Anonymous asked:
When was Wayne House demolished?
2004
#365daysofbiking Church worship and a great deception:
Saturday 26th February 2022 - A weary, slow second ride of the weekend, again with Pickle. I had planned this the night before with my soul full of optimism, spring energy and warmth, but as it turned out the day although beautiful, was acutely chilly and the places we visited to see spring flowers were all mostly still barren.
It was a day of churches though, and they looked stunning: Dunstall, Clifton Campville and Lullington looked splendid as they always do, resplendent in their landscapes but the best of all was Lullington which pleasingly, had a gorgeous mix of flowers and colours: Cyclamen, narcissus, some early daffs, snowdrops and crocuses.
Sadly, the cold in this fool’s spring was so sharp it was energy-sapping and the ride was curtailed by agreement, but was still a respectable 54 miles.
That’s the trouble with beautiful days in late February: They deceive you that the winter is over.
#365daysofbiking Down from above:
Saturday 26th February 2022 - Over to Pickle.
A very unexpected 84 miles. 'We rode out through Burntwood, Shute Hill, Longdon, Armitage, The Ridwares, Rowley Park, Hoar Cross, Newborough, Buttermilk Hill, Uttoxeter, Doveridge, Waldley, Roston, Norbury, Ellastone, Wooton and my happy place, the Weaver Hills.
It was very cold up on the hills: The bike computer recorded it as just 3 degrees at sunset. We came over Raddlepits, Cauldon Low, Threelows, Oakamoor, Red Road, Alton - the temperature was back up to 7 here! Crakemarsh, back through Uttoxeter, Willslock, and down the main road through Bagot Forest, Abbots Bromley, Blithbury, Handsacre, Hanch, Stoneywell and Hammerwich.
There were lots of flowers but sadly I didn't get the one I wanted: We did see some spring lambs but they were too far away to photograph.
Bob had a bit of a grim tum with cramps - but he never complained and we managed 14mph average which is great for pretty much the first good long ride of the year.
#365daysofbiking Station to station: Left baggage:
Wednesday 16th February 2022 - The weather was stormy and unpleasant to ride in, and when I left Telford where I’d been working there was driving rain carried on a wind honed on Satan’s back step.
I decided to cut my losses, and hop on the train to Brum, then change for another to Four Oaks and ride from there.
This is a journey I used o do twice a day, multiple times a month, but since the pandemic made trains such a strange experience I only really travel on them one way, between Wolverhampton and Telford in the mornings. It was a strange experience - how did I ever put up with all that waiting around?
I miss it, I really do, especially the views, and the late-night feelings thing of railway stations at night I’ve written about before. Things are clearly a bit more normal now than when I stopped this time-suck of a journey at the beginning of the pandemic. Back then New Street in particular had become a hostile, unpleasant place with next to no commuters and very few services. At least it seems alive again now, and you can get a coffee.
It was while downing a double espresso to pep me up for the push from Four Oaks that I took time admiring the night view of metalwork, lights and machinery from under the access bridge on platform eight.
I’ve spent so much time here over the years, and I left it behind, barely noticing. It was strangely nostalgic and emotional to do the station to station hop once more.
#365daysofbiking Slurrey up:
Sunday 8th February 2022 - I hadn’t been feeling very well, and the weather was awful but I needed fresh air. So I did what I always do: Went for a ride.
It’s been blowing a hoolie all weekend, and Saturday was grim. I’d felt dizzy and nauseous and gone to bed early, and awoken on the Sunday with a piercing headache. Having tested negative for CV, it had to be some kind of cold. The only thing to do was down the paracetamol, don the waterproofs and go for a ride in the rain.
Driving rain and a headwind are never fun. Add to this the mud dragged off the fields onto the lanes by farm machinery and it was chewy, thick going. But it did the trick and at least cleared my head.
At Bullmoor Lane near Muckley Corner, it was particularly bad. I’m not sure if they should resurface this one or just plough it.
#365daysofbiking Season of the sunset:
Sunday 6th February 2022 - Returning from Lichfield on an errand, I caught a good sunset - not a brightly coloured one, although those always occur this time of year sooner or later - but the sort of dramatic, moody, muted skyline that bristles with what Simon Jeffes might have termed surface tension.
The skeletal trees of Home Farm looked stark and beautiful on the skyline of Sandhills, as did the trees meeting the sky in a garden at Lynn.
Winter does have it’s compensations, but they can be few and far between if I’m honest.
