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No, not there.  Where's the sun coming from?  Ok there.  Wait for the traffic to clear a bit.  There's a lot of traffic.  I'm not making an idiot of myself alongside idling cars, I'll wait for them to go.  Any time now.  Ok, try that.  Can't see the screen.  Damn sunlight.  Try it again.  Still can't see.  Third time.  Ah well, it is what it is, it'll have to do.

Yep, that's me outside a railway station taking a photo under a sign.  We're back in business, folks.

It had actually taken a lot of time to decide where my first post-pandemic station would be.  It became a thing.  It was such a moment of significance, this return to the trains, that I'd convinced myself it should be special.  It had to be in the West Midlands of course - none of those stations out on the fringes.  Not Wem.  I wanted to spread myself about equally though, not stick to any particular line.  I wanted to do it justice, but nowhere too notable.  After a lot of consideration, I alighted on Sandwell & Dudley, which is not in Dudley.

There's been a station on this spot since 1852 but it was rebuilt completely in the Eighties and boy, it shows.  The red brick station is filled with post-modernist touches, flounces here, quirky affectations there.  The lift towers are crowned with twists of metal that serve no purpose other than to be exciting and interesting.

On the information point outside is another of Centro's Linkspots, an art project introduced by one of TfWM's predecessors and which I can find frustratingly little information about.  (If you google "Centro Linkspots", this blog is the top result, which makes me wonder if I've made the whole thing up).  Sandwell & Dudley gets a peacock, which I'm sure is for extremely valid and sensible historic reasons and was lovingly crafted by a talented artist, but without a plaque or a sign I can't credit them.  Sorry about that.  I will say, well done, it's very nice.

It was also, by quite some way, the most attractive feature for miles around.  Sandwell & Dudley deposits you into a world of grime and industry.  It's brutal grey sheds mounted against hard roads built for HGVs.  I walked away from the station, past a Railway Inn that exuded menace, and up to a huge roundabout where lorries swung round at speed.  There was an abandoned office block, half finished, a banner outside begging for tradesmen, and a tannoy at one of the factories sounded its horn and belted out an important message that was incomprehensible from the road.

The buildings were a strange mix of pre and post war brick and modern practicality.  This had clearly been an industrial district for decades, and so there were factories that dated from that era, where your premises were a shop window.  Elsewhere though, rough metal boxes predominated, cubes of blank steel built to be filled with whatever you needed.  The air was filled with the noise of grinding and drilling as machines carved out their business, and there was the scent of turned metal.  Cars filled the pavement and verge.  

Past a garage ("independant Porsche centre" the sign proclaimed, immediately filling me with doubt about their level of quality control) and a tyre centre and then there was wasteground.  Metal gates that must've once guarded a centre of employment were rusted orange, litter jammed underneath them, trees and weeds climbing them.  Sprayed across them was DONT VAX, a reminder that the world had changed significantly since I was last out here.

At the turn onto Albion Road a woman passed on her mobile.  "I saw it on the news last night," she said, presumably referring to the disaster unfolding in Afghanistan.  "It's heartbreaking."  Her sincerity was undercut, for me, by her accent.  Look, I know it's not nice or clever, but that thick as butter Black Country accent renders everything ever so slightly comic.  I blame Lenny Henry, whose pronunciation of Doooodlay is burned into the brains of all kids of the 80s.  I'll adjust to it eventually, I'm sure, but for now it clatters against my ears.

There were men stood around in the forecourt of a pet warehouse, laughing, and a couple of starkly modern trading units.  On the other side of the road was the long chain of a triangular roofed factory, running to a small security hut and then, finally, a delightful office block.  The laser printed signs above the windows said this was the home of Liberty Performance Steels, but the proud stone entrance told the real story: Albion Steel Mills, Established 1852, with AD 1938 dating the building.

The road continued over the Walsall Canal where another freedom fighter had painted No vaccine - wake up you dumb fuck.  The singular use of "fuck" makes me think this was targeted at one particular dumb fuck, one man whose mate really wanted to tell him not to get the jab but couldn't get up the courage so he wrote it on a wall on his commute.  Certainly I always get my public health advice from graffiti.

There was a narrow canyon of a road, high walls hemming you in while lorries streamed by.  At one point the pavement was blocked by a hefty Transit van with an England flag on its front grille, and I made a dash into the road to get round it.  Then the houses started to come, new builds at first, clearly constructed on abandoned industrial sites, then after that, older semis and retirement blocks.

