I walked from the Lord Nelson to the Roost on the recommendation of someone at the first pub who lives near the second one. There seemed to be shock that a stranger wandered in and the pub, a bit on the rough, locals-only side, seemed held together by baling wire and chewing gum. My kind of place but I can see why the Nelson might be your preferred hangout given a choice.
I went for lager, again, although there were some surprising offerings on tap. Unsurprising was the way everyone, except me, who walked in reeked of weed but the due diligence of Zero Tolerance placards was up and I’m certain these were strictly adhered to.
The real attraction appeared to be the billiard table with several fellows arriving with their own cues and one even bringing his own set of billiard balls. Alternatively, the barman will play cribbage with you or the old-men-in-decline will offer you opinions on the 80s music videos played just a little too loudly.
I dozed off on the tram home and awoke as the doors were shutting at my last sensible stop. Consulting my map, I identified the Lord Nelson as the closest nearby pub I had not yet visited and rode on to Wednesbury.
Along the route thru an industrial area I logged another Cut Benchmark which was helpfully filled with moss providing contrast to the wall.
Safely inside the pub, I ordered my beer and was accosted about my accent (by folks who pronounce the ‘Roast’ in Roast Chicken crisps, “Rowst”). I related my story — minus the trigpointing and tube bending refs — and after they stopped laughing about me sleeping all the way from Atlanta to Birmingham on the tram we had a grand chat about different pubs in the area.
Turns out, the bartender grew up in my neighbourhood and his brother runs the Old Royal Oak which I visited earlier this year but what seems like ages ago. The guy I was sitting with even tipped me off to another pub I hadn’t ever spotted and not a five minute walk away. I made the executive decision to head there rather than stick around for a second on here.
The Badshah Palace is a lovely building and well preserved considering the delicate, 93-year-old brickwork. I reckon that some of it is replaced since I was unable to locate the cut benchmark on it ( and the bolt that constitutes Triangulation Point 18454 is somewhere, inaccessible, on the roof). Here it is in its original glory showing a Jean Harlow film):
It was a drenchingly rainy day but I did manage to find a couple of benchmarks, this one over on the Hamstead side of the canal on Rocky Lane:
It was right at the edge of the pet shop and the offie, shown below, but there were half a dozen others either lost to refurbishments or located on private residences.
The canal crossing, itself, was impressive though.
This was a section of canal I had run back during the lockdowns, well before the Commonwealth Games. Deep in the cut at the time I wondered where this bridge linked neighbourhoods.
That write up is here. It is dull and only there to show the canal furniture but if you want the crossing you’ll find it marked.
Of course, this trip also entailed a pub stop. Having started at the Beaufort Arms near my first unsuccessful search, the damp trek ended at the Towers Inn where the Cut Mark is still visible despite many layers of paint.
The area has built up quite a bit since this photo 75 years ago. As noted elsewhere, some of the customers this day were probably also here then.
Just above that we spotted the Blue Plaque commemorating John Freeman. We didn’t know who he was and I haven’t yet found his books in libraries but when I do I’ll give an opinion.
Along the way we passed a Gurdwara occupying an old bus and tram depot and the adjacent Wolverhampton District Electrical Tramways power station, c 1902. This was the generator building for the tramlines back then although they were superceded by buses within a few years.
The local museum and library (probably where I’ll have to go for the Black Country Sketches and Stories noted above) is another fantastic building. The landlady at the Trumpet told us that Bilston was an affluent town and someplace truly special to visit when she was a child. You can pretty well imagine it from some of these buildings.
The Bradley family made galvanized buckets in their Beldray factory, here (now luxury flats). Odd things to note: the automobile in the logo has nothing to do with the output of the plant and the name, Beldray, is the dyslexic signature of one of the children of the founder.
This listed yet derelict school is heartbreaking to encounter and I would invest lottery money — if my numbers ever came in — converting it to our residence.
The walls seem structurally sound but you can tell it needs the entire interior and probably the roof replaced.
Eleven years older than our house, we would know what to expect in these voluminous confines.
I was in Wolverhampton for an appointment one afternoon in October and rounded out the day with a nice walk around areas I had not previously visited. The rain was cold and relentless but I persisted in chasing OS marks with little success but the rewards of some new landmarks.
A few paces from the so called National Spiritualist Church (the most impressive bit from the outside was the ironmongery) were the famous Steps to Nowhere, an architectural feature I have run up on several times in the West Midlands:
Both of these were across the road from the Billy Wright Stand of Molineux Stadium which sits in the campus of the University of Wolverhampton despite being dedicated to professional sport.
All of those features were near missing marks I sought out and somewhat remote from the solitary one I did find over on Great Western Street, a lonely lane near some factories.
But, I had things to do the rest of the afternoon (including a stop for some dry clothes) and the brutalist clock I spied on my way back to Wolverhampton Station reminded me of transience, actual and architectural. Even in this backward locality.