#365daysofbiking Don’t go:
Tuesday 1st February 2022 - Kings Hill Park, Darlaston: A sunny, late winter day and that curious golden hour you get at about 2pm only at this time of year. The crocuses are up, and so are a few (but only a few) snowdrops. How welcome the sight, how they filled me with joy - and what promise of a new year they bring.
It’s been a dull and unpleasant winter. But this must surely herald a decent year.
Please flowers, even if the weather turns again, don’t go. You are my hope.
brownhillsbob reblogged
“Most people today know no more of the canals than they do of the old green roads which the pack-horse trains once travelled”.
My cycling comeback started in earnest this weekend, as I stormed out from my home in Stoke on Trent, through the industries of South Cheshire, through the junction of the Trent and Mersey Canal and Shropshire Union Canal at Middlewich, (2) Weaver Navigation, Whitegate Way, Delamere Forest and (3) Frodsham to my goal, the National Waterways Museum, Ellesmere Port. Almost all this landscape is marked by the hand of man; it’s mostly farmed, with many factories, and even the forest isn’t natural, being an old Norman hunting forest owned by the Earls of Chester and owned by the Forestry Commission since 1924. In the 18th century, canal building came into its own. The Trent and Mersey Canal, which flows through my home city of Stoke on Trent, was engineered by James Brindley from 1766 to 1777, and the Shropshire Union Canal, though not finished until 1846, was built in this stage in 1795 when Thomas Telford and William Jessop realised a plan to join the Shropshire Union Canal to the River Mersey and River Dee. Thus, the raw materials of Wales and Cheshire could be joined with the finished goods from Manchester, and sail out through Liverpool to the world. It shows the genius of Telford and Jessop that they could come to a marsh where literally no one lived and a thriving town sprang from their vision. In 1833, the Middlewich Canal was built through that booming salt town to link the Trent and Mersey to the Shropshire Union, and Ellesmere Port gained even further from this.
The railways came to Ellesmere Port in 1863; having cycled in (a thing unknown to Telford and Jessop as cycling, invented as an idea by German Karl von Dreis in 1817, was not realised in practice until 1863), I got the train home on a line that has run for the last 159 years.
Facing up to the challenge of trains, the canals still went from strength to strength for decades afterwards; Anderton Boat Lift was engineered by Edwin Clark in 1875 linking the Weaver Navigation and the Mersey, which you can see here from when I went there in 2020.
The town thrived with dozens of roads being built here, especially (6) the M53 motorway (1972), and the vast Stanlow oil refinery, built in 1924 (which I’ve wanted to see ever since seeing it from Frodsham Hill on (1) the Sandstone Trail in May 2016). Most of the refinery was shut off to visitors, but I did see (5) Essar, with (4) being from 1965. They were joined by Vauxhall in 1962.
However, it seemed the canal (which, despite late Victorian optimism, hadn’t withstood rail and road, especially after being nationalised in 1948) had nothing to offer the new age, and LTC Rolt’s fears would come true. It stopped work in 1963 and at the lowest ebb, the great warehouse Telford designed burned down in 1970. Telford’s biographer, Julian Glover, called this “the greatest loss of any of his creations”.
This brought home to the townsfolk that the canal, to which they owe their town’s very existence (it was named after Ellesmere, Shropshire, on the Shropshire Union Canal, as there was no one here to give it a name before that), should be remembered. A museum was founded in 1973 and became the National Waterways Museum in 2004; this was the visit I had wanted to make for more than five years. The Island Warehouse (8,9), built in 1871, is its centrepiece and there are exhibitions such as a restoration of a boat-builder’s shed (10) and others, most of which will be dealt with in the next post. So Rolt’s fears didn’t come true and if I have anything to do with it, never will!
Good to see someone else out cycling with a camera! Keep the wind at your back and the sun on your face.
#365daysofbiking What makes this mine:
Thursday 27th January 2022 - On my way home from work in Darlaston, I stopped in Pleck, one of the most ethnically diverse areas of Walsall to get some shopping in from one of the best international supermarkets around.
Within, I took my pick of staples and treats from Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Chinese, Jamaican, African and Arabic cuisines and foodstuffs, and as usual, came out with loads more than intended. I love that store.
Standing on the car park, I noticed the remnants of daylight had turned the sky a gorgeous colour in that transition from light to dark, and the skyline was as diverse and colourful as the contents of my bulging panniers.