I followed a girl in a hi-vis tabard for a bit as she headed for the bus stop, shouting excitedly into her phone in Gujarati, before turning into a road of council houses where the smell of newly cut verges lingered.  The houses were the type you'll see all over Britain, identical brick semis built to house the workers for all those factories I'd passed.  Some were now private homes, and declared it with paved over front gardens and side extensions.  Others still looked the way they had when they were built, ramps to the front door and grab rails hinting that someone had been born and lived and would die in this one home.

I was heading for the garages.  They were on a bend, screened off behind a verge and looking a wreck as all council garage areas do.  In the middle of them, though, was a gateway and a sign.

Beyond was the Sheepwash nature reserve, a pocket of greenery tucked into a triangle between houses and the railway line.  There were trees and grass, the whisper of the wind, and then, the river Tame curling around beside the footpath.

Spots of rain began to fall.  It was a hot day and it felt like they'd burst from an overenthusiastic cloud; it was meant to be warm sunshine.  I had a coat in my bag, but I knew if I put it on I'd simply sweat away to nothingness, so I pushed through, letting it splatter my shirt.  I passed some dog walkers who were similarly dressed for summer, now moving that little bit faster to get out of the park and home, and then I had the reserve to myself.

Through the trees I got, at first glimpses, then a full view of a lake scattered with islets.  It was tranquil and peaceful and entirely the result of man-made intervention and destruction.  This had, for over a century, been a pestilent, polluted landscape.  It was agricultural, a place to scrub your animals - hence Sheepwash - then, after the canals and railways came, a dumping ground.  The land was torn apart for its coal and clay and gravel.  In the 60s, when these stopped being profitable, the council turned the mess into a tip, and dumped rubbish into the ground.  It was only in the 80s that the site was cleaned up - as best as it could; there were poisons throughout the soil - and it was landscaped and it became a nature reserve.  Suddenly the blot became an asset.

I followed the path up, over the culverted Tame, past signs warning No Swimming.  I wondered how much attention was paid to those signs on long summer days when bored teenagers wanted to escape the heatwave.  Probably zero, and the council knew this; it was merely a back-covering exercise.  If you drown, it's your fault; don't say we didn't warn you.

The path was occupied by a flock of Canada Geese, taking in the warmth from the heated pavement.  I expected them to flee as I approached but they barely moved; some of them didn't even get up.  I ended up tiptoeing through them, like Tippi Hedren, trying to remember if it was geese that had the violent streak.  Beyond the path became rougher and less formal, skirting another, smaller pond, and then turfing me out onto an estate that looked just like the one I'd come from.  I was soon at the main road, the rain barrelling down now, and the contrast with the silent park I'd left two minutes ago was stark.  I love these pockets of greenery that emerge in cities, hidden back channels and waste grounds gone native, turned into parks and gardens by good-minded councils and volunteers.

At this point the railway and canal crossed the road on viaducts that had been decorated with bright colours and metalwork.  I'd have liked to have showed you them but the rain splattered against the lens of my camera and ruined the photos; it was all I could to take a soggy sign picture then dash up to Dudley Port station.  

Dudley Port station is also not in Dudley, but is in the neighbouring borough of Sandwell.  Dudley doesn't actually have its own railway station; that was taken away in the sixties.  It had stood on a line that went beneath Dudley Port station, meaning there was a High Level/Low Level interchange here, but now it's only served by Wolverhampton-Birmingham trains.  For the time being, anyway; the Midland Metro is finally getting another line here, with the old trackbed being cleared and converted for tram use.  The line will branch off the existing route at Wednesdbury and head for Merry Hill, with a hoped for opening date of 2023; Dudley Port will become an interchange again and indeed, a few days after my visit, the overflow car park was closed to form a worksite.

I helped a woman with a pushchair up the steps to the platform then loitered under the shelter, huddled with the other passengers away from the fierce rain.  The plus side of it being so wet was now it was difficult to see what was rain and what was sweat.  I was badly out of shape.  Lockdown had made me soft and flabby and eroded my walking muscles.  I resolved to get out more often, to force myself to walk more places, get back into the habit.  (That was less than a fortnight ago.  Number of times I have been out for a walk since then: zero).

Tipton was also soaking wet as I headed for the station sign.  There used to be a level crossing here, but the inconvenience was so much they finally built an underpass and redirected the road.  Seemingly I was the only passenger who wasn't headed under the tracks as I walked through an elaborate metal sign to take my selfie.

Apologies for any beads of rain marring the photos from now on.  I did wipe the lens down but it wasn't ideal.

I'd considered walking down the canal to Coseley, my next station; it's a direct route that shadows the railway line.  But I thought that would be boring, and this way, I got to go through Tipton town centre.  It turned out it was in bad shape.

