My first port of call was Willenhall, on the new line between Wolverhampton and Walsall. It's a former freight line that now lets you travel between two major conurbations without having to go into Birmingham city centre first. It doesn't sound much, but that's the kind of small link that makes a big difference. Any chance to avoid New Street is surely a plus.
Willenhall will not be confused for one of Europe's great termini. It has two platforms, two shelters, and some seats. There is no ticket office, but there is a ticket machine. It's been decked out in bland grey with some splashes of corporate orange here and there.
It was already being well used when I arrived, with a dozen people disembarking with me (and one girl rushing down to the platform a full minute after the train had left; she tried to style it out, pulling her phone up and leaning on a wall, like she really wanted to hang out on a railway station for an hour).
I went up to the road bridge, which has been gifted with a cycle lane and plenty of pedestrian space. It turned out the town centre of Willenhall was less than a minute's walk from the new station; it could not have been more convenient. I would've been pretty annoyed if I'd lived there in 1965 when it originally closed, removing a handy link, but there are so many reasons I'm glad I wasn't around in 1965 (grrr, Beeching!).
I didn't go into the town, instead turning right past a memorial and the library. There was some lovely Festival of Britain font going on over the old entrance - there's a new glass one to the side, with disabled access - and the "flag of Willenhall" on a gatepost. It was designed in 2014 and references the town's history as the home of lockmaking - it was the site of Yale's factory for decades. I am, officially, over flags in any way shape or form right now; the discourse has ground me down. Sure, you want a flag, stick it up. Stick up all the flags you like. It won't make your wife come back.
The road twisted and turned, past a church tower and a half-dozen pubs - some open, some not. Drinking culture has changed so much in the last couple of centuries as we've realised that (a) getting lashed on your lunch break probably isn't a good thing and (b) getting lashed in general isn't great for your health and certainly won't give you washboard abs. It's sad seeing these former pleasure palaces laden with "for sale" signs but Britain is changing. It's a new world, and that world involves protein shakes and gyms. And also, let's be honest, quite a lot of cocaine. It's a world I'll quietly absent myself from, and I'll be over here, resting a pint glass on my beer gut.
As I walked, it became clear that Willenhall was crying out for a fast, direct link into the city. There were the occasional signs of regeneration - blocks of flats, new town houses - but mostly what I saw was post-industrial collapse. Empty buildings. Debris. Sadness. Small homes with peeling paint and grass growing out of their roofs.
I passed The Meat Shop - a woman was emerging with a bulging white carrier bag, filled with who knew what - and a bus stop with a pair of giggling sixth formers flirting with one another. TLC Bargains had a slogan of SMACK WHACK BANG and an astonishing Instagram account featuring "the Black Country Del Boy". Please do check out the video where he extols the virtues of a spice grinder while wearing a pair of fake breasts. I don't know why.
I turned right at the Sikh Gurdwara, as always enjoying the little bit of exoticism that had crashed landed into boring old England, and descended past a delicious-smelling McDonalds (it was lunchtime after all) towards the railway bridge. The Robin Hood pub, judging by the cards on the back of the bench in the window, was hosting a birthday party. Two elderly people came round from the car park, peered inside, then went in.
The A454 quickly followed, passing over my head while the railway had gone underneath (there was a canal a bit further on, too; a rare one-two-three of transport). In a layby, a truck driver sat in his cab and ate his lunch; a second van backed into the space next to him and the driver similarly pulled out a sandwich. I was leaving the residential streets behind and moving into the industrial.
A company proudly celebrating its 29th anniversary with a special badge on the side of its unit - that's not how anniversaries work - and an ad for Darlaston Gym Boxing hung on a green fence. At the traffic lights, a crane towered over my head, as I turned left to follow the long brick wall of the Imperial Works. Once a nuts and bolt factory, it had become home to various engineering businesses over the years, but now seemed derelict.
It was obvious to me how Darlaston station would help this area. It was thick with industry - trucks were constantly passing me or reversing - but there was still a lot of blank, vacant space that was crying out for a rebuild. Offices, homes - you could slip them in here now, with a canal view and a local station. It needed a bit of ambition and a lot of money but it could be done.
I avoided being run over by a self-drive hire van - they were still getting used to the controls, clearly, and were very apologetic as they lurched out of a side entrance - and passed a rack of traffic trapped in a four-way roadwork. There were so many different businesses around, so many names I'd never heard of, doing work I'd never know about. Receiving deliveries of who knew what, processing invoices from other small anonymous companies, making a nice little profit that bought the owner a decent car and paid for a Christmas party.
Houses returned with a crash: a sudden block of old people flats and a row of 1970s houses. One of them had torn up their lawn to replace it with a large, fake stone fountain, about two metres high. Sadly the water wasn't turned on, otherwise I'd have nipped over to drop in a few coins and make a wish.
The new station isn't on Station Street; road changes have left this as a cut-through lined with a terrace on one side and garages on the other. At the end, there was a vast self-storage unit. The only business that seems to be expanding everywhere is storage, as we own more and more things but live in smaller and smaller homes.
On top of the railway bridge I got a glimpse of the station below. The embankments were still scarred from construction, bare and yet to be turfed, while a team of men with a tanker and a hose were doing some pumping on the newly laid drain - not a great sign, let's be honest. They blocked the way for me to get a decent sign picture with their equipment so I'm afraid this is the best you'll get. It does say Darlaston, I promise.
Actually getting into the station involved a walk up a long road that provided access to the neighbouring cemetery. I got the feeling that TfWM didn't expect many people to walk to this stop, a suspicion confirmed when I rounded the corner and saw an acre of bare tarmac laid out for parking. It was, I'd say, about 10% full, but it was early days. I'm sure in a few months you'll find it hard to get a spot.
Like its brother at Willenhall, Darlaston station is no looker. It gets the job done. There are lifts to get you over the tracks, seats, a roof to hold off the rain.
Darlaston station won't change the world. But it will improve a little part of it. Get your wins where you can.
Goodness me, the old 0902 code for Wolverhampton. I've just looked it up, and PhONEday was in January 1995. I thought it was before then.
ReplyDelete