I spent every day of my life buckling under obligations and options and "stuff I have to do". No wonder I'm a little bit nuts.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJgW7rXnBYiej1p3XdMzr-5uybbgfQxcaoxZaAcxUNBerQW60Y2fqt-CqVKjlH5eohlUh2fwIG6yzVHDuDncaWbWv2IFehMyKTAPiOMK9fpTeFDETbkfH2xngWoPEJCWn4bF-h3pOTOImHFKKmtNIcFd7B1LLhGgRhMJ_qHRZtaO2bJjXhOG14mvoEhWSu/s4896/DSC09859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJgW7rXnBYiej1p3XdMzr-5uybbgfQxcaoxZaAcxUNBerQW60Y2fqt-CqVKjlH5eohlUh2fwIG6yzVHDuDncaWbWv2IFehMyKTAPiOMK9fpTeFDETbkfH2xngWoPEJCWn4bF-h3pOTOImHFKKmtNIcFd7B1LLhGgRhMJ_qHRZtaO2bJjXhOG14mvoEhWSu/s320/DSC09859.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Here though, it was just me. Nobody around on the riverbank knew about my plans or what I was up to; they didn't care either. I was entirely anonymous. Anyone who cared about me or was aware of who I was was hundreds of miles away. I had a schedule that was entirely my own, a plan I'd conceived and was executing without interference or discussion. I was exploring a beautiful city at my own pace, visiting buildings I found interesting, being me without any other duress. I wasn't strolling physically, but my brain was. Finally, after too long, it was taking a break.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6sNla3lrRJMU6jpxubmmQ68AMPIU7tzVDCHgHiSqHvhCcKLNUMcrVpbf9uqa-SBoCg53ViG8xVptvcwTX_hK8tRLWQtqWZZI6TNaHgTBWW5JvHpmfJN_R2wqapSdTjlA-to-hRav5TdU0k_Hyb5CANoFkUnWwK6Dh47qpvNVjw1FXG2OL0yQEhOU-nTks/s4896/DSC09860.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6sNla3lrRJMU6jpxubmmQ68AMPIU7tzVDCHgHiSqHvhCcKLNUMcrVpbf9uqa-SBoCg53ViG8xVptvcwTX_hK8tRLWQtqWZZI6TNaHgTBWW5JvHpmfJN_R2wqapSdTjlA-to-hRav5TdU0k_Hyb5CANoFkUnWwK6Dh47qpvNVjw1FXG2OL0yQEhOU-nTks/s320/DSC09860.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I realised my mind was gently drifting along. Normally when I walk I have to have headphones on. Something to drown out the noise of my brain, the darkness that hides there, the thoughts that swell up when I'm alone. Here I was simply enjoying everything I saw. That doorway. That bar. That woman. It slipped into my mind and was appreciated, coveted, gently stroked before being filed away. There wasn't any pain. A little bit of me wanted to stay here, riding the metro, forever.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZg9OrjDgNpvjJ3mUt143jQfI0SaXJm4lutIhjVOvnoD5UpIZbR49kBEd1DXy9NNpvrKIsfG_RZDwyvyoU5jd4JTJlRGes40Uo9yq91P-wmQJXkqM5PPJDhFIFVRRYzK8BchZbI5s0oJET2qTvJtNvrYPim1MHJN5VohooLyhd-xCORgpApkltGSuAnbhb/s4896/DSC09861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZg9OrjDgNpvjJ3mUt143jQfI0SaXJm4lutIhjVOvnoD5UpIZbR49kBEd1DXy9NNpvrKIsfG_RZDwyvyoU5jd4JTJlRGes40Uo9yq91P-wmQJXkqM5PPJDhFIFVRRYzK8BchZbI5s0oJET2qTvJtNvrYPim1MHJN5VohooLyhd-xCORgpApkltGSuAnbhb/s320/DSC09861.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Eventually I turned away from the river and onto a green side street lined with houses that no doubt cost an astronomical amount entirely disproportionate to how tight and tiny they were. Balconies were laden with chairs and patio tables. Parked cars hugged the kerb. It was dense and yet silent.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPP11gNOsT2UbGqsnECT_zDMDI0MeEB-LDZdPEK1yyohwVqIu__NEi6h4mXOsEn51TRgtjENa39wZehw6hHxxj8_RG4I5jGKVRpBSKqYsfHGinUg1jKS1zqhQgnoZtRzUrpcfbRnFmGMzhHJavsyzLbYbrmA1yhS3M3nYKaKHUkMzF7UzeiSECS5QVXWr/s4896/DSC09864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPP11gNOsT2UbGqsnECT_zDMDI0MeEB-LDZdPEK1yyohwVqIu__NEi6h4mXOsEn51TRgtjENa39wZehw6hHxxj8_RG4I5jGKVRpBSKqYsfHGinUg1jKS1zqhQgnoZtRzUrpcfbRnFmGMzhHJavsyzLbYbrmA1yhS3M3nYKaKHUkMzF7UzeiSECS5QVXWr/s320/DSC09864.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It meant that arriving on the busy Wibautstraat came as a bit of a shock. Suddenly there were tall buildings and a wide carriageway full of buses and trucks. It wasn't a gentle avenue, as I'd become used to in Amsterdam: this was a through route, a busy highway, the Euston Road but with a Dutch twist.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYp0DZ8hP6ml5N2-pKQgPJZw20Xai-LNFrYEcqQG5PzZ-ieso8nGUixp0zlkpwI0jG7m-OMzwFMmuAST9uzsZOUx9znmQdGwnS0gxthqFJcIgYeL_79tB5uyjMC6SXIlxs0W1CXK8AKoWuyxqlpAnVobwCiryY-qJvK-5PJbVD4q9BKFKzX8k8ZUjY62Pl/s4896/DSC09866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYp0DZ8hP6ml5N2-pKQgPJZw20Xai-LNFrYEcqQG5PzZ-ieso8nGUixp0zlkpwI0jG7m-OMzwFMmuAST9uzsZOUx9znmQdGwnS0gxthqFJcIgYeL_79tB5uyjMC6SXIlxs0W1CXK8AKoWuyxqlpAnVobwCiryY-qJvK-5PJbVD4q9BKFKzX8k8ZUjY62Pl/s320/DSC09866.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I found Wibautstraat station outside the "Church" of Scientology. I noticed that the signs outside for a <i>Free Personality Test</i> were all in English, not Dutch, and I decided this wasn't linguistic colonialism, but was instead the locals being too clever to fall for it and so they had to target gullible tourists instead. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim83PBNAp-safir6QYKZx4v5WGm_JpPOzOmLK1o4KjmujeLEhWUTJF_Q18XcQuretnhCEvmEo9ZhiTpZ6Y0gUEwHvGbwZ0ebj-2VVkFKs_p0U4aEXBOeZh-sNyT_LROEBi37lxb_1gWHrqQDcTfEFZHKv4g9TUutFIpo6MkORwMaB_ojLN2LiVguVstgXa/s4896/DSC09875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim83PBNAp-safir6QYKZx4v5WGm_JpPOzOmLK1o4KjmujeLEhWUTJF_Q18XcQuretnhCEvmEo9ZhiTpZ6Y0gUEwHvGbwZ0ebj-2VVkFKs_p0U4aEXBOeZh-sNyT_LROEBi37lxb_1gWHrqQDcTfEFZHKv4g9TUutFIpo6MkORwMaB_ojLN2LiVguVstgXa/s320/DSC09875.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>After the glorious sign at <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/another-day-in-paradise.html">Spaklerweg</a>, I was disappointed there wasn't something similar here. Until I noticed the station name was actually inside the entrance - a nice stylistic choice, but not exactly great for people wanting to get about the city. It meant that to get the name of the station and my fat head in the same shot, I had to go onto a piece of pavement between the edge of the entrance building and a busy cycle lane and squat. I got quite a few curious looks.