Wobaston Road Canal Bilbrook

As I walk down the gravelled towpath I remembered the old way we used to access the canal during my childhood. There was a two foot gap that led onto a partly grassed bank with a steep incline to the old towpath and waters edge. The two foot gap had been increased to about four foot to allow wheelchair access and the grass bank had been turned into a sixty foot gravel slope to allow the disabled and immobile easy access to the waters edge.

I noticed that the field to my right had not changed since my younger days. The field was dominated by scorched couch grass; it looked like a magnolia carpet. Although the grass was dry, the field was alive with tiny white moths dancing franticly and bouncing off the tips of each pale stem. As I stared into the field the moths turned into little white bubbles fizzing above a magnolia sea; I was amazed that I had never noticed this before.

There was a belt of nettles running round the outer edge of the field, this prevented anyone from trespassing; allowing it to be preserved for another 40 years or more. The gravel slope had a solid wood fencing both sides that had been partly destroyed somehow. I can only assume that the fence was erected to prevent any wheelchairs from careering off the slope and plummeting down the steep incline into the canal.

The incline that ran away from the fencing towards the canal edge was peppered with white and purple clover, with a sprinkling of tiny purple flowers popping their flower heads just above the triple green clover leaves; my search for the infamous four leaf clover was hopeless and short lived.
I was overcome by the silence. Realised how lucky I was to be standing in this beautiful countryside, I gave up the search for the lucky green crest; luck had brought this far, there was no need to pursue a crazy superstition any longer.

As I stood up I wondered why the nettle and the clover were so green with life yet the couch grass that grew amongst it was dry, pale and uninhabited; the thought soon disappeared as was distracted by the sound of three young mallards approaching from inside the canal bridge. Because they were babies it was impossible, without picking them up, to determine the sex of each duckling. They were like triplets all wearing the same clothes and all moving in the same direction. Neither of them had any distinguishing marks that set them aside from each other, from their beaks to the tips of their tails they were identical and a pleasure to watch. An old friend once told me that if you sit down to watch some ducks for five minutes you will still be there two hours later. The behaviour of ducks is fascinating and extremely funny. They can be motionless one minute then out of the blue dancing about mischievously the next. These three ducklings were no different; their antics were charming and relaxing.

There are 2 benches on the tow path made of good sturdy oak beams; they should last a lifetime if the vandals don’t destroy them. One is at the end of the disabled ramp and the other is under a hawthorn close to the bridge.

The bridge brings back many memories for me, however, none more dramatic than the time my brother nearly drowned when I was about 11 or 12. We were all together as brothers and sisters playing on the canal bank when my eldest sister said we had to go home. My eldest brother was stooped down on the edge of the canal, hypnotised by the slow motion of the water carrying tiny twigs and leaves like a miniature shipping lane.

One of my other brothers shouted him but there was no response, so he tapped him on the shoulder. He was startled and stood up too fast, lost his balance and slipped into the dirty water taking the twigs and leaves with him. He rose to the surface for a second then disappeared under again; back up and under again. My eldest sister was screaming frantically for someone to rescue him; none of us could swim. She ran up the bank waving her arms and screaming as we all watched him bobbing up and down. As we sobbed and felt sick at the thought of losing our brother, my other sister joined in with the waving and screaming on the main road. We heard the screech of car tyres, a scrape and a thump as the wheels must have clipped the curb as the Samaritan spotted my sisters’ pleas for help.

The man was very athletic as he leapt over the three foot steel railings like an Olympic hurdler without touching any part of it. He ran down the bank and dived into the cold murky water. As he dived under, my brother bobbed back up. As the Samaritan surfaced my brother disappeared again. The Samaritan paused for a while and spotted my brother surfacing only feet from him and dived back under in sync. The next time we saw him he had our brother in a headlock and dragged him to the waters edge then finally onto the bank. After a little resuscitation he popped him into his car along with one of my sisters and took him home. We were left to walk sobbing and wandering what trouble we were going to be in when we did arrive home. Apart from that dramatic episode I have had many hours of great fun along this canal.

