Notes On Camp

With the new stations of the Wolverhampton-Walsall line behind me (the WolWal Line?  Wolvall?) I shifted from one side of New Street to the other.  It was in a state of low-level chaos; a problem with the lines going south had caused a huge backlog of delays and cancellations.  Dejected passengers lined the platforms waiting for trains that wouldn't come.  My own, tiny, local train was delayed by twenty minutes, and as it passed the losers standing by I sank down in my seat so it wouldn't look like I was revelling in my good fortune.

We rose up out of the tunnel, giving us a great view of the HS2 station slowly coming together at Curzon Street.  That exact same day Heidi Alexander had stood up and announced that everything would be late and expensive and also, not as good as it was meant to be, and I looked at that vast swathe of concrete and workmen and trucks and diggers and wondered exactly when I'd be able to stand outside it and take a sign selfie.  If, indeed, I could still stand at that point.  Perhaps my carer will take the picture for me.

The train pulled onto the Camp Hill Line, Birmingham's newest suburban route.  I wondered how the people in the houses lining the track felt about this sudden uptick in noise; a rarely used freight line transformed into a commuter line.  I bet there's a lot less nude sunbathing in the back gardens now.

The most distinctive part of Moseley Village station isn't anything to do with what's been built; that's all distinctly perfunctory.  Metal walls, orange lampposts, all the same playbook.  The thing that draws your eye is the entrance to the tunnel beyond the platforms.

Is it just me or is there something vaguely... vulva-like about that?  It's the keystone at the top, poking over the splayed curves of the tunnel.  It's a little bit dirty.  Obviously I'm no expert in this matter but you don't have to be Sigmund Freud to see the symbolism of a train sliding into that.  

I politely averted my eyes and went up the stairs to the newly laid out plaza on top.  It's a large, bare stretch of block paving that's been clearly designed as an event space.  I could see the shadows of artisan soap makers, organic candle stalls and expensive streetfood yet to come scattered across the pavement.  It's certainly a cut above Willenhall's cycle lane and zebra crossing.

It quickly became obvious why Moseley Village got the full town square treatment.  It turned out this place was posh.  Right outside the station was an M&S Food Hall, and it very much continued on that theme.  Restaurants and beauty salons cascaded down the hill towards the main road.  Estate agents with expensive listings.  An old church high on a mound above us.  At the junction, a dual carriageway had a vague air of boulevard with tall trees and benches to relax on.  The original station here, closed during the war, had been called simply Moseley; you could hear the letters from the residents' associations demanding that Village suffix to show they were a cut above.

This sounds like reverse snobbery, and it is a bit, but it didn't stop me finding Moseley charming.  It was certainly an improvement on the grim industrial backstreets of Darleston.  I turned up a hill, where a pub poster advertised a forthcoming appearance from drag queen Harley La Rue.  Where Class Meets Sass it promised, which I puzzled over for a while until I realised my Southern accent was standing in the way of the rhyme (Where Clarse Meets Sass).  I wonder where the dividing line is for that long A.  Perhaps the Watford Gap.

The road gently rose up the hill and I realised once again that I should really check out the gradient lines on the OS Map before I plan these journeys.  It went up and up, past lines of neat villas and new shiny cars parked close to the kerb.  The Moseley Dovecot, a remnant of a great house that was once in the area, stood behind a fence on a patch of green.

I passed a Jewish primary school and a cul de sac of identical terraced homes that was choked with cars.  A builder's yard and then, on a whitewashed wall, a picture of an eggman raising his hat to passers by; beneath him, the road sign had been adorned with the Prince symbol.  I couldn't decide which was more incongruous.

Blocks of flats now intruded on the street, new and old, while the big mansions had multiple buzzers and concreted fronts.  A funeral home had a large stained glass window presiding over passers by, and I found myself humming Slumber Inc without even thinking about it.  I am nothing if not predictable.

At a curve in the road my second station appeared, Kings Heath (no, there isn't an apostrophe; yes, it is annoying).  There are only three new stations on the Camp Hill line; it terminates at Kings Norton, an already existing station that lacks an apostrophe.  It's amazing that this new, exciting transport link in England's second largest city is three stations and two trains an hour in each direction but there it is; we settle for what we can get.  

At some point, the trains will go into Moor Street, where there is more capacity than the ridiculously overcrowded New Street, but before that happens Bordesley station needs to close so that new chords can be built.  The proposal to close it is already out there, though there isn't a suggestion of a replacement on the Camp Hill route once the new lines are built (the Metro's newest extension will take over the slack).  When this will happen is, as always, entirely guesswork.  

Kings Heath also has a small pedestrian space outside, though it's more of an infill between the curve and the road and the straight front of the footbridge; I can't see anyone holding a craft fair there.  

I took a seat on the platform.  There was another man there who also carried a camera.  I imagine Men Who Like Railway Stations have been swarming all over the line for the last couple of months; there are probably dozens of YouTube videos about it all in deep detail.  This is probably all old news to you.  But you get it when I write it, so tough.

The final station is the jewel, the one that everyone likes: Pineapple Road.  What a lovely, evocative, fun name.  It's the kind of whimsical station name you wouldn't think would pass muster in the boring old 21st century; after all, for most of the 20th century it was called Hazelwell.  Pineapple Road is a great fun name, one that calls to you.

It is, of course, nothing special on the ground.  If a kidnapper dumped me on a platform on the Camp Hill line and ran off with my glasses so I couldn't read the sign I wouldn't be able to tell them apart.  Two platforms, metal awnings and stairs, lifts and footbridge.  

Still, I hoped Pineapple Road, of all the stations, would offer a little bit of artistic licence.  A moment of character.  I was excited to spot some metal fretwork and I stopped for a good look.

I'm afraid to say it depicted random wild flowers.  There wasn't a single pineapple to be seen, which simply isn't on.  It's called Pineapple Road.  It's on the Camp Hill line.  It's begging for a level of flamboyant extravagance hitherto unseen in the West Midlands.  There should be small pineapples on top of every pillar, lamp post and help sign.  There should be pineapple murals and pineapple brickwork.  You shouldn't be able to move for the pineapples.  

When I win the EuroMillions on Friday (£137 million, watch this space) I will personally pay for a two metre high golden pineapple statue to be erected outside the station.  I will give the station the campery, the whimsy, the sheer delightful personality it deserves.  I will make it the destination it should be.