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMIfTF35SrwEGQpauEx-GLnITdHtwflmjQKtZ2Isd7a_OPkprR_FL-wY9b6QvDMai57aRID-XH0ERlCgyEeTr__nSR1bLGym1ZLoqhuXo-Cj3xm8NlRsWj7nsdJfnKcXykwnDuTkDWSqKR2DZEFeBfq8frR6RlfKU5dZ0WvHt0ynjre9JrZu1IcdQBIqaj/s4896/DSC09874.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMIfTF35SrwEGQpauEx-GLnITdHtwflmjQKtZ2Isd7a_OPkprR_FL-wY9b6QvDMai57aRID-XH0ERlCgyEeTr__nSR1bLGym1ZLoqhuXo-Cj3xm8NlRsWj7nsdJfnKcXykwnDuTkDWSqKR2DZEFeBfq8frR6RlfKU5dZ0WvHt0ynjre9JrZu1IcdQBIqaj/s320/DSC09874.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Below ground again, the place where I was most content. From here to the end of the 51/53/54, it was underground stations all the way. Perhaps I'm secretly part mole. Perhaps that's why I'm not so jolly wandering around the world as a human being. A wide concourse under the street with its own snack bar lead down to the island platform. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq8dyoCDf4KHczueSCtCiVoXPcKA6wudwoVz5sinEjmKlAggH2mc1DgfxcrTlewsw6elBUN4WWP2GVWwPFXwtoD8OhMEIZ3UlGDxDdAyuWr3OJpuhY_ILj1VZNDm2v4l6zXqpqjsJzK2eu8ePoTiYCXjlnccml8pn-3Is_5AqJZqH91vDyqIL57dSa36of/s4896/DSC09879.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq8dyoCDf4KHczueSCtCiVoXPcKA6wudwoVz5sinEjmKlAggH2mc1DgfxcrTlewsw6elBUN4WWP2GVWwPFXwtoD8OhMEIZ3UlGDxDdAyuWr3OJpuhY_ILj1VZNDm2v4l6zXqpqjsJzK2eu8ePoTiYCXjlnccml8pn-3Is_5AqJZqH91vDyqIL57dSa36of/s320/DSC09879.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>All the underground stations on the Oostlijn were built with artwork on the walls. At Wibautsraat, it's large coloured letters, scattered along the trackside; they symbolise the newspapers and magazines that relocated to this area in the 60s. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5GGpwdOU1j6Tc9XCZ6suhWUd-EH9k8gUMjbxea5tSp0D4rdZuHLjK3NCQYKudEr0L_Y9ppFW61UnccrBB8J3C-R_L_nTwwvq3FLeOjbzxFga_KGu7lc-9lTnHq6_aruf2wWOo37qBCgdV0PpUnTPf-euA1NF3hyG9cR-9dPpZYlCEM5s7t9HKobUaQp7/s4896/DSC09882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5GGpwdOU1j6Tc9XCZ6suhWUd-EH9k8gUMjbxea5tSp0D4rdZuHLjK3NCQYKudEr0L_Y9ppFW61UnccrBB8J3C-R_L_nTwwvq3FLeOjbzxFga_KGu7lc-9lTnHq6_aruf2wWOo37qBCgdV0PpUnTPf-euA1NF3hyG9cR-9dPpZYlCEM5s7t9HKobUaQp7/s320/DSC09882.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>One quick train ride and I was at Weesperplein. There's a run of W stations here - Wibautstraat, Weesperplein and Waterlooplein - which may be geographically accurate and a pleasing pattern, but caused no end of confusion in my brain. I could never quite get my head around what order they came in.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFot61oU1YaMk4ceVPGA0TpOSkDUBRiXtAIeOl7qY6O2B_HTqtT1y-MDMPLYfx6Ls8jnGvtkYJcVzIuleTy3YtUu78rcakliXuTcKeuHm4UiCbgJRg-AoCLWp787kF9iaTNGaCrsAM915-iXv7-Mh8sjrSSDnOZW8NZbOKfgeb6aYHJPr-wn09TFDGNxdf/s4771/DSC09890.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4771" data-original-width="3578" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFot61oU1YaMk4ceVPGA0TpOSkDUBRiXtAIeOl7qY6O2B_HTqtT1y-MDMPLYfx6Ls8jnGvtkYJcVzIuleTy3YtUu78rcakliXuTcKeuHm4UiCbgJRg-AoCLWp787kF9iaTNGaCrsAM915-iXv7-Mh8sjrSSDnOZW8NZbOKfgeb6aYHJPr-wn09TFDGNxdf/s320/DSC09890.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div>There wasn't an island here, but instead two separate platforms opposite one another on the tracks. The reason for this is that Weeserplein was designed as an interchange with an unbuilt East-West metro line, so passenger numbers were anticipated to be larger as people changed between lines.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYRhsIw7692HuqkamNSYpsdwKkgEJdWrRx4UpFjTu82Rdxw0MtwFi8G30zv09OIsQgZ0Z_3-fFZRxz1VXcBvoujNIls0mxI1eL3pz4gm7rYqxpiDOSvJV4RbS7foE8cyCkLgKcI9AUGI6kEbehpIUpSpXjL-2UjjIyXfuUylFxImuGnbdgJG94OHIzDbJe/s4896/DSC09889.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYRhsIw7692HuqkamNSYpsdwKkgEJdWrRx4UpFjTu82Rdxw0MtwFi8G30zv09OIsQgZ0Z_3-fFZRxz1VXcBvoujNIls0mxI1eL3pz4gm7rYqxpiDOSvJV4RbS7foE8cyCkLgKcI9AUGI6kEbehpIUpSpXjL-2UjjIyXfuUylFxImuGnbdgJG94OHIzDbJe/s320/DSC09889.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The tunnels for the planned line were constructed , but never put into use for transit. Instead they were repurposed as nuclear bomb shelters, and Weeserplein got a variety of "upgrades" that would enable it to be sealed off completely. Personally I'd rather die. I don't see the point in going down into a hole to live for months, just so I can re-emerge to some blasted wasteland. If the four minute warning went off I'd go outside and welcome the blast with open arms - there was a report a few months ago that said Liverpool would be one of the first targets for a Russian attack, and I thought "good". I've seen <i>Threads</i>. I don't want to be scrabbling around in a feudal society while my teeth fall out. Come friendly bombs, and fall on Scott. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_KGWGQdV1VpG4Rx1K6kdm96S50wtIpdEeqckAtKpOPZUL16bxKL6VXzR9TVOOzwZDHazzxoQCuaeOs7FeFA-k6yoQkSVAg70n5uaqp2FGHllITWios-Ob1Ra0fZMnBGPQJvOZK5qMgQkKl6Ihcsy6gfLlC6f8oB-wylhUFb7hSeHVO6IINDAAUg5esOU6/s4896/DSC09892.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_KGWGQdV1VpG4Rx1K6kdm96S50wtIpdEeqckAtKpOPZUL16bxKL6VXzR9TVOOzwZDHazzxoQCuaeOs7FeFA-k6yoQkSVAg70n5uaqp2FGHllITWios-Ob1Ra0fZMnBGPQJvOZK5qMgQkKl6Ihcsy6gfLlC6f8oB-wylhUFb7hSeHVO6IINDAAUg5esOU6/s320/DSC09892.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>It means there's a huge circulation area above the platforms which was largely empty and unused. Part of the recent refurbishment saw all the clutter being taken away to create open spaces in stations, which is admirable, but left Weeserplein feeling distinctly vacant. Perhaps at rush hour it fills up. The new East-West metro plans, <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/07/ik-denk-over-je-na-amsterdam.html">which I first mentioned about eight hundred years ago</a>, would finally create the interchange it's been begging for for nearly fifty years.