I took a seat on the bench near the end of the ramp and watched the ducklings as they swam through the derelict lock. For as long as I can remember that lock has never been in service, with no paddles or arm to push it. The lock resembled the traffic calming measures we see on our housing estate; they simply reduce the width of the canal by about three feet on both side so only one boat can fit through.

Every now and again I could hear the ducks’ wings slapping the surface of the water as they played together. I could hear the continuous melodic sound of the skylark high in the sky but couldn’t see one. Sky larks tend to fly up to sixty metres high before rapidly descending to spend time on the ground looking for seeds and shoots to eat. I tried to spot the familiar white marks on their tail and feathers; I spotted neither feather nor lark.

As I stared out over the large green field that lay in front of me I was aware of the slow moving clouds dotted about in a blue sky. The fresh white Cumulus clouds sat high above me like little balls of cotton wool with a flat base. They created a spectacular effect by giving the impression that each one was sat on an invisible glass force field; a clear dome that encircled the earth. An aeroplane emerged from one of the clouds leaving behind the familiar white condensation trails in its wake. When I was a child I thought these trails were smoke coming from the engines and wandered if the birds ever choked to death as the planes passed by.

A herd of cows, about fifteen or twenty, were all cuddled up together as they lay on the ground. Again I always believed that this was an indication that it is going to rain. A farmer once told me that although it is an indication of rain, the reason they lie down is because the falling pressure that comes with rain affects their digestive system and makes them unwilling to graze, they become idle and lie down.

There is a strong whiff of cows’ manure that drifted across the field, this again was a reminder of my younger days; believe it or not this pungent smell brought back happy memories of me and my brothers playing in these fields.

In the distance I could see the spires of St Nicholas church, at the top of church road Codsall. My mother was buried there three years ago, a day I will never forget. I have always admired the spectacular views from the rear of the church over looking the Brewood area of the South Staffordshire countryside; I never thought I would be burying my mother there one day. She is in a beautiful spot that allows her to see the church tower, as well as looking over a field that is home to wild rabbits and horses.

As I was a Pallbearer for the funeral I find it very difficult to visit the church let alone visit mother’s grave. I remember the long walk down the sloping path that divides the grave yard into two halves. Halfway down, the procession passed under a brick arch that separates the older graves from the more recent ones, the realisation that I am taking my mother to her final resting place began to sink in. I was stood over a six foot open grave, ropes in hand, heart thumping, legs unsteady and tears running down my face. I was there to lower the woman I have loved unconditionally throughout my life into the cold dark soil below; it is an image I will never erase. The beauty of this magnificent church surrounded with the beautiful Staffordshire countryside could not lift the despair I felt that day; I much prefer to view the church from the canal bank for now.

The sudden sound of feet against the gravel path took my attention away from my loss and towards the elderly couple strolling along the towpath. They were both, the same height with silver hair. They clasped hands and swung their arms like school kids with their first love. They both smiled as they passed me and had a little giggle as if they knew that their lovers stroll was almost childlike. As they disappeared along the towpath, chatting and holding hands, my attention returned to the canal and the tranquillity that is inherent to this area.

I could hear the deep chugging engine of a long boat as it entered the bridge. The boat had a black base with a red and green top. I giggled to myself as the image of Rosy and Jim hiding from Fizzgog entered my head. Rosy and Jim were puppet characters on children’s TV. They travelled the midlands canal network on a long boat. Fizzgog was the pet name given to the captain; John. Fizzgog would steer the boat while Rosy and Jim came alive and had outrageous fun in the cabin while Fizzgog was not looking. As soon as John could here the commotion below, he would investigate. Rosy and Jim would turn back into puppets preventing Fizzgog ever finding out who was making all the noise. The boat coming from the bridge was decorated in a similar way to Fizzgog’s boat and the man steering was similar too. As the boat passed me I got a wave from a lady looking out from one of the 6 round windows that ran along the boat. As it disappeared into the distance it left a v shape ripple behind stretching from one side of the canal to the other. A thought entered my head; I wondered if the lady in the window was real or a puppet.

I decided to move to the other bench by the bridge so I could sit in the shade of the hawthorn that stood behind it. The grassy bank was dominated by clusters of daisies with their bright yellow centres waiting to be picked for daisy chains. I was tempted to become the chain maker but my nails were too short to split the stems. Dotted amongst the daises were the familiar tiny purple flowers I saw earlier. They were as small as forget-me-nots but I did not recognise them.