The shopping centre was a blasted square of emptiness, with drab shops and too many shutters.  It looked half-abandoned.  Opposite it, the church of St Martin and St Paul had been closed with a For Sale sign wedged on the front.  It's still there though the website is cagey about the price.  Perhaps you fancy a really elaborate home, close to the shops, close to the station?  Invite me round for the housewarming if you do.

I walked past the headquarters of the Tipton & Coseley Building Society, pleased that it still existed in an era where mutuals were dying out, and overtook a rowdy couple who were clutching cans of what might have been an energy drink and might not.  I climbed over the canal bridge.  It had been surfaced with pretty red bricks that looked delightful but were an absolute nightmare to walk on in rainy conditions.  I was wearing thick walking boots with heavy treads and even I felt a couple of slips and slides as I mounted the curve.  Alongside the canal, new homes had been constructed, with a developer's board boasting about their desirability.

There was more industry here, light engineering firms and mechanics, upholsterers and factory seconds shops, plus one of the tackiest new builds I've seen in a long time.  Imagine a standard Barratt Home but with a load of plastic columns and over-elaborate ironwork wedged on the front.  "Threeway Pressings" prompted a dirty gurgle from my childish mind, then I was at a crossroads behind Mad O'Rourke's Pie Factory.

Now I will admit, I'd seen this on the map and been tempted.  What a perfect way to celebrate my return to the railways; a pie and a pint in a place that made them specially.  It seemed ideal.  I was put off, however, by the website.  I like a bit of whimsy as much as the next man - I mean, what is this blog if nothing but whimsical musings about parts of the country I happened to pass through?  The "About" section, though, is a smorgasbord of comedy bits - "famous visitors included 'Rudyard Kipling' whose son trained here before going on to open his own cake factory" and "they are all prepared to a unique set of recipes, known only to three people, the parish priest and a cat".  It was all a bit try-hard, a bit wacky, a bit Colin Hunt, and I found it incredibly off-putting.  It all reeked of bantz bantz bantz and I can't in all conscience encourage that kind of behaviour.

Instead I pushed on, passing the abandoned hulk of the Staffordshire Territorial Army, and reaching a new clutch of houses that all had enormous 4x4s on the drive.  Porsches, BMWs, Range Rover; they were clearly moneyed.  Unfortunately all the houses were fronted with lime green plastic grass that made them look cheap and vulgar.  How difficult is it to whip out a Flymo every couple of weeks?  Are they really so lazy that they'll sacrifice their kerb appeal and harm the environment?  They don't look nice, they don't feel nice; all they do is soak up heat and confuse the birds.  

I reached the A4123, better known as the Birmingham New Road, an impressive slice of highway connecting Wolverhampton and Birmingham.  It was a road from the early days of the motor-car, provided with ample verges and landscaping.  Pleasant houses were set back behind long gardens.  This was designed to whisk 1920s dandies across the Midlands, probably while wearing goggles and with a blonde girl by their side.  Now it was an artery filled with heavy goods vehicles and buses that stopped, started, stopped, started at traffic lights and turns.

Some of the bus stops still carried warning signs from the government, Travel only if it is absolutely necessary, a little slice of dystopia still hanging on in 2021.  Rather more prosaic was a sticker on one of the timetables: FOR GOOD FUCK MR GRUMPY and a telephone number.  Roger Hargreaves really has branched out, hasn't he?

As I passed an industrial estate the pleasing scent of burgers and bacon wafted over from a mobile van called, according to the sandwich board on the roadside, "Nat's Baps".  Of course.  I began to slightly regret not having that pie and a pint.  Still, I'd reached the branch road off into Coseley town centre, with its Centro sign still pointing to the station, so I thought I might find something of interest there to eat.  I walked by a delivery driver with a metre long box who was getting no reply from the front door; he finally walked round to the side and hoiked the package over a side gate.  I hope it wasn't a valuable vase.

Coseley itself was a strip of stark 60s buildings, filled with unfamiliar local shops, apart from a single Greggs that was doing a roaring trade.  Little old ladies passed me with face masks still in place, while a pair of parents tried to control an over-excited four year old.  The road opened out to the Library, with a mobile vaccination centre out the back (I thought back to the helpful advice scrawled on the side of the canal steps and hurried by) and I realised I'd walked right from one end of Coseley to the other without stopping.

I felt foolish about turning back, so I pushed on up the hill, where a burnt out husk of a pub stayed attached to a beauty salon, and small old people's bungalows fronted onto the road.  The station almost took me by surprise, appearing round a final corner.

Coseley has, at some point, received a large amount of attention to make it pretty.  The path down to the platform features a series of ornamental circles, mounted into the railings, as a tribute to a local poet:

And then, when you get down on the platform, you look back up and it spells out Coseley.