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4l076YEQIYB8tqEiIFNaIjU6U20_2JD_N-SX_lmjlKyrSKblk6hu1VSO1QmmrYH886efYwEfuEO5DWzywHgf2Nx6w9lFEbowt-iwCznKaC8Y3_OLXEd1rPCre_YsCJkNbooF5s-5pYPucL9WJ1kSJDKHFFpLZhRyP-jKFlhCIXkYmSYi_ttUeDe48phFA/s4896/DSC09894.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4l076YEQIYB8tqEiIFNaIjU6U20_2JD_N-SX_lmjlKyrSKblk6hu1VSO1QmmrYH886efYwEfuEO5DWzywHgf2Nx6w9lFEbowt-iwCznKaC8Y3_OLXEd1rPCre_YsCJkNbooF5s-5pYPucL9WJ1kSJDKHFFpLZhRyP-jKFlhCIXkYmSYi_ttUeDe48phFA/s320/DSC09894.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I picked an exit at random. They all chucked you out onto the Weeserplein; it was simply a question of using Google Maps to reorient myself once I got up top. I walked along the busy street, past an Asian tour group who politely lined up with their phones, one after another, to get exactly the same photo of a canal from a bridge. I hope they all go home and have What I Did On My Holiday nights round each others' houses where they all have to look at 400 identical shots of Amsterdam. Further along the street had been closed and filled with flower tubs. I'm not sure if this was a permanent move, or simply part of some local festival, but it was remarkable how much of a change it made. You don't realise how stress-inducing the relentless grind of traffic is, how it exists as a constant noise under your thoughts, until it vanishes.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXjYMxj4OAxMfUSVUYQ4_zopfb4oQh9LYq6U98X-4KLXZBMiP7tAzk1EyIhCUIIwp9r-dPrwV4X2cOlabn4IZKgE2yyXqKO3Dsagg_g4r_yrFCQYgBcdWiEaduzfY4qcSoo1iag31XvfYiWDWNi5kq6A_AwLRzebD4FHYlKO4rmDDdYswgtr5blFR04hbz/s4896/DSC09896.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXjYMxj4OAxMfUSVUYQ4_zopfb4oQh9LYq6U98X-4KLXZBMiP7tAzk1EyIhCUIIwp9r-dPrwV4X2cOlabn4IZKgE2yyXqKO3Dsagg_g4r_yrFCQYgBcdWiEaduzfY4qcSoo1iag31XvfYiWDWNi5kq6A_AwLRzebD4FHYlKO4rmDDdYswgtr5blFR04hbz/s320/DSC09896.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>At the top of the street, a series of angled shapes poked up from behind a low wall. This was the Netherlands' National Holocaust Monument. The area I was in had once been the Jewish sector of the city. When the Nazis invaded, they first closed off the area, marking it out as a no-go area with signs, putting out roadblocks, raising bridges. Jews from other parts of the Netherlands were forced to relocate to Amsterdam. Then, of course, they began to send them away. 75% of Amsterdam's Jewish population were killed by the Nazis, about half of them in Auschwitz. A once thriving section of the city was forcibly emptied and abandoned. The names of the victims were memorialised in horrifying quantities.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkVesYca5A8mdDcUZbd_FB3Kc816mQmpRo_52tcfAd2z1ObPL-QiMjusALbCTGXp4towUa7i-sw0XlCgynHTLdzlUt310YLvIT8x9vlznc2OZV7dTKcfRxe-2jzCC9l5JBFF5K0y5XneYnYQl0FFVhH329mXc60Y_V1pF7FBETkaeagbfT7Xdk53AnTmf2/s4896/DSC09899.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkVesYca5A8mdDcUZbd_FB3Kc816mQmpRo_52tcfAd2z1ObPL-QiMjusALbCTGXp4towUa7i-sw0XlCgynHTLdzlUt310YLvIT8x9vlznc2OZV7dTKcfRxe-2jzCC9l5JBFF5K0y5XneYnYQl0FFVhH329mXc60Y_V1pF7FBETkaeagbfT7Xdk53AnTmf2/s320/DSC09899.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Waterlooplein station is spread over a wide area of the city. Its main entrance and exit is under the Stopera, the city's Town Hall/Opera House complex, but I was headed to a smaller entrance, tucked away under a bridge at the canal side. Something about the way it was almost hidden appealed to me. Again: mole person.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMv641lofZl2GHAzJAzo-9UJ4c9S2LZuoUgi5JQ1Cr3Y4brM-hBnsigfjSwTdU33FhGO3cPjCpgv65kVIE1STzpdxtWaqLb8tbIFmzkcu75j7Gq9Iw7CTuF5mJn-PghB1pHvDfiezoCJd9zGssxFylHbJeP10ECotEt6kh10BaliSaYXj-xPNZZIU1m8Ky/s4896/DSC09904.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMv641lofZl2GHAzJAzo-9UJ4c9S2LZuoUgi5JQ1Cr3Y4brM-hBnsigfjSwTdU33FhGO3cPjCpgv65kVIE1STzpdxtWaqLb8tbIFmzkcu75j7Gq9Iw7CTuF5mJn-PghB1pHvDfiezoCJd9zGssxFylHbJeP10ECotEt6kh10BaliSaYXj-xPNZZIU1m8Ky/s320/DSC09904.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>The tiled notice was visible through a glass window over the escalators. Pedants will note that a strut of the window covers up the AT of Waterlooplein; I assure you they are very much present in the sign. To be frank I'd rather you concentrated on that than my multiple chins. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1GYst0Z8A5Gj6Tsstw5an_GYn23xPfvJ93ftv__Ex7cqkLaVc_oYo0HEZDfJIpBTKgqst_p9ivRn2-CDhSoReKoI8MWsGRKf-ywUDZ6JQ4D-ypIFZxfcTpATEKWBfUFhJVkAahRcS4NKFY_-DdQ9-Gnu0h9z7ib-OvOG7vOt1wHlN87tJiZWo_PGyd-b/s4896/DSC09901.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs1GYst0Z8A5Gj6Tsstw5an_GYn23xPfvJ93ftv__Ex7cqkLaVc_oYo0HEZDfJIpBTKgqst_p9ivRn2-CDhSoReKoI8MWsGRKf-ywUDZ6JQ4D-ypIFZxfcTpATEKWBfUFhJVkAahRcS4NKFY_-DdQ9-Gnu0h9z7ib-OvOG7vOt1wHlN87tJiZWo_PGyd-b/s320/DSC09901.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>In an attempt to discourage anti-social behaviour, GVB has taken to playing music at their stations. At Weeserplein it had been gentle classical music; at Waterlooplein it was <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/7fv831b61zLwfA1d6Vp17f?si=5903b76d7ba041cd"><i>Ebbs and Flows </i>by Aaron Taylor</a>. I'm not sure what the thinking is behind this. I sort of get that hyperactive teenagers don't really want to spend their time hanging around somewhere that's playing Debussy <i>Preludes</i>; it's not really a conducive atmosphere for a bit of light vandalism and rowdiness. <i>Ebbs and Flows</i>, though, was quite a pleasing song; I'd loiter a bit longer to have a listen. That makes me horribly middle aged, doesn't it? Young people are listening to that and waiting for the bass to drop and I'm gently swaying along. Although it didn't make me want to tear up the seats either, so job well done.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvroAObC6xqsZIxBXuYOfD1Bi8s3ChcjeXhP8IEjDypWdnJpmt0IPD0hzV5AUxVMtijtSlwrBr1amcpUf_tHBoyClyy8PLYnCdfbid2HLX3GwW2ibpUOJLtqdCtRx4CGIkSCdRS8z_ZVkV0RGHlIb9lhBFdZgJCddx41wmzOaa4TyqLxnCUIQ-mHsTmLb/s4896/DSC09905.