We got to the O2 very early and it was fucking freezing out so there was no way we were huddling up for an hour with the happy few ahead of us. The Duke of Wellington, long boarded up but sometime in the last year reopened, is only a block away so we went to sit behind some glasses there.
Almost everyone that came in seemed to have a stake in the house. I’m interested to find out (but wasn’t so much at that instant) if this is a community investment. They’ve done a really nice job, regardless, and the neighbourhood could use another such asset or two.
Transport for West Midlands sent out a note apologising for the downtime (a hassle, yeah, but whatayagonnado?) and extending a reduction on my ticket to cover the Metro component that is currently unavailable. The right thing to do but unexpected nonetheless…thanks.
And, Brummie sunsets and I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue at the Alexandra. From left it was Marcus Brigstock, Rory Bremner, Colin Sell at the piano, Jack Dee (the chair), the lovely Samantha or Sven, Pippa Evans, and Andy Hamilton:
Also, thanks Astra Zeneca (twice, previously) and Moderna this week. And, the NHS in general for taking care of re-emergent skin cancers.
The next batch of Rail Runs went to some un-or-less familiar territory.
It was already sunset when I got off the train at Hamstead Station so I really couldn’t linger or do too much exploring on the way home since the twilight fades quickly now. Finished listening to a bunch of recordings of Joey Diaz’s Testicle Testaments on the way which may colour my thoughts on the neighbourhoods — a less dark run with less dark material next time.
With the trams down and commutes troublesome, I saw our earlier-than-normal departures as an opportunity to grab a few addition Rail Runs into work, last Friday’s involving Birmingham New Street to work via Ladywood. Some pleasant new streets explored, this time.
I also explored some familiar but neglected paths expanding the 1.4 mile path home from Sandwell & Dudley out to 5.3 miles. Caught some drug deals or other surreptitious activity. Cool.
The last in this report is another “to work” run from Stourbridge Junction. This was much more pleasant than it will sound.
Stourbridge is a hilly motherfucker. And, god bless it, my Google map app picked a lovely path in to work. But, fuck me, the scenic aspects only just exceeded the hilly challenge. I used to crave hills and this gave me a feel for the fells again. I don’t want to jinx it, but after today (sore that I am) I fear nowt.
I ran up the hills then along the ridgeway between Oldbury and Dudley and spotted a very cool pub, The Bush, at about my turnaround point. As I awaited service, The Star Spangled Banner blasted out of the telly. I ordered a Foster’s just as God Save The Queen started up. Leaning over to see the tv, I realised it was England vs USA in women’s rugby. Sundays continue to be very copacetic for me.
Mileage: 33.9 with some decent efforts. Shooting for more uphill stuff and about 37 or so next week (keeping in mind that it is a Thanksgiving weekend laden with outings and a scheduled COVID booster all of which could cut into that plan).
Running without maps is allowing me to see the area anew. I’ve shown the television tower, at the top, in photos from the canal level and now have one from level pegging. Returning, I’d never done the road I ran down in the downhill direction and spotted the weird art on the wall of a salon.
It was dark and cold when I vacated the Swan but I made my first turn on the way to Old Hill station then immediately got lost. Half an hour of industrial and residential roads later I decided to call it a failure and find a bus route home. The Red Lion was where I did my plotting.
Outside, the camera was failing and inside I didn’t want to take photos because the crowd seemed a little harder than the Swan suburbanites (hence the web capture of the street view). All but one of these gents went out for a smoke and the barmaid went back to hanging frilly Christmas tinsel strings. Hitting her thumb with a hammer, she cried out, “fucking bastard!”
“What awful language,” replied the remaining drinker.
“Indeed,” I added, “it’s shocking but,” waving a finger at the bunting, “the place is festive!” They both giggled and I finished my drink and dashed out just in time to change to a dry shirt and hop on the 7 to Dudley.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 