It made me laugh when I saw it, spelled out like that, the ordinary on the back of something artistic.  It's the work of Steve Field, and serves as a tribute to a romantic poet called John Cornfield who was from round here (this appropriately flowery piece has some handy background).  Coseley was cared for, with a mural of a train and a mass of flowers on every surface.  It was a good place to finish my first day back; a station that will never be important or famous, but that meant a lot to its users.  This was what I liked to see when I travelled.  It was good to be here.

Moving Out

There seems to be an unofficial rule that the first station out of any major terminus should be a bit of a dump.  Edge Hill, one stop on from Lime Street, is historic but desolate: acres of rails and tarmac, unused, bare.  Ardwick, one stop on from Piccadilly, is a rusting staircase to a single platform, wedged between junkyards.

Adderley Park, one stop outside New Street, is low in a cutting between factories.  A brick staircase takes you up to the street, where the ticket office is a low Eighties structure built for security rather than passenger comfort.  Across the way, the Station Hotel pub rots slowly, abandoned, flaking.  It was a mean station.

I wandered off in search of the next halt through long straight streets of Victorian terraces.  They were tightly packed with tiny yards out front - wheelie bin storage areas now - and bow windows covered in PVC.  On one street, a distinctive front door caught my eye.  It was black, with a curve of windows set in it, like a crescent; it stood out because it belonged on a modern apartment block rather than a hundred year old house.  What's more, the salesman must've cleared out his van on the street, because three other houses all had exactly the same door.  Hard to be unique when everyone copies you.

Soon I was on Alum Rock Road, a busy shopping street now entirely filled with Asian businesses.  I always like wandering into areas that have been occupied by a different culture.  I've seen so many British high streets that are basically the same, a pharmacy, a bakery, a newsagent, a hairdresser, a chippie.  The names change, the signs are different, but they're all of a type.

Here there were hijab and sari stores, swathes of exotic fabric shrouding shop dummies.  There were Asian confectioners, filled with unusual looking bricks of sweet stuff, still with the signs on the door saying "only three schoolchildren at any time" because some problems cross cultures.  The stores spilled out onto the pavement with boxes of fresh fruit and veg, and even the names for the most standard shops carried a tinge of exoticism - the Zam Zam Superstore is so much more exciting sounding than Morrison's. 

It was lunchtime during Ramadan, and I was impressed by the levels of activity around me.  My stomach was rumbling and I'd had toast and a yoghurt a few hours before; I'd been absent-mindedly popping mints into my mouth to try and hold down the hunger until I could stop for a rest.  There were men and women lugging boxes, shopping baskets, dealing with rowdy kids, and none of them could eat until sundown.  This is yet another reason why I am an atheist.  If I want a sandwich, I will get a sandwich, and I will let no religion get in my way. 

Of course the downside of an area filled with teetotal residents was the grand old pub at the head of the road was shuttered and converted into flats.  I climbed the hill, sweating in my overcoat - it had rained, slightly, earlier, so I'd slipped it on, but now it was dry again and it was too much hassle to push it back into my backpack - and turned off into an area of curved avenues and council houses beyond grass verges.  There was a ceramic toilet, dumped (no pun intended) behind a green BT box, and a banner hanging on some fences advertising the definitely not contravening any copyright laws "Burger Hut" with its "Double Flamey" burger (100% Halal!).

An ambulance sped by - the third I'd seen that morning; part of me vaguely wondered if there was some horrific accident somewhere I was completely missing - and I passed another entry in the canon of Incredible West Midlands Street Names:

I had reached a mess of roadworks and chaos at the bottom of Cotterills Lane.  All I had to do was turn right to reach the station, but the whole junction was in disarray.  A busy main road narrowed to a single lane to cross the River Cole, and so the council were turning it into a dual carriageway.  It meant that pedestrians were sent on a lengthy diversion, that simple right taken away and replaced with a series of staggered pelican crossings.  By the fourth one I was thoroughly bored, and a little tense about the time for my next train.  The diversions were not friendly.

On the plus side it meant I encountered another Linkspot, the pieces of public art put up by Centro at public transport hubs.  This one was called Star Gazer, by Juginder Lamba, and was a carved piece of cedar atop a column for the "Washwood Heath Interchange" (a couple of bus stops either side of the road, but anyway).  The wet English weather had slicked it with moss and mould, and the trees overshadowed it slightly, but it was still good to see.  Another one to tick off.