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikvroAObC6xqsZIxBXuYOfD1Bi8s3ChcjeXhP8IEjDypWdnJpmt0IPD0hzV5AUxVMtijtSlwrBr1amcpUf_tHBoyClyy8PLYnCdfbid2HLX3GwW2ibpUOJLtqdCtRx4CGIkSCdRS8z_ZVkV0RGHlIb9lhBFdZgJCddx41wmzOaa4TyqLxnCUIQ-mHsTmLb/s320/DSC09905.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Waterlooplein's main feature is its tiled mural of the word WATERLOO in a delightfully 1970s font. There was some suggestion of replacing all the original artworks on the line with new ones in the refurb, until there was a public backlash; we quickly become used to what was once brave and innovative and make it comfortable. <br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0IOarQNCYrP0N_WP3Bx-BUaHzdtshq9IPAvYrCIbwA4m-ky8K4VD3bGOyGE66N8qweBRQ3_qGyQleNypPN5VWxjedHrRcLtC9Drnc3Bvf80EihqoT5XqAfyCCJqNcxiODuOVIcPdjmGNz_oiPj7pHJRDBX8tAdzG0twvkGdKhWnukWR9K_XIAKFEUMD9/s4896/DSC09909.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0IOarQNCYrP0N_WP3Bx-BUaHzdtshq9IPAvYrCIbwA4m-ky8K4VD3bGOyGE66N8qweBRQ3_qGyQleNypPN5VWxjedHrRcLtC9Drnc3Bvf80EihqoT5XqAfyCCJqNcxiODuOVIcPdjmGNz_oiPj7pHJRDBX8tAdzG0twvkGdKhWnukWR9K_XIAKFEUMD9/s320/DSC09909.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>99% of you now have Abba bouncing around inside your head. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiZVKTQCoNdE_INvG3312gBTj-B2M7YcyWB_qH4Oxa5lLGlRpDNoS9x_pzX4SFpytuYLUqzFdtzXFihhGiJPhuharbaSnJoOGyrz9-DaJtT4No9ZlTvrxuz4Bg3PLeQ8kb_4yM9EXAHDR3CvwWF5rZ8IX5vuF3Wi9TQZD2PXDynNz3BNm8aEvAcKczaRgF/s4896/DSC09907.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiZVKTQCoNdE_INvG3312gBTj-B2M7YcyWB_qH4Oxa5lLGlRpDNoS9x_pzX4SFpytuYLUqzFdtzXFihhGiJPhuharbaSnJoOGyrz9-DaJtT4No9ZlTvrxuz4Bg3PLeQ8kb_4yM9EXAHDR3CvwWF5rZ8IX5vuF3Wi9TQZD2PXDynNz3BNm8aEvAcKczaRgF/s320/DSC09907.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>1% of you are thinking of Timothy Dalton at <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ACuMbMWxliU">the end of </a><i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ACuMbMWxliU">The Living Daylights</a>. </i>I love all my readers equally, but I love that 1% just a little bit more. <br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMa3Q11DdZdDdLNpf16YKC1r2NGXJOs8aKuXJ7LKLXQ7vuW_474cIqjcwdo0O5_rSVmg1sf2WqFy9pbpJbZ_4Z2dERYh41aLXlOiJS4GUpobt_DrWrjtca-ToleABdXY-9e8pj0uG43x6f_nJBe4KZeS_atsMAXE95uoUa7pxUIsVQ3NtvJHRmJwBep_G/s4896/DSC09906.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMa3Q11DdZdDdLNpf16YKC1r2NGXJOs8aKuXJ7LKLXQ7vuW_474cIqjcwdo0O5_rSVmg1sf2WqFy9pbpJbZ_4Z2dERYh41aLXlOiJS4GUpobt_DrWrjtca-ToleABdXY-9e8pj0uG43x6f_nJBe4KZeS_atsMAXE95uoUa7pxUIsVQ3NtvJHRmJwBep_G/s320/DSC09906.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div><div>Happiness is being in an underground station, thinking about James Bond and Eurovision. It's as blissful as I ever get. </div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8329761583210135212.post-36332742933441084292023-08-21T12:39:00.003+01:002023-08-21T12:39:45.152+01:00Another Day In Paradise<p></p><div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqf0BQ4gGo5AQ0k8mEtVjVfNS1gYmU9jN46mNE5RIJU_Cdbpjw4RIpkoCphP3Ttjz_BEhg0kogjjRDCahWy-6fBmuCc0GPm90lvEP119gRwbSsJsUKGqCbA4qEMLcu5VHMAUkYUqVcV6sCLoDUsclntHTiw7CkO3iPw6jA5EsJHvLyy5LTsolHkMBCABb/s4896/DSC09792.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLqf0BQ4gGo5AQ0k8mEtVjVfNS1gYmU9jN46mNE5RIJU_Cdbpjw4RIpkoCphP3Ttjz_BEhg0kogjjRDCahWy-6fBmuCc0GPm90lvEP119gRwbSsJsUKGqCbA4qEMLcu5VHMAUkYUqVcV6sCLoDUsclntHTiw7CkO3iPw6jA5EsJHvLyy5LTsolHkMBCABb/s320/DSC09792.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Regular readers (hello you!) will remember that <a href="http://www.merseytart.com/2023/08/the-interesting-englishman.html">I tried to collect the stations on the Oost of Amsterdam</a>, but was cruelly denied when damage to the overhead lines stopped me. In some ways, this was a good thing. I'd planned on boarding at Science Park and then alighting at Diemen. That left me with a problem. I'd collected all the stations; there weren't any more. The only option really was to board a train from the station I'd just left, which I always hate doing. How <i>boring</i>. The alternative was to walk through Diemen to Diemen Zuid, a combination NR/Metro station about a mile and a half away. But <i>that</i> would mean I collected an M53 Metro station separate from all the rest, which would be plain annoying. It was quite the dilemma.</p><p>As it turned out, I never made it to Diemen in the first place, so my first visit to Diemen Zuid was as part of its metro line. This is a sign that everything turns out for the best, and definitely isn't me trying to find an up side to not collecting those two stations. Definitely.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ECxLDND-tr0vptYlvmzsOB40WxTxwmmgu_RHDZkyRcfOkA9Weqsby5PSyuEZBgVo5fymbCEJUF0DQT5J_KD3X8GeMQ4VmA09Q2jn1vInkN43GZNcvdCe4Pf_oERdpKDs5o90VtcKqhOG7Pq8kef7kLSAjIG17XrnLiusnBef04-KGwYoi3ctvtp_K2g2/s4896/DSC09793.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ECxLDND-tr0vptYlvmzsOB40WxTxwmmgu_RHDZkyRcfOkA9Weqsby5PSyuEZBgVo5fymbCEJUF0DQT5J_KD3X8GeMQ4VmA09Q2jn1vInkN43GZNcvdCe4Pf_oERdpKDs5o90VtcKqhOG7Pq8kef7kLSAjIG17XrnLiusnBef04-KGwYoi3ctvtp_K2g2/s320/DSC09793.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I descended from the viaduct to the street, leaving instead of arriving, and I was able to collect the station as part of my metro collecting. As God intended.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7lH0ghD-qp7p4Rb2d8oPpF1RNeckSKcNKa6VquqmHiPGVjblawxluloHPptVZWcun8j8Zo1GqObwk1RUKiicLUkr_OZM-rO06Wkt1-56scf2quVj5fBNDvxt5EzNjvLg899akRJjc_4nB5aKyzD8ZpUX2af2k8CfC7w3iE3H7TUGFOjscCQrHSA4Ayl-M/s4896/DSC09796.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7lH0ghD-qp7p4Rb2d8oPpF1RNeckSKcNKa6VquqmHiPGVjblawxluloHPptVZWcun8j8Zo1GqObwk1RUKiicLUkr_OZM-rO06Wkt1-56scf2quVj5fBNDvxt5EzNjvLg899akRJjc_4nB5aKyzD8ZpUX2af2k8CfC7w3iE3H7TUGFOjscCQrHSA4Ayl-M/s320/DSC09796.