As I sat I noticed another longboat moored up just past the bridge on the other side. There were two people lying on top semi naked taking advantage of the sunny day we were having. I was tempted to take a walk for chat but I wasn’t that sure how naked they were and I didn’t wish to embarrass them.

As I looked away from the boat I noticed the three young mallards grouped together in front of me, they were opening and closing their beaks as if they were asking for food. They would pick at the surface of the water chopping it with their beaks then look in my direction, opening and closing their beaks again. I had the feeling that this bench was the feeding bench where pensioners and young courting couples came to feed the ducks. I was empty handed, and sat thinking, in hindsight, that I should have considered the ducks before I left the house.
I sat for a while staring out over the field watching the clouds tell their own story by changing shape. The cows were chomping on grass and shaking their heads to remove the annoying flies. Little midges danced on the surface of the water, every so often one would make contact and create the tiniest ripple that seemed to spread for ever. Suddenly a larger ripple would appear from the open mouth of a hungry fish taking the bait of the dancing midges. As I looked into the mouth of the bridge I could see a collection of gnats all jumping about in mid air moving from one side of the bridge to the other; always staying together.

Apart from an occasional car passing over the bridge and the distant sound of an aeroplane, it was silent. Everything was moving slowly with no effort involved. I wished that everyday was as relaxed and peaceful as this. I thought about Monday mornings and the hectic office, everyone rushing and moaning about the week ahead, buses rushing to and fro up the main street in front of my office window, car horns honking and ambulance sirens coming from the Manor hospital around the corner. The telephones ringing continuously and the beeping sound as the office computers all fire up, the many printers and photocopiers spewing out last minute documents for their board meetings, and medical staff coming to their training sessions.

There is always a stagnant smell in the large open office after a week end away and the toilets have an ammonia smell that is more pungent than the smell coming from the field in front of me.
The bridge becomes busier as cars pass over more frequently. It is nearly tea time and the workers from the local factory are packing up for the day and heading home; this human activity is an indication for me to head home also. I am sad to have to leave but I know that I can return anytime I wish. I also know that the view will be different each time, including the sounds and the smells. Even the ducks will have changed, they will be bigger and will have more colour. I walk to the end of the ramp to collect my bike and join the busy traffic for the journey home.

The lady and the crossing

She saw me as she approached the edge of the curb, raising her head slightly to check that I have slowed down. She steadied her self, took another glance then started her journey to the other side. She placed her walking stick on the first white stripe of the pedestrian crossing then shuffled her Eighty year old feet down the sloping curb stone, so her feet and walking stick were all on the same level. The wind is blowing her pale blue head scarf, releasing a couple of tufts of silver hair that keep passing in front of her eyes.

She is level with the dusty grey railings that ran parallel with the curb to protect the public from the traffic. Her last bus is waiting in the terminal, as it did every Wednesday at 2.30 in the afternoon. It is quite a busy afternoon. School children are enjoying their summer holiday heading for the town centre where the little old lady had come from.
She lifted her head another time followed by her walking stick, with her extended arm she pointed at my car. She had a sweet yet apologetic smile that said “I’m sorry but I think I will be here for a while”. I am in no hurry and I am more than pleased to allow her all the time she needed to reach the other side and catch her bus.

A middle aged man went speeding passed on a bicycle paying no regard to her age or her safety; he took her by surprise. Composing herself she gave me one more look, shrugged her shoulders and lowered her walking stick in front of her. Moving very slowly, she put one foot in front of the other, steadied her self and then did it again with the other foot. She wore tatty yellow plimsolls that had seen better days, and a long green trench coat that is stained on the cuffs, collar and hem. Her legs and ankles were so thin, her plimsolls looked too large. She reached the first black stripe and took a quick glance towards the waiting bus and then towards me.

I gestured to her that it is ok and gave her a reassuring smile, hoping that she doesn’t become embarrassed and try to rush. I felt anxious for her because I could feel her concern that she is holding up the traffic. The longer she paused, the more chance she had of missing her bus and become stranded in a busy town centre.