Trigpointing is always an Easter Egg Hunt with the real treasures scattered around as you follow the Bunny Trail to your quarry.
I caught up to my first and only Cut Mark of the day trip to Walsall etched into the corner of the fantastic Town Hall (above and below, here).
As I turned to head the wrong way to the kebab shop I planned to lunch at (and which was closed albeit listed as open), I spied the monument to the gunnery seaman JH Carless, VC. I love to read Medal of Honor and Victoria Cross stories, despite the blindly patriotic narratives most of them entail, and Carless’ was cast in bronze for all to see:
John Henry Carless, V.C. Born at Walsall 11th November 1896, killed in action Heligoland Bight 17th November 1917. Awarded the Victoria Cross for most conspicuous bravery and devotion to duty. Although mortally wounded in the abdomen, he still went on serving the gun at which he was acting as rammer, lifting a projectile and helping to clear away the other casualties. He collapsed once, but got up, tried again and cheered on the new gun’s crew. He then fell and died. He not only set a very inspiring and memorable example but he also, whilst mortauly [sic] wounded, continued to do effective work against the King’s enemies.
Correcting my path, I ignored the ironic dereliction of duty of my targeted kebabery and continued through town to a second choice. Along the way, I encountered the former Taylor’s Music Shop, 29 Bridge Street, the decorative details of which were really worth a closer look.
Filled with my donner sandwich, at last, I looped back to the north side of the town centre and passed, on my way to the Oak Inn, this former Salvation Army site (lead photo is a detail of the building) which is now an occupational safety training site.
Finally back to catch my bus home with no other targeted Ordnance Survey marks to report, I spotted this ACTUAL ordnance mark from the First World War on a building just across from my bus stop. Really fantastic that they preserved some of the damage. As one who is proud of the scars he has accumulated over the decades, this made me feel even more kinship with these locals.
Triangulation Point 12770 is the church spire down the end of Solihull High Street, with the still pending Mason’s Arms to the left
Jackie had a 3:30 appointment in Olton well after Jimi’s 10:30 final post-op visit, so we made our way to Solihull to dick around in the shops.
I bought a humorously named ‘meat mincer’ (growing up in the 70s, I’ve known a few of these…hell, I’ve BEEN one). Sitting around to watch the yuppie scum (the Old English word for them is, in fact, Solihullions), we examined the lit inside said mincer’s package (let the innuendo begin) to find these other labels to snigger at:
Screw; Mincing cup (ah, both genders of meat mincer…how modern); Shaft spacer and Shaft; and, of course, Sausage nozzle.
Speaking of innuendo, one of the few American Football players I actually idolised as a child, like Y. A. Tittle and Joe Namath and Alex Karas (this clip from Blazing Saddles features him and some of the best jokes from the whole movie), just passed away. Dick Butkis was an absolute animal and, of course, he had the funniest name in the NFL: Dick, Butt Kiss. Outstanding. Chicago born, raised, and spent his entire career there. Rest well, monster.
Dick Butkis single handedly stopping the entire contingent of the Packers
We also went to this fabulous used record shop Jackie found last year on a day off work. She was kind of loaded from the Mason’s Arms (which we fell short of time to visit this trip so I still haven’t broken that membrane…NEXT time, for sure). On her solo trip, there were some old musicians shooting the shit with the proprietor who seemed to have had near misses with fame whilst their compatriots at the time did quite well indeed. She stopped thumbing through the stacks and was staring off into space when the shop owner asked if she was okay; “oh, I’m just eavesdropping, sorry…do carry on” and they did.
The cover photo of “Scott” is eerily similar to Noel Gallagher and Walker’s real name is Noel Scott Engel . . . freaky
Hounds of Love was playing when we arrived and I went through the cheap stacks and found a Walker Brothers best of and decided it was worth 3 quid. I was looking through some Doors records looking to replace The Soft Parade when the owner sidled up and asked if I was interested in 60s music to try to steer me and I told him we were probably going through every category before we left. He indicated the album I was holding; “Oh, this…Scott Walker’s voice just knocks me out.” He asked if I really liked “Montague Terrace” but I wasn’t sure, that the only one we knew the title of was “Jackie“; “oh, that’s a Jacque Brel song,” he noted and I added, “mm-hmm … in a stupid-ass way.” By the time, seconds later, we stopped laughing he had pulled the first solo album out of the stacks and headed over to put on side 1 (not a lot of things would find me willing to interrupt Kate Bush like that, but side 2 became our dinner music that night). Here’s Jimi grooving to it at the time:
Jimi finds “Amsterdam” — another Jacques Brel song — copacetic
Verdict on “Scott”: it’s alright, you should listen to it.
Lichfield is just lovely. While the Cathedral is by far the most ornate, gothic architecture abounds in the medieval city. Note the middle of the three spires is also trigpoint TP12463.