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Across the way a sign on an overpass said <i>Welcome to</i> <i>Our Domain</i> <i>& Our Campus. </i>While I'm here, a slight sidebar. It's delightful for me, as an English speaker, to wander around a foreign nation and have absolutely no problem communicating with the locals. At the same time, I was surprised by how much English there was around. Adverts, signposts, graffiti - sometimes I'd pass an advertising column and there wouldn't be a single poster in Dutch. This wasn't stuff for tourists, either, it was cereal ads, it was municipal notices, it was commercials for shops. Have a bit of pride in your language, Netherlanders. When the English have driven it out they won't let you have it back. Ask the Welsh.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEbrr0kZ7XzRcL9GtbNYjkFhDaHSLMP8YD0bKNXBd2OgfxaSWYTdFG_R_TB6ViPLyfkFS-k3keQq-Uvj_FKFs-ZAIX_80-e6g38Op9CWu44ryxc9EAgmoY7l4sJgnke04sh5HkBeGo8TYV_tkSioaL81YabPnOi5FkQlVSa0ARgoC7gYUg4-WgyDXv_wh/s4896/DSC09797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEbrr0kZ7XzRcL9GtbNYjkFhDaHSLMP8YD0bKNXBd2OgfxaSWYTdFG_R_TB6ViPLyfkFS-k3keQq-Uvj_FKFs-ZAIX_80-e6g38Op9CWu44ryxc9EAgmoY7l4sJgnke04sh5HkBeGo8TYV_tkSioaL81YabPnOi5FkQlVSa0ARgoC7gYUg4-WgyDXv_wh/s320/DSC09797.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I'd assumed it was a university campus, but it was actually more of a cluster of halls of residence, a student city, with space for "young professionals" in a couple of blocks to the side. It certainly had that feel of a university. A little bubble of youth and excitement and jollity away from the proper city. I popped into the Albert Heijn because I'd not had anything to eat at all; it was filled with convenience foods and bottles of pop. I came away with two Coke Zeros and a prepacked sandwich I ate on a bench outside, watching the young people cycle by.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHKbaNkVUw2n60QXJEbxV8Fhd7vd0viaOgnpbkcCTQHr19A_SknrqZqF7GGu8SeW_mHzXviMEgDSyxpXOCZFhX9VNkzcXLk5toCuYbubO5aAps92nHDM470pYONs2pEt_xNfgSD5zoDMtFJRd1zTEAbViSMxveryEGtrFBToXOJgbTN4X766NSCUCYOpT/s4896/DSC09800.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYHKbaNkVUw2n60QXJEbxV8Fhd7vd0viaOgnpbkcCTQHr19A_SknrqZqF7GGu8SeW_mHzXviMEgDSyxpXOCZFhX9VNkzcXLk5toCuYbubO5aAps92nHDM470pYONs2pEt_xNfgSD5zoDMtFJRd1zTEAbViSMxveryEGtrFBToXOJgbTN4X766NSCUCYOpT/s320/DSC09800.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>An underpass beneath the busy S112 brought me out in a bland business park, each office building an island surrounded by parking, but with the inevitable bike lanes threaded throughout. That too gave way to a dense block of apartments. There was litter in the streets, flytipped rubbish that spilled over the pavements, and the postbox had been tagged by some inconsiderate scrote. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahE2T83mowK9sKJz_KJsBVqck9RTw57LoiNYrh8HaPMji3nKl6BrLoVSMmKD2uUutXL56BBcuPpNTp0CkkjzUzofWLtqlyNpwkUIIrx0oSvw0bgg7SGCYIPaEw791upGrtI4I1PN4T3qIrTDLd1Qiq8fpGuBNWVmYgvZ4-LcO6zUI-xsJHlAHvYPhaIJp/s4896/DSC09803.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4896" data-original-width="3672" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahE2T83mowK9sKJz_KJsBVqck9RTw57LoiNYrh8HaPMji3nKl6BrLoVSMmKD2uUutXL56BBcuPpNTp0CkkjzUzofWLtqlyNpwkUIIrx0oSvw0bgg7SGCYIPaEw791upGrtI4I1PN4T3qIrTDLd1Qiq8fpGuBNWVmYgvZ4-LcO6zUI-xsJHlAHvYPhaIJp/s320/DSC09803.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I was unsurprised to hear music blaring out of a top floor apartment, so loud the whole neighbourhood was forced to listen along. What <i>did </i>surprise me was it wasn't raging techno or obscene gangster rap, but instead the melodic strains of Phil Collins' <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HsC_SARyPzk">Groovy Kind of Love</a></i>. I've always had <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p7aQ1qkCITU">a sneaky fondness for Phil</a>, probably stemming from my brother going through a stage of being a huge fan when he was a teenager; he had both <i>Buster </i>and <i>The Singles Collection </i>on VHS, and he'd watch them both on a loop. I like to regularly remind him of his distinctly MOR taste in music growing up; he enjoyed Phil Collins, Level 42 and Michael Bolton, until he bought NWA's <i>Straight Outta Compton</i> and pretended that was what he'd been into all along. I particularly enjoy mentioning this in front of his new friends or girlfriends. This is one of the reasons we don't talk much. (My taste in music, by the way, has always been eclectic i.e. trash, but at least I own this). <br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj4au09GzXg9HjL2yo4SWbL2qgGbXsOuwXoBXGYrrRVs7oZqCRkBlBGHMIkKktVPmh6aglZr1mjBYT1eZvH7B-5UPq_A_iietcg_mNo2uYwp6r7mQuwfXkh_hfwKruH6j9Ixw06pUznidZryCEUcdxpQ1x_VBJz9jcorHgcb-E2Nyci1_CLG15xyfrXD0B/s4896/DSC09805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj4au09GzXg9HjL2yo4SWbL2qgGbXsOuwXoBXGYrrRVs7oZqCRkBlBGHMIkKktVPmh6aglZr1mjBYT1eZvH7B-5UPq_A_iietcg_mNo2uYwp6r7mQuwfXkh_hfwKruH6j9Ixw06pUznidZryCEUcdxpQ1x_VBJz9jcorHgcb-E2Nyci1_CLG15xyfrXD0B/s320/DSC09805.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I was the only person around so I happily sang along, wondering what was going on in that apartment to cause the top volume Collinsing. A jilted lover? A maudlin drunk? A massive fan of Cockney train robbers? We'll never know. I was at the station and out of earshot before I could hear the next track, so I hope it was something in keeping, and they didn't transition into DJ Otzi or <i>The Birdie Song</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAOA-t1UCQI6mCpqhO51MyswsGn3UDY8jnAI438C0xenxrqZRTg3RvPZW3sxenNbu-kBcgLO3YhqS65elVHvG-1ilsEN3TN0HbgAD5mN5464lmd8y5Opo9i-7fs-6ALzBiY_XhNbW1unfc4mKoGsk7WMQk9rj3rIXlhJIyzjgBC0jQ7egXj5zIhi-ngDs/s4896/DSC09808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAOA-t1UCQI6mCpqhO51MyswsGn3UDY8jnAI438C0xenxrqZRTg3RvPZW3sxenNbu-kBcgLO3YhqS65elVHvG-1ilsEN3TN0HbgAD5mN5464lmd8y5Opo9i-7fs-6ALzBiY_XhNbW1unfc4mKoGsk7WMQk9rj3rIXlhJIyzjgBC0jQ7egXj5zIhi-ngDs/s320/DSC09808.