She lifted her stick once more and shuffled to the second white stripe. Without looking up she paused, steadied herself and started on her way again. I spotted in my rear view mirror that a car had pulled up behind me, as this is a single lane the car couldn’t pass until the lady crossed.
Discarded shopping bags, sweet wrappers, fast food bags and pages from a newspaper were being blown in a circle, like a mini cyclone, just feet from the old lady; I hoped that the shopping bag didn’t move any closer and get trapped around her feet.

She had made it half way across when a trio of youths walked towards her, in their arrogance they stopped, raised their arms out wide and gesture to the lady to move out of their way. She raised her stick in defiance, this journey has been tough enough so far; she is not prepared to prolong it for a bunch of disrespectful street kids. The tallest one dropped his shoulders, extended his arms towards her with open palms and told her to move, or else. Incensed, I sounded my horn and shook my head at them. My body language told them that I would leave my car to defend the lady if they continue their hostility towards her. The tall one formed his hand like a pistol and imitated shouting me; I continued my stare, not compromising my eye contact or the angry look on my face as they passed to the side of the lady and disappeared into the town.

There is a strong smell of curry drifting through the town; it is intermittent because the wind kept changing direction swiftly.

The lady continued on her way after giving me an appreciative smile hinting that she is proud of herself for standing her ground. The driver behind me pulled his car even closer to indicate his impatience. He is shaking his head and trying to catch my attention in the mirror, it is a useless attempt because I am going no where until this lady has caught her bus. I returned my attention to my new friend, keeping one eye on the impatient motorist up my rear.

She is three quarters of the way across placing one foot down in front of her and her placing her stick down for support. She steadies herself glancing at the bus then starts over again. I wondered how long it must take her to do her daily chores, or whether she lives in a residential home where her domestic needs are catered for by care staff. I hoped it is the latter because this must be so frustrating for her, and embarrassing; old people become embarrassed when they think they are a burden to others.

A distant cloud breaks exposing the heat from the sun. Instantly the right side of my face and my right forearm feel the heat as the sun intensified through my car window. The old lady slowly lifts her head to see where the sun is coming from then slowly lowers it; she takes another look at the waiting bus and continues on her way.
I can see the man in the car behind me becoming agitated. He holds his hands out above his steering wheel, with palms up; his gesture is clear. I know instinctively that he is cussing the old lady for taking such a long time to cross. I bet that he thinks she is doing it on purpose, just because she can.

The clouds close up again and the temperature is now comfortable. As she starts her journey again a sudden unexpected gust of wind blasts across the street catching her by surprise. She is pushed backwards losing her balance and sending her into a slight spin, she slams her walking stick to the ground like an anchor and regains her composure. I rose up in my seat swiftly and reached out my arms as if to catch her. My heart increased in speed and velocity as it also tried to leap out to help her. She gave me a cheeky smile before looking towards the bus willing it not to move off.

The driver behind me is so impatient he tried to reverse back to give him a way out, there is a bus blocking his path so he is stranded; as we all are. I understood the driver’s anxiety because I have been in that situation myself on occasions. Today, however, I am in no rush and to the little old ladies advantage; I am in the front of the queue.

She had one black stripe and one white strip left before she left the pedestrian crossing and we could all be on our way. The hem at the back of her coat is ripped and exposed strips of material from inside. The exposed cloth is trailing on the floor behind her, it is barely noticeable but still, it is enough to trip her if she stepped backwards. I prayed we had no more gusts of wind that could force her back into those potentially fatal strands.

Although I could easily pass and allow the traffic to resume momentum, I chose to stick with it and see this journey through. The driver behind me sounded his horn in frustration hoping I would break the Highway Code; I am not fazed by his demands nor is the lady.
She shuffled forward with determination, her ride home waiting stationary under the glass arched shelter. The driver still had his news paper on his steering wheel and his arms resting on the outer edge of the wheel with his hands clasped; this is an indication that he is not ready to move off yet. My little friend still had time to jump on board but I think she needs to focus on achieving those last two stripes and reaching the curb. One little yellow plimsoll touched the edge of the dropped curb followed by the second, her walking stick hit the ground and she steadied herself.

