Northfield, town of kebabs. I’ve been to Tak’s before and would happily take them up on any menu item they offer. This time (in the last week of July) it was a lamb Donner wrap — although I wish they would standardise the spelling away from the ill fated 19th century group of settlers … can’t argue with the quality of the meal but the name begs explanation of provenance.
Proper spicy chilli sauce and crispy veg, too. When I say that only about one in ten kebabs are any good at all but that 10% is magnificent, this is what I’m banging on about.
It was a lunchtime run to Northfield to shake out a few miles, grab a kebab, and dash to the rail station to get back to work. Along the way, as has become an obsession, there was TrigPointing to do. At top, the locations of the final two marks while the photo just below is the location of the first one found this trip:
I wasn’t successful at locating a couple of others on the stone walls stretching down the hill but then the ‘bridge’ as they call it at Wood Brook (which regularly floods right here since the bridge acts more like a dam) revealed an extraordinarily fine specimen.
Here you can see that the bench top is still suitable for the wee board that fits in and supports the levelling equipment:
Making some mileage from this point, I opted to run past some other targets but stopped at the former site of the Northfield Public Baths:
The marks were removed with the rubble of the old Northfield Baths seen here still intact in July 2014:
Trying again, I swung past the YMCA housing near the turn onto Church Lane, but the building — while not razed for the current iteration — underwent a major refurbishment a few years ago.
These temporary accommodations were as seen above when we were looking for our first house in Brum late in 2018. The GMAP streetview, below, is dated March 2017…it is possible that the mark is still over on the corner to the left but that will have to wait till the next jog this way:
To finish off (since my train was due and I was still a quarter mile away), here is my logged photo for TP11495, the centre of the top of the tower on the church. Overall, not a bad little run.
The wind had been brutal on the run to Rubery but was more at my back on the return trip. There had been rain and I was tired and hungry and cold (I tend to develop the shivers when I exercise whilst hungry). Chipz was the first likely takeaway I ran past that was open.
I waved off the salt, as usual, noting to the cook that I only buy cod as a vector for malt vinegar; yet, the fish was still extremely salty (which led to me gasping for water the following 3 miles home). Additionally, the batter was bland and the fish itself the only upside (it was hot and moist and firm and…get your minds out of the gutter).
The rain started hammering down before I could take the first, succulent bite of this snack. Summer in England.
While in Wychall’s, a delightfully friendly, family operated joint, I met two old ladies crazy as a bag of cats. They seem to eat here at least several times a week and maybe daily (so maybe they aren’t entirely crazy).
The rain had paused and I ventured out for a 7 miler, looping from Castle Square (oddly a big ROUNDabout in Weoley Castle but also remote from the actual castle) into Northfield and then back up to the house. Brooks broke their banks inundating roads and creating the kind of low rumble mighty rivers exhibit at their narrower sections. At my southernmost point this trip, I took a break at the Woodpecker.
This is a proper local with a half dozen hale fellows sitting around quietly — and pointedly — NOT watching the women’s World Cup match being broadcast on telly. One of them, sitting in the shadows at the far reaches of the pub, greeted all of us individually (first names for the others, “mate” to me) as he made his way to the jukebox over my left shoulder. The first thing up in his playlist was some Wayne Newton followed by a couple of Petula Clark cuts…not at all what I was expecting from this guy who seemed about my age and looked like a former boxer or mob enforcer.
“So, where’re you running to, then?” the frankly stunning barmaid asked as I refused a refill on my way out to the streets. She seemed incredulous when I said I was going to Selly Oak.
I answered: “It’s not as far as … ” I paused a few seconds with my forefinger up in the air in the universal pause-for-a-few-seconds gesture until I was able to synchronize with the song, ” … Downtown, things’ll be great when you’re … Downtown, no finer place for sure … Downtown, everything’s waiting for you.” She was grinning, the guy nearest me shook my hand, and only the juke box DJ avoided eye contact (but he did lift his head slightly as I passed in what I’ll take as a nod).
Opening time on Sunday is noon at the Great Stone*. I took the upper photo at 11:59 and was still behind a dozen others (and two dozen more came into the adjacent lounge while I sipped my pint).
Two kids managing the bar flirt-wrestled with the boy gaining the upper hand. He mangled the Miranda warning (odd, here, since there is a similar albeit distinct British version) and I piped in, “don’t worry, I don’t think he’s a real copper.”
They and some of the bar people looked up and smiled. He said, “this way, miss. Get in the van.” He paused for a second and added, creepily, “the van with all the candy.”
“Oh. Maybe he IS a real copper.” This comment did not go over nearly as well, but I had miles more to run and no more beer so I took my leave.
*The sign outside says opening time is 12 everyday, the website says 11:30 except Sundays at 12, and a sign inside has it as 11 on a variety of days.
With a lot “on” for the day, I headed out for a run in the morning chill — it was still below freezing by the time I returned. The pavement slammed my cold feet mercilessly, but I was dedicated to reaching the Black Horse (the nearest Wetherspoons to our house, and thus the only place I was sure would be serving beer at that hour of the day).
The house was packed with about a 50/50 mix of diners and drinkers. Many of this latter half appeared to be in work clothes and were almost certainly fortifying themselves against the cold the building sites they headed to, later, would present. Others were probably preloading for the Six Nations matches on tele. Still others just seemed like hardcore alcoholics.
Endless British Pub Crawl (Part 3) 