People knock Walsall and the Black Country relentlessly; people with divisive intent spew hatred about the diverse communities and drive poisoned wedges into any available fissure. But it’s precisely this disparate, chaotic and multi-faceted nature of this place that makes me feel at home. It’s what I love: The food, the people, the history, the complete chaos of the built environment around me.
Here are my people an this is my place... Wherever they are from.
#365daysofbiking Bridge to my heart:
Saturday 22nd January 2022 - The endless rain and murk seems to be coming to a bit of a break - and a cessation in this grim period is not a moment too soon, I can tell you.
Out for an evening spin on a clear but cold Saturday - maybe picking up a takeaway on my return depending on how busy they were - I decided to have a punt at photographing the Anchor Bridge from the canalside adjacent to the pub that gave it it’s name. This is a familiar muse to long-term readers, but it makes for a lovely, colourful night photo and really illustrates Pickle’s fascination with bending the dark.
I’ve always loved how this bridge looks so bucolic yet is actually on the very frontier between urban sprawl and rolling countryside. On the far side of the canal, flats and houses all the way through Catshill and Ogley Hay. Behind me to my left, the undulating fields and hills of Home Farm, Sandhills. Ahead, under that bridge, the houses on Lindon Road at the foot of Shire Oak, and Chandlers Keep, the site of a former foundry.
And at the still point, me in silence, listening to the noise of traffic, the wind, the odd instance of wildlife and drinkers filling the space between them with laughter and music.
This spot, this bridge at night are in my heart and soul. It is very Brownhills, and a part of my psyche. Bizarre, but true.
The curry was most excellent.
#365daysofbiking Shades of grey, shades of blue:
Sunday 16th January 2022 - I was planning on a longer ride, but I got bogged down in changing my tyres. I’m still experimenting with studless winter specific ones, but wasn’t happy with the current set and had been given some Pirelli to try. By the time I’d changed them, and sorted other maintenance matters arising, there was little left of daylight; but it didn’t matter much because rather than being bright and pleasant as forecast, the weather was cold and grey.
I slid out for a tentative test ride in the twilight, heavy hearted - I’d been looking forward to a decent ride all week and it just hadn’t happened. The tyres, thankfully, felt much better: Even after this short 13 miler I felt I had more trust in them.
I did a speedy loop of Stonnall, Footherley, Shenstone, Wall, Pipehill and Hammerwich. The weather was very cold and closing in, and the atmosphere felt hostile. Riding was hard work, and my hands were cold.
I stopped at the top of Pipe Hill; to record a darkening Lichfield, the sprawl of which has slowly edged towards Pipe Hill in the four decades I’ve cycled here. Where there is now a large Waitrose supermarket, there was once fields, a small hospital and a cricket ground. The new houses are now spreading up Deans Slade towards Aldershawe and Harehurst Hill.
It’s sad, but that’s progress and I don’t lament these things: Such is wasted energy, as they can’t be changed or retained, and time will continue to march on. The spires I marvelled at as a boy are still there, and the impact of that view on me is just as great as it always was, I could study it for hours, even in this bitter chill.
I felt a little blue in this grey landscape. There was little sign this evening of the premature spring we found at New Year, and longer days and warmth seemed impossibly far away from me in the here and now. Whilst the view and the lanes were lovely, today they didn't soothe me, they just made me long for better days.
They will, of course, arrive: And not a moment too soon.
#365daysofbiking On the skyline:
Thursday 13th January 2022 - Crossing Chasewater on an errand I’d deliberately held back until sunset, my studied tardiness was rewarded handsomely.
Chasewater is the best place locally to catch a sunset, and the gull roost was massive with thousands of birds too, so the spectacle was twofold. The deer were out on the North Heath and obliged beautifully.
I’ve said this many times and I’ll continue to do so: This place is beautiful. But you have to want to see it, and actively go look. Had I not had one eye to the skies I’d never have seen this.
There’s nowhere I’d rather have been than here, this night.
#365daysofbiking Watchers of the night:
Sunday 9th January 2022 - I’ve been riding with Pickle, my 15 year old niece, for years now, as followers of my social media will know. She was always reluctant to share her images and thoughts on this journal, which she steadfastly considered to be solely my preserve. Now she’s older, we’ve debated the matter, and she’s now content to take part - after all, she shares the same enthusiasm for the places we visit and all that they contain that I had at her age, that hopefully I’ve conveyed to readers over the last decade. Sharing this passion with a youngster is contagious, and renews my fascination - not just for the places, but for cycling and life in general. Now I’m getting older, this isn’t a moment too soon.