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Venserpolder station nearly didn't make it to opening. The construction of the metro through Amsterdam was surprisingly controversial, and was opposed by a lot of left wingers (I'll return to this later - oooh! A cliffhanger!). As you'd expect from a bunch of hippies, their protests were strong but not extreme. However, a right wing criminal called Joop Baank decided to take advantage of the situation and discredit them by blowing up one of the stations and hoping they'd get the blame. (The Seventies were a <i>wild</i> time). He was caught by the police trying to plant the bomb at the under construction Venserpolder; they'd tapped the phone of the leader of a Far Right party and Joop called him up to chat about his plan. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPKv_a5k1VrVOhCXVTgmfnQy80hKhGfG-x4iVD7whiuctuZ7AkVwRPHvNPlceY0AStNXweNBmaWjkR4q2edYPxOZdVcXSB7-wIrq7mOg0_7gFrbu5EpnvNxEnw3nbRWkaYxq9oLaIA0PMmsGp9SewZneUMVjoBQutjkdvg3UUmTF38T1cpoE-esvareCQV/s4896/DSC09810.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPKv_a5k1VrVOhCXVTgmfnQy80hKhGfG-x4iVD7whiuctuZ7AkVwRPHvNPlceY0AStNXweNBmaWjkR4q2edYPxOZdVcXSB7-wIrq7mOg0_7gFrbu5EpnvNxEnw3nbRWkaYxq9oLaIA0PMmsGp9SewZneUMVjoBQutjkdvg3UUmTF38T1cpoE-esvareCQV/s320/DSC09810.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>My favourite detail about the story is that when he saw the police coming, Joop tried to chuck the bomb in a ditch, except it was February and the water was frozen so it just skidded along the ice and sat there, waiting to be discovered. Joop got four months in prison, two of which were suspended, and I know the Dutch are very liberal and everything, but doesn't that seem like quite a short sentence for attempting to blow up a railway station? Even if it wasn't finished?</div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvE6pMpA6naUgCxiTyTaSLJD8xoKJk1vxVmphYw82i1e_jywIhG__U2qXWnieHR8wtl8Kcx99wS3pqfVC98sSAHzxc0NnfNap4yoEHZvMmB63XpvT6BBREnxLSozJEzz9tb6D2tiLU080tGxAofwXgbZLFPGDE0uM0zlZzLQaImGRvsT1UPGMRc3i9Zl9D/s4896/DSC09813.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvE6pMpA6naUgCxiTyTaSLJD8xoKJk1vxVmphYw82i1e_jywIhG__U2qXWnieHR8wtl8Kcx99wS3pqfVC98sSAHzxc0NnfNap4yoEHZvMmB63XpvT6BBREnxLSozJEzz9tb6D2tiLU080tGxAofwXgbZLFPGDE0uM0zlZzLQaImGRvsT1UPGMRc3i9Zl9D/s320/DSC09813.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Van de Madeweg opened as Duivendrecht in 1977, but a mainline station was opened further to the south and it stole the name in 1991. It's the point where the M50, M53 and M54 all merge as they move towards the city centre, and so it has four platforms. Sadly, I missed the architectural highlight of the station, a concrete footbridge installed during renovations which arches up and over the tracks, because I only learned it existed after I got back to Britain. Once again, if you want me to go back and visit these places, please deposit several hundred pounds in my <a href="https://ko-fi.com/merseytart">Ko-fi</a>. In fact if you're putting a few hundred quid in there I'll go anywhere you want. I'm easily bought.</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8bESdFqPrlKYlCaR-mS-vR5xNtdFH0-R7avWHIeTMplM9s1uiBUm_wNMzvF5GLqRZBmftKFkaBWMkEzu27TyYMbTkUlaqho_fyTe2afdqkbhTekr0Q9pcHdT2LCRvnGz5s-dXjGN5PisalBErTmWraACwLVb7yS3GSj36RTIayUsVu-_PHHFQoMQJtUSL/s4896/DSC09814.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8bESdFqPrlKYlCaR-mS-vR5xNtdFH0-R7avWHIeTMplM9s1uiBUm_wNMzvF5GLqRZBmftKFkaBWMkEzu27TyYMbTkUlaqho_fyTe2afdqkbhTekr0Q9pcHdT2LCRvnGz5s-dXjGN5PisalBErTmWraACwLVb7yS3GSj36RTIayUsVu-_PHHFQoMQJtUSL/s320/DSC09814.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>As a significant transfer station, Van de Madeweg has a bit more room to play with, which is why they have a display area with historical photos between the viaducts. The helpful info board also informed me that this station is home to the metro's IT Test Centre, "where new software is tested so that we can be sure that all teething problems have been resolved before we put it into practice." I idly wondered if Merseyrail had an IT Test Centre, then decided it was more likely to be one harassed employee and his battered PC at Rail House, a Post-it note stuck on the monitor saying <i>"DO NOT SWITCH OFF - IMPORTANT!!!". </i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA-X-zQtttto50k-S1JjM-yh86ukHgNsOXMqXepIyzB6nKgT3vx8s_SA7RVZ3ecEtvZuKhWqDXkwoUOaLsGF-v1mXdb1yoWd40bIqqUZNUbWALM4Q52UJkSgpzOJfvrSsGUU83D_w_S54VAaJd28M8DEw17rv5GRinf1OCICN61vXbMRfB0JECC2qN_sPl/s4896/DSC09818.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA-X-zQtttto50k-S1JjM-yh86ukHgNsOXMqXepIyzB6nKgT3vx8s_SA7RVZ3ecEtvZuKhWqDXkwoUOaLsGF-v1mXdb1yoWd40bIqqUZNUbWALM4Q52UJkSgpzOJfvrSsGUU83D_w_S54VAaJd28M8DEw17rv5GRinf1OCICN61vXbMRfB0JECC2qN_sPl/s320/DSC09818.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>The red and white artwork outside is new, installed when all the stations were refurbished a couple of years ago. I love it. I love everything they've done to the stations, and I will gush about it at length in another blog post (two cliffhangers!). For now, I'll simply say that it's how to refurbish a metro properly, paying homage to the original architect's intentions while also updating and refining it for a new century.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6UvaLdvFmJG_j8HXKo_gChroVOEhpPg0o73eLGkcg-L8uzTOt8Au4x6njAnumUn2Jb6dGjJFIQeel_RYk3vSlLgr_erNPE3n7ab74r8QfGu87t2FuucHy5tR3BODu1Df69Ilr7S_sNR8hTK8qX7gnoOTL5t5s9rW3DQ1l0p1WEF9ZlI7uqc9qfdbWDAm6/s4896/DSC09822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6UvaLdvFmJG_j8HXKo_gChroVOEhpPg0o73eLGkcg-L8uzTOt8Au4x6njAnumUn2Jb6dGjJFIQeel_RYk3vSlLgr_erNPE3n7ab74r8QfGu87t2FuucHy5tR3BODu1Df69Ilr7S_sNR8hTK8qX7gnoOTL5t5s9rW3DQ1l0p1WEF9ZlI7uqc9qfdbWDAm6/s320/DSC09822.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>There is a "G" behind my head there, I promise. <div><br /></div><div>The area around the station was industrial, factories and warehouses, and this was far more my territory. I was back in the land of grime and commerce. I walked past distribution centres and anonymous blocks that had vague promises outside, words that mean something and nothing but give the general impression that they're a business who can do whatever you want them to do, unless they can't.