Heading through town to grab a bite to eat at the Feathers, I walked past the old St John’s Hospital, above, which appears to still be in use.
The Swan Hotel appears to converted to a cut rate Italian restaurant. The Cut Mark is to the lower right in the above photo (photo of the mark is on the Map linked here). The sign for the old hotel is still there, though:
Just beyond that is the library (I try to find a library in every town I visit).
Erasmus Darwin, grandfather of the naturalist Charles Darwin, holds court on the edge of the park just outside the southwest corner of the library:
He also guards the Flus Bracket # S8687 just beyond his left hand on the library wall:
After lunch, I wandered down to the George and Dragon but spotted another Cut Mark kitty-cornered from the pub on corner of a house now sheltering a dental clinic (the Cut Mark is on the corner around from the Dental Offices door):
Passing the Cathedral, I jockied for photographic angles with a Japanese tourist and we both settled in at the statue of Carolus Rex (the original King Charles whose fate is too good for those who still cling to ‘royalty’).
Charles’ Cut Mark is on the door buttress just out of shot to the lower right (photo on The Map).
Heading toward some bric a brac places and just around the corner from the Cathedral on Dam Street I spotted one more Cut Mark before I cut the scavenger hunt short:
The totals for the month: only 75 miles running, 6 pubs, no kebabs, fish and chips, or short reviews. I’ve given up on serious running until at least the Christmas break but have made occasional surprise appearances at the gym (at least, I was surprised by them). With one month to bring by stock of pre-written posts up to date, the most recently published pub and fish were actually visited September 21, and kebab was September 20. Here’s the cartoon of the month (not necessarily a monthly feature):
Spotted a cut mark on a gate to this primary school on the walk home from picking up a newspaper early in the month and didn’t have any reason to post at the time so here it is dumped into the Monthly:
Brits have funny prejudices about Americans. Apparently, my former land is full of fat people who don’t get irony and that all of us over here are a burden on the NHS. Still, here is yet another fit and fabulous Brit who took up two seats on the tram. Irony, indeed. Perhaps these people need to get their house in order first (to use a phrase from my adopted dialect, “chill out, it’s just bants“).
It isn’t fat shaming if shame isn’t involved.
There was a training day for macromolecular mass spectrometry this month and I had nothing to do except be on call for instrument breakdown emergencies. None happened, so I spent screwing around first with live equipment not involved in the event then with old parts to use as demo tools for our incoming postgrad researchers. Here’s an old-style HCD cell:
We managed to get over to the Christmas Fete at St Andy’s this year, the Saturday before Thanksgiving. No, we don’t burst into flame inside a church but this was the first time we’d been in this spare yet magnificent hall. The fare was sandwiches, pork pies (mine was delicious) and tea and we got into a raffle for a bunch of booze but seems that we lost. The vicar seemed nice.
A grad student gave me a very kind thank you gift on his penultimate day in the labs. I said kind, not thoughtful (but I didn’t have the heart to tell him what I think about Jack Daniels with a further explanation at the end of this post linked here).
First time in Shrewsbury and I am blown away by the lovely architecture, starting with the rail station, above. Usually utilitarian and coarse and ugly this one seems a church to the industrial age.
The Market Clock Tower caught my eye on my first loop around the city and I realised later that the vane isn’t just pretty but is a triangulation point (TP11863)…lucky find.
After a breakfast beer at the Shrewsbury Hotel, my next loop involved a narrower circle and a more targeted trigpointing effort. I found the Lion Hotel’s mark (too early for the bar there) but prowled the exterior a bit for pictures, info, and any loose souvenirs (no luck on this last front, alas).
The Blue Plaque, on the other hand, really tempts another trip and perhaps a stay (in Disraeli’s suite if we’re lucky).
I got caught behind a pool of about 30 pensioners trundling up the street opposite as I searched for the Flush Bracket on the old Guild Hall (now a residence). They stopped the walking tour for the docent to give her spiel right in front of the building I thought it was but after inspection I decided to continue on to my next spot. Looking back one more time, I spotted it two doors up from my first guess and ran over to get ahead of their slow blockade:
Then, it was on to St Alkmund’s church but not before marvelling at the houses in the adjacent square. Not for the likes of me unless that Lotto ticket finally works.
St Alkmund has a dubious backstory even questioned by the parishioners of this gothic church, but they were out in force doing some grounds tidying as I prowled about looking for my Cut Mark.
It was on a buttress on the north side but not near a corner nor facing out. These are often the most satisfying finds.
Done with the trigging, I moved on to simple tourism and a bit of lunch before exploring the magnificent library. Here is Darwin, guarding the entrance.
The walls must be 18 inches thick and awe inspiring. Well worth ten minutes visit a couple blocks from the station (I was there two hours).
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 