But also being a teenager, Pickle has a full social schedule and it wasn’t until quite late on Sunday that she was free to head out. She has a new camera at the moment, and she was keen to exploit the low light features, and try out some techniques she’d read about in her continual perusal of photography forums and the device’s manual.
We needed a place that had a good atmosphere at dusk, and was within an achievable distance. I recalled that Hoar Cross church is lit at night, and the Needwood Valley it overlooks can be magical at any time of day, but especially in twilight. I thought if we headed up through Lichfield, Sittles, Croxall, Walton on Trent, then wound up through Barton, we might just hit Dunstall at the golden hour, then over Scotch Hills to Jacksons Bank and Hoar Cross by sunset.
The ride was fast, but the countryside and lanes absolutely sodden. The weather was clear and chilly, which aided in holding off twilight. Sadly, the golden hour wasn’t really happening, and the sunset had more important things to do too; but as the lass reflected, this wasn’t that kind of day.
At Dunstall Hall - a place that’s seen a number of uses in recent years - it was interesting to see the deer in the gardens before the house, and that gorgeous church on the rolling hillside was as captivating as ever. But we had another church in our sights, and we got there on time.
Hoar Cross church of The Holy Angels is without doubt, one of the finest churches in Staffordshire, if not England. Sat in the middle of nowhere next to Hoar Cross Hall, seat of the Meynell Ingram family, it sits on a ridge above the Needwood Valley. It is absolutely stunning, was erected as a memorial to Lady Meynell Ingram’s husband, killed in a hunting accident in 1871, although like all great Victorian tragic legends, some of this is disputed.
My memory was correct and the church is lit at night by a very orange sodium light that really highlights the stonework of this remarkable building beautifully - but not only that, it picks out the angels watching over the slain hunter’s grave in a most remarkable way. We took lots of photos here, and listened to the owls unseen in the trees seemingly having a dispute. The atmosphere was amazing, and experiencing nightfall here was truly magical.
It was getting increasingly cold and we were hungry, so rode back - not on our usual Hadley End - Morrey - A515 route, but I wanted to find the keen photographer some alternate subjects on the way - so we turned southwestwards and through Rough Park, the Ridwares and Handsacre, where we took a photo break on that remarkable old bridge, redundant but resplendent, still adjacent to it’s modern replacement carrying the main road over the Trent.
Here, the lights of the Armitage Shanks factory and Rugeley really made for a good muse, but neither of us can yet atone to the view without Rugeley Power Station. A sad loss, something I never would have thought of myself saying 20 years ago.
We returned home up past Grand Lodge, Goosemoor Green and Fulfen, cutting across Chasetown to Chasewater, where Pickle had something she really, really wanted to try: I think you’ll agree her starry night shots are stunning.
A 53 miler on a surprisingly cold day in quite challenging road conditions: But a good ride nonetheless, and some great photos. Always good of the soul.
#365daysofbiking Filling the space between then and now:
Saturday 8th January 2022 - Surviving winter is not trivial. If you’re a lover of summer, light and green, the lightless, lifeless season can be grim - especially when wet. The day had been awful. We’d been engaged in keeping-busy activities: Pickle had been drawing for some project and I’d been fiddling with some electronics.
Late afternoon, as dusk fell, the rain abated and we decided to take a run out on the bikes to the retail park at Cannock to get some shopping in. The night was murky but the riding surprisingly fast and enjoyable.
We returned to Brownhills in the early evening, down a deserted Black Path. Pickle stopped to take a picture, and once more, bend the dark.
This mundane, little considered edgeland was precious in that instant, and she preserved it for posterity with the camera.
Winter, and bad weather is about filling space between the better times, and keeping a watchful eye for the small, beautiful consolations.
#365daysofbiking Rituals:
Tuesday 4th January 2022 - This journal has never been about anything at all if it hasn’t been about watching the seasons change, and the anticipation of better days.
One ritual post I have made probably every year here is the photo of the fist patch of daffodil shoots I come upon, in this case on a grass verge outside my workplace on a Darlaston industrial estate.
I say it every year. Because it needs saying. They know the light is coming. They have awoken, and are growing. Hang in there folks, spring will come and the daffodils are telling us not to give up hope.
#365daysofbiking Back to earth:
Sunday 2nd January 2022 - The warmth and fine weather departed as suddenly as it arrived, in the way that saviours generally do.