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6ZHX2jTPK99tOX0cwEszSA7GdpZfmoFiUAw-qyYFU2TKQJefzLk0ugWxBuSjckvYWhdL5JjPKdDi3GechL1eoyDdRtN575azhQOoM8iefh5qCc89sttk8ow4O8PcDnmQi4GcjpUtuOxrsYc8KSwE2kDHCNeDsoFqhRHm-Gg2NAmBOGdNCiYqNd4DtWgQ/s4896/DSC09826.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6ZHX2jTPK99tOX0cwEszSA7GdpZfmoFiUAw-qyYFU2TKQJefzLk0ugWxBuSjckvYWhdL5JjPKdDi3GechL1eoyDdRtN575azhQOoM8iefh5qCc89sttk8ow4O8PcDnmQi4GcjpUtuOxrsYc8KSwE2kDHCNeDsoFqhRHm-Gg2NAmBOGdNCiYqNd4DtWgQ/s320/DSC09826.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>I passed under another motorway viaduct, this one decorated with bright coloured circles on sticks, like a collection of lollipops. On the other side was a complex rail triangle. The M50 turned to the west here, while the M51 joined the Oostlijn en route to Centraal. The result is a swing of high viaducts, trains crossing over one another, threading underneath, while at the base is a silver lump of scifi metal.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9fLc9nxvs25Px8N94fOvgbBOxQZD0FXlE4mq8eRTnxsb1guQm5usoSP9TNawhxqL5Uj5MvZOUYwWD-tjBnKhTd4jf0NwIgnSb2HUGDiAWw5KAVgSkU2cdMjZdj0pcfyLcTCrq07nqZQ8Q_EHCH1xdqRyz7oO4kyvHiCaDBzF3fzy6CfmxfKAIWHJaNk1T/s4896/DSC09832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9fLc9nxvs25Px8N94fOvgbBOxQZD0FXlE4mq8eRTnxsb1guQm5usoSP9TNawhxqL5Uj5MvZOUYwWD-tjBnKhTd4jf0NwIgnSb2HUGDiAWw5KAVgSkU2cdMjZdj0pcfyLcTCrq07nqZQ8Q_EHCH1xdqRyz7oO4kyvHiCaDBzF3fzy6CfmxfKAIWHJaNk1T/s320/DSC09832.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Given its position, I'd thought this was railway-related building. A signalling hub, perhaps, or a particularly fancy electrical transformer. The actual answer was rather more basic. It's a sewage pumping station. An extremely fancy one, one that looks like it was crafted out of mercury <a href="https://archello.com/project/booster">and which glows with LED lighting after dark</a>, but it was, none the less, a poo-processor. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnm9uv15VNLfuCsD7LbTALo-aRIPSOdOe8_ybOz6Q6vuTtRxLusq4CB3osKN074qiP-NWQj7X_GPXbfHwB04WgjSTkm7Ef20ok26AYAdRRjLg0BHGxgwMQqouEqPrwcABWn3gX0z4iH2B3EuWKk8Ldlc6OqAdCHrqEhhFiapXx08m_wtN9wpJ-pUAcy8iC/s4896/DSC09833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnm9uv15VNLfuCsD7LbTALo-aRIPSOdOe8_ybOz6Q6vuTtRxLusq4CB3osKN074qiP-NWQj7X_GPXbfHwB04WgjSTkm7Ef20ok26AYAdRRjLg0BHGxgwMQqouEqPrwcABWn3gX0z4iH2B3EuWKk8Ldlc6OqAdCHrqEhhFiapXx08m_wtN9wpJ-pUAcy8iC/s320/DSC09833.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>As I walked on, the district changed, with new apartment blocks appearing all around me. An access route under the railway was being punched through to allow the extension of an east-west boulevard, while the pavements had a small layer of concrete dust from all the jackhammering. The whole city seems to be experiencing a building boom, one that is at least partly down to our old friend Brexit. Companies and financial institutions based in the City wanted to move to the EU, but while Frankfurt made economic sense, it's a pretty boring place to live. Paris, meanwhile, London's only European rival as a world city, is too expensive. Amsterdam though - a great, lively city, accesible, where everyone spoke English, and which had plenty of space for new developments? Sold. The European Medicines Agency, for example, moved here from Canary Wharf in 2019. Thanks for another Brexit benefit, you wonderful fifty two percent-ers! <br /><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8ZsJ6MQtmzay3oq2bRNGvxSgFQs1KEj9NKkz_n0bZbZpqD0ywDPICuiuMUoXNW0jT1vc9KuHh05WwGMtovvm1RX4vPiio8GSBXjFLjaM3bllGexUq_8HpSBHyO9HfEffI-_5ljLEJ1fN0FtYhcxgH9pmAj1vlqTpKQ05v-7j8hjxJJXw-DoxyWMO1xyJ/s4896/DSC09837.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC8ZsJ6MQtmzay3oq2bRNGvxSgFQs1KEj9NKkz_n0bZbZpqD0ywDPICuiuMUoXNW0jT1vc9KuHh05WwGMtovvm1RX4vPiio8GSBXjFLjaM3bllGexUq_8HpSBHyO9HfEffI-_5ljLEJ1fN0FtYhcxgH9pmAj1vlqTpKQ05v-7j8hjxJJXw-DoxyWMO1xyJ/s320/DSC09837.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Sparklerweg station was built with the rest of the line, but took five years to open; the district around it was deemed insufficiently developed to justify it, plus a metro extension to Amstelveen which would've caused an interchange here wasn't yet constructed. I entered the station past the giant red metal doors which are something of an icon of the network; huge pieces of swinging hard steel that look like they could hold back a riot. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCB09aFhvF3td52njLzhdF0_ieD9grL0FcfWAtjjqeNVV7ImYuVP2NckZPFEL_TIkBUAjDTOTWZaCi0aYl8P9wuF3ytqPKqyxdwTnZe56TJqEks924nvnGDNJU5_aVwMEiIgtocRBV6GPoerCSuhICbYo2cUfK2Byz0D-p-Or5a6AZ-C2d5AE7jNOo1jpu/s4896/DSC09843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCB09aFhvF3td52njLzhdF0_ieD9grL0FcfWAtjjqeNVV7ImYuVP2NckZPFEL_TIkBUAjDTOTWZaCi0aYl8P9wuF3ytqPKqyxdwTnZe56TJqEks924nvnGDNJU5_aVwMEiIgtocRBV6GPoerCSuhICbYo2cUfK2Byz0D-p-Or5a6AZ-C2d5AE7jNOo1jpu/s320/DSC09843.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Inside, like all the Metro stations, the ticket hall was unstaffed. This isn't a problem because every station has a ticket machine, plus you can get through the six-foot high ticket gates with a variety of methods, ranging from an app on your phone, to a specific transport card, to your credit or debit card. The computer is smart enough to work out how much you need to pay and charge you accordingly while the tall gates keep the station secure. This is what's known as <i>"modern ticketing"</i> and <i>"a good thing"</i> and <i>"what the British need to implement before they go closing the ticket offices because otherwise you make a hideous mess and isolate and strand a lot of vulnerable people and I don't know why I bother because it's never going to happen because it requires forethought and preparation and investment and instead the Treasury will gain a couple of quid by removing staffed stations and then lose vast amounts of revenue because people either won't pay or won't travel at all"</i>. <br /><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhErZPpA0uPCBH-yRL1sq_7MPt1ey2zJG1gOpT7DuxKme0-FMAeGXEppQ6VbhXqdEY6w9fwV0DW-gZmfIKppIWrGywybg6GmcO2PvoociSnWhdUxU6tGr4iNXrgqNej2ulnmx8p1TxyW7b_Kb1krLLW5zi8tNTw_FVzO6ECnxK0zFVt46dh3zoHSy2br2iY/s4896/DSC09844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhErZPpA0uPCBH-yRL1sq_7MPt1ey2zJG1gOpT7DuxKme0-FMAeGXEppQ6VbhXqdEY6w9fwV0DW-gZmfIKppIWrGywybg6GmcO2PvoociSnWhdUxU6tGr4iNXrgqNej2ulnmx8p1TxyW7b_Kb1krLLW5zi8tNTw_FVzO6ECnxK0zFVt46dh3zoHSy2br2iY/s320/DSC09844.