I crossed the river, where a woman politely lowered her brolly for me as she passed so that I didn't get poked in the eye - if only every other umbrella user was so considerate - and reached the roundabout on the other side.  It was another scene of chaos, and I was sent through more pelican crossings to a retail park I didn't really want to visit, especially since the McDonalds was pumping out the scent of fried food and grease and making me even hungrier.  I edged round it to Station Road and hurled myself across the traffic at a spot marked with an out of order crossing.

Another climb, past railway cottages, took me to the bridge over the tracks and Stetchford station.  I'd not needed to panic about missing my connection - it turned out to be closer than I thought - so I took my time.

In a bid to make the building look a little less bunker-like, the outside wall had been decorated with an art project, "Faces of Stechford".  Photographer Ian Davies had worked with a scout group and taken pictures of locals to adorn the exterior.

Admirable stuff, sadly marred by overenthusiastic employees of West Midlands Railway erasing any sign that the previous franchise holders ever existed.  Black rectangles obscured any mention of London Midland, like a Stalin-era re-education project, marring the friendly look of the posters and coming off as petty.  Instead of me seeing the people, I saw the black bars, and that's not the message they were trying to convey.

Stechford station was undergoing work to become step-free - handy when the only way to the platforms was via lengths of concrete stairs.  I crossed over to the island and waited for the train between a girl loudly discussing her Netflix viewing - "I mean there's so much of it that's just shit, but there's some good stuff, and I just, like, watch it all in one go, like" - and a group of boys hanging around the single bench.  It was a three-seater, and the ones sitting down were either black or Asian; the boy left standing was white but talked louder and more excitedly than any of them.  When they got up to board the train, he went to a different door, and they called after him: "Milky!  Over here!"  Which made me giggle all the way to Lea Hall.

I was immediately taken with it.  The station opened in 1939 and was built in a striking Streamline Moderne style, with white concrete and elegant lines.  I was less keen on the platform shelter interiors.

The station had been refurbished and while I understand wanting to stick some colour in there, that's just garish.  I climbed the orange tiled stairs to street level where, disappointingly, there wasn't an understated 1930s ticket office straight out of Poirot, but instead there was a load of 1980s red brick.  The sole concession to its age was an old iron clock tucked in the corner and which, of course, was showing the wrong time.

I left the station through an over-elaborate entrance.  Designed by Tim Tolkien, a grand-nephew of JRR, it seems to be symbolic of the universe, with stars and planets and orbits.  To me it looked like a bit of playground equipment that had got lost.

I wedged myself in against the boundary fence to take the sign pic, ignoring the bemused stare of a taxi driver opposite.

I passed the sad bulk of the Meadway Social Club, still encouraging you to watch the Carnival of Football of the 2014 World Cup, and another McDonalds (begone foul temptress!) and onto a long wide dual avenue.  Stout corporation houses were placed off to the side, separated from the traffic in a considerate manner you'd never get away with these days. 

I followed the road to a hefty junction overseen by a reassuringly solid factory building.  On closer inspection I realised the factory was gone, the office block was now subdivided, and it was now the home of BJ's Bingo Hall. 

There was more council housing but this was far more modern, built with its back to the road and accessed via walkways.  It was done with the best of intentions - a way to segregate pedestrians from traffic - but it instead creates what my mum always used to call a "mugger's paradise"; dead ends, dark corners, empty spaces with nobody overlooking.  Above me I saw the bellies of 737s cruising low, leaving the runway of the airport and roaring over the houses.  There was a tear of engines and then a strange, almost funereal silence until the next one.

At the bottom of the hill a wide new development of shops marked the shift in social standing again.  I'd travelled from the inner city to the council hinterlands and now I was entering suburbia.  The houses were larger, semis, set back from the road and with trees outside.  Bits of countryside broke through, revealing green fields and scenic walks along brooks.

The border from Birmingham to Solihull was marked by a sign and a house with four cars on the drive.  I don't think it was a taxi firm.  Soon I'd found Marston Green station, and I nipped into the corner shop there to get a bottle of water and - finally - a sandwich.  I waited politely in the queue while the two women behind the counter tried to give directions to a delivery man in some of the thickest Brummie accents I have ever heard.  It was like being beaten over the head by the Bull Ring.  They finally noticed me, waiting, fuming, and served me, but it was too late: my train was already approaching the far platform.

I negotiated the many ramps to take me across (only noticing on my way back down that there was a version with steps that would've been much quicker) and took a seat in the shelter.

I'd thought about going on - to Birmingham International, the next stop on the line - but that seemed like a big job.  Birmingham International has an airport, and the NEC, and a cable hauled railway built on top of a maglev system; that was a stop that deserved thorough investigation, and I wasn't in the mood.  Instead I broke open my sandwich and tucked in.