On an errand displaced from New Year’s Eve, I was in Lichfield during a sunset break in the rain. It was cold, and still windy. I went for the Lichfeldian photographer’s cliche: The Cathedral across Stowe Pool. It rewarded me suitably, with a moody, dark sunset.
I wonder what was happening in the single lit room before the Cathedral. Perhaps there was a lone cleric, forlornly asking the management for another blessed burst of better weather.
#365daysofbiking Bending the darkness - a Pickle guide:
Saturday 1st January 2022 - As we slid off the top of Honey Hill, down through No Man’s Heath, we flowed liquid down the lanes; but also liquid was the light. It was becoming magical, in that way some sunsets are tantalisingly transient: The low sun catches the haze, and lights the whole thing up. You feel like you are the only witness.
The trouble with such situations is they pass horribly quickly and you need to find somewhere to capture them before they escape into the aether of memory.
Fortunately Pickle was alert and spotted a great view to the west from a field gateway. There was a barn, some trees, an unknown spire, beyond and farther, mistier like Addlestrop, hills. And everything was in tones of gold.
The church turned out to be Newton Regis.
We took photos: All these here are from the young lady, not me. She distilled the atmosphere of the day so perfectly, no more needed to be posted. She caught the majesty, the fleeting instance. And then we hurriedly decided to head for Orton on the Hill, to catch the final light of the dying first day of the year. This rare, warm and gorgeous day.
When we reached Orton, not ten minutes later, the sky was dull again, and dark was descending. Such is the nature of these things.
We pressed on through Warton and Polesworth, former mining communities that have much in common with Brownhills, then through Dordon up that punishing hill to the A5. All the time night was tiptoeing in, seemingly leaving it as long as possible, almost apologising for stealing the day.
Pickle loves low light and night photography, and we share the concept of bending the dark. Before she really harnessed her talent, in the short period when I still had stuff to teach her about photography, I introduced the idea that night is more colourful than day in many ways, and that to share this and capture it, you have to look at the dark differently, to bend it mentally. Just as to see in the darkness one’s eyes must adjust, you also have to adjust how you perceive what is there. She’s been doing this for a few years now and the results are fascinating.
Birch Coppice used to be a huge coal mine, but like them all here, it closed exhausted, and with its communities similarly worn out there was depression and recovery. It took years to reclaim the pit site, and it’s now host to clean, silent warehouses and container depots served not just by the Roman Watling Street, but by the former pit railway. They nestle almost completely in a valley between Woodend and Dordon. You come upon it suddenly, and it’s a shock. It’s also a shock to emerge from it on a bike - again, up a punishing hill - and surface blinking back into the countryside you thought was lost.
She caught this in the half-night from the ridge on the rural-industrial frontier. It’s strangely captivating. Looking ahead towards Hurley from the same spot, skeletal trees before a teasingly pink sky give no clue of the mechanisation before them.
We rode at speed back through north Warwickshire in increasingly dark lanes. The night chill was setting in. We stopped at Kingsbury Water Park to wrap up warmer and graze sweet snacks.
It was not until we came through Footherley, barely a gnat’s cough from home, that Pickle signalled to stop. She pointed to the single streetlight at the junction of Footherley Lane and Hollyhill Lane and indicated it was time for a breather while she got out the camera.
That streetlight has been a marker since I first rode these lanes over 40 years ago: Entering its halo of light has always been a sign of homecoming. She has encapsulated it perfectly, something I never managed, but not only that, she turned to look behind her. I’ll let Pickle explain.
Bob's got ideas about things that we see and find. He's got this thing about garden ruins, where you find a once neat garden or park and it's actually more beautiful gone wild? Another of his ideas is what he calls bending the dark.
Bob showed me that night is often more colourful than day, but you have to look hard for it, and use what's in your head to connect everything and see it. It sounds very silly but it isn't.
Behind us at the single streetlight is Footherley Hall, a home for old people. The light from it was spilling into the lane, but also the transmitter, and sky. It's a whole range of colour that wouldn't be there in the day, and it would just be a muddle. But at night, the dark bends the way we see it and it becomes pretty, but a bit weird too. I really love that.
Bob has some really strange ideas but if you think about them, sometimes they make a lot of sense. But only sometimes :-)
It was a fantastic ride. After a Christmas holiday with no decent riding at all, it had been so worth the wait. We were both renewed by it and the young lady recorded it beautifully.