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Sparklerweg also has a Pac Man artwork on the wall in the escalator hall, and therefore is amazing. (Yes, that photo is a bit blurry. I'm not sure what it is, but sometimes, on a metro, I seem to lose my ability to take sharp pictures. Is it excitement making me shake, I wonder, or anxiety that people will look at me taking a photo of a railway station and think I'm a weirdo? It's definitely the second one, isn't it?)</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0jMOWhO2Pp9-463x5ccg1LJxwIBe1tq7I6FSVcz-dR3lT8rtcq2uz72wXTOMV9zRPYcaBqFRKF9ZX5WAFT1VwakNOyRQpwR7AofqP4llAS8LPPKa6bpSEC8gy7dZ8U9O7fES8lyG7O5tpaih5SSr8bLHjS7Va02RbzPaB2Yb0U6jWWHX2CH2K0g8FI0kn/s4896/DSC09840.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0jMOWhO2Pp9-463x5ccg1LJxwIBe1tq7I6FSVcz-dR3lT8rtcq2uz72wXTOMV9zRPYcaBqFRKF9ZX5WAFT1VwakNOyRQpwR7AofqP4llAS8LPPKa6bpSEC8gy7dZ8U9O7fES8lyG7O5tpaih5SSr8bLHjS7Va02RbzPaB2Yb0U6jWWHX2CH2K0g8FI0kn/s320/DSC09840.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>This is, incidentally, one of my favourite ever sign selfies. More stations should have a beautifully tiled block over the entrance with the name very simply spelled out. It'd make my job a lot easier.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4VLNJhaMqKtCMtlieCU-sjHUgoWS2raV-LwnvqlLfBC2je75TdLCS0uFwzUkxDt001D3kn2sCXlqkkfmJ-FAXm5SLWgK2pyeyuwe0TbIbvC_dn_31H2b_weBRV5y5Vjp9CoGlqRgZ_jr9WvBfmypObstInHcn8M3OjJoubARl7NdVy9vUXqI-T82WCjdo/s4896/DSC09845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4VLNJhaMqKtCMtlieCU-sjHUgoWS2raV-LwnvqlLfBC2je75TdLCS0uFwzUkxDt001D3kn2sCXlqkkfmJ-FAXm5SLWgK2pyeyuwe0TbIbvC_dn_31H2b_weBRV5y5Vjp9CoGlqRgZ_jr9WvBfmypObstInHcn8M3OjJoubARl7NdVy9vUXqI-T82WCjdo/s320/DSC09845.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>If you've been to Amsterdam, you've probably heard of Amstel station, and not just because it shares its name with the city's river. Amstel was constructed in the 1930s as one of the most important stations out of Centraal, and though the likes of Zuid have largely stolen its transportation thunder, it still retains a majesty and elegance. It reminded me of Berlin's Zoologischer Garten station, another second-rung but still important viaduct station. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWuZhKbSMlut2SG-Mo3LkBI-LWWu0Fk9MDK4bWEJBmpLmOLJJLhvyRDkkOXrZNkZrqk6NOCTvYsvEmLraYNx1TXyA7wPrVi1_hReuD26PKtCIpoxggGeeNKNvyTdkK3D5edinD4SMFZkanWWcNj8K1MRh6a-dIQ2TnX2gS3Zw2ECMra6aTVTgcH5TWUt6r/s4732/DSC09846.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3549" data-original-width="4732" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWuZhKbSMlut2SG-Mo3LkBI-LWWu0Fk9MDK4bWEJBmpLmOLJJLhvyRDkkOXrZNkZrqk6NOCTvYsvEmLraYNx1TXyA7wPrVi1_hReuD26PKtCIpoxggGeeNKNvyTdkK3D5edinD4SMFZkanWWcNj8K1MRh6a-dIQ2TnX2gS3Zw2ECMra6aTVTgcH5TWUt6r/s320/DSC09846.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>There are two exits from Amstel station. One is through the 1930s station building, opened by Queen Wilhemina herself, and opening out onto a tram and bus interchange. It's a triumphant and legendary piece of railway architecture.</div><div><br /></div><div>I did not go out that way.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOnlrR40Gmf6xROhvhEY-mzRK6w5EWzFt-LUfZKhbv7DLkMOB99UTyiDhvISIMlBI-DUxsG7TA635XnhERYZa7B4sCIpA0s4H1Wq1cROtz0cdkspvfrzsawCAmRJxEJVIkKkXx6dcS80W10Ky3fiWlta8K53DvOooQwDN0rSprZLS7GDOIJ8bMBeqFhOEf/s4896/DSC09850.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOnlrR40Gmf6xROhvhEY-mzRK6w5EWzFt-LUfZKhbv7DLkMOB99UTyiDhvISIMlBI-DUxsG7TA635XnhERYZa7B4sCIpA0s4H1Wq1cROtz0cdkspvfrzsawCAmRJxEJVIkKkXx6dcS80W10Ky3fiWlta8K53DvOooQwDN0rSprZLS7GDOIJ8bMBeqFhOEf/s320/DSC09850.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I'll be honest with you: I'd reached a point where I wanted to see something beautiful. Where I wanted to feel like I was actually in Amsterdam, rather than A.N.Eurocity. Taking the back exit took me past a building site and the rear of some apartment blocks, but then I reached the river, and I stopped to breathe. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSfEC6dlWJMaJop7Hb6mLnNmgnzxY_LAnPDkYNSD9mBpES7nEipbHCaE014bnKsAql_yMWONzhNOpPN8JzsWqeAc8d6GPAGz-CmGbybFzltgiqeaUoXp9l3YOl57mKi2Rek-YgpUGKRp2C_A3PywUag_0CA003DSFdtJq0XFrs0FLHubDBtWzO9z3v_Bm/s4896/DSC09852.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkSfEC6dlWJMaJop7Hb6mLnNmgnzxY_LAnPDkYNSD9mBpES7nEipbHCaE014bnKsAql_yMWONzhNOpPN8JzsWqeAc8d6GPAGz-CmGbybFzltgiqeaUoXp9l3YOl57mKi2Rek-YgpUGKRp2C_A3PywUag_0CA003DSFdtJq0XFrs0FLHubDBtWzO9z3v_Bm/s320/DSC09852.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>You can't really argue with that, can you?</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMV-BBm2V8CXFJnpDXlNESGiVRPQLtL0cLtMH7CpurEePLQgQ8i2d8l21dYOqNa-Q-CEhccPJqmAzd-mkx9_4ziDxXndnED3aTUpteTRbU9sTz9sAK5jFkGJPzwCq3kBy5IUlAjnuOJy2DZ3gtJBwRm6Z3BwSZIAaaFa_r3e-Eg_r-CpkgY2e05PG_xzjI/s4896/DSC09848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3672" data-original-width="4896" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMV-BBm2V8CXFJnpDXlNESGiVRPQLtL0cLtMH7CpurEePLQgQ8i2d8l21dYOqNa-Q-CEhccPJqmAzd-mkx9_4ziDxXndnED3aTUpteTRbU9sTz9sAK5jFkGJPzwCq3kBy5IUlAjnuOJy2DZ3gtJBwRm6Z3BwSZIAaaFa_r3e-Eg_r-CpkgY2e05PG_xzjI/s320/DSC09848.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div><div><div><br /></div></div></div>Scott Willisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02284196034782356946noreply@blogger.com0