There is a gentle upwards slope before she is on flat ground. I knew I had to move on before the drive behind me is prosecuted for road rage. Luckily a mother and toddler stepped onto the crossing allowing me enough time to see that the old ladt had reached the summit and is safe. She turned her head, raised her right arm and extended it towards me. She smiled and gave me a little wave. I waved back. I wish I could jump out of my car and give her big hug and tell her how proud of her I am. She gave it all she could; it was like an epic journey, an adventure to reach a bus to take her home. I only wish I could have seen her climb aboard that bus and take that well earned rest on her journey home.

The Silent Office

As I entered the office, a gentleman was sat at his desk in front of a partially opened window. It was an old building and the rotting window frame in front of him was an indication of its approximate age; mouldy and cracked with flaky discoloured paint that resembled the bark of an old birch tree.

The walls and ceiling were painted white allowing as much light from the solitary window to be reflected off every surface, giving the impression that the office was bigger than it actually is. The gentleman was leaning back against the black leather computer chair with his rather large brown boots balancing on the very edge of the desk, as they were ready to fall off. His arms were raised, with hands clasped together and implanted between his head and the back of the chair.

Even though the window was open, the office was quite warm and humid; his damp stained armpits, against his sky blue shirt was a reminder of how humid and motionless the air in that room was.

He spoke to me without disturbing his position. “Sit down” he said quietly. “You must be here for Michelle”. I responded and took a seat. There was a relaxing silence to the room that had a calming effect; almost paralysing. I sat motionless watching the papers on the desks flicker softly in the gentle breeze that drifted through the room.

Flyers that were pinned to the notice board were being pulled forward and back in a hypnotic rocking motion. Every so often two flyers would clash together sending a gentle clap echoing through the silent office, the claps were not strong enough to disturb or break the silence that had dominated the room. Each desk had a computer that was personalise and decorated with soft toys, mementoes or little pictures reminding everyone of their loved ones at home.

I could hear a muted conversation between a group of ladies that appeared to be coming form a distant location, however, their office was only feet away and their tiny voices were cushioned by the office door.

As I sat staring in a trance induced by the silent movement of papers and the swinging cords attached to the cream vertical blinds, I wandered how I could recreate this scenario and export this tranquillity to my own office. Suddenly the silence was shattered by the piercing sound of the office door bell. The sound of feet hurrying to open the door broke the silence even more. “Hiya, you must be the trainer, Brian”. She enquired. “I’m Michelle welcome to my office”. Michelle was dressed in a standard blue Nurses uniform with her bobbed mousy hair pinned back behind her ears; she had a reassuring smile fixed upon her face. As we engaged in a lengthy conversation about her training needs I was always aware of the silence and stillness that was around me and was the inherent atmosphere of this Silent Office.

Red Amber Green...

A typical autumn morning in Pendeford; mildew coated, fresh and cool. The sunlight reflected off the little droplets of water which hung from the hawthorn leaves. There was a white tinge to the grass as the mildew coated every blade. The mildew soaked my car so much that it had run down the windows and the side panels leaving a series of wet dots on the tarmac..

As I left my street and pulled onto the main road I was struck by the colour of the sky. The clouds were sparse and had a coating of autumn red pasted on the underside. The sky looked hot and cosy. The scene was reminiscent of Turner’s painting, The Fighting Temeraire where he captures two ships battling on the river Nile beneath a beautiful red and amber sky.

The island at the top of the road was coned off with traffic lights slowing the usual free flow of the traffic. These three way lights at this time in the morning will cause havoc. Nothing was moving ahead. Car horns were sounding and arms extended from car windows with clenched fists punching the side panel of their car door. I felt like one of the battling ships travelling slowly up the Nile; a veil of autumn red sky floating above, reflecting its colours on the shiny wet road ahead

I see a hint of green light reflecting off the surface of the cars in front, a sign that the traffic lights have changed; it’s my opportunity to move forward. If the cars in front are fast enough I might just get through in one attempt before they change back to red.

The lights hit amber just as my bonnet passes the line. Several cars continue to pass through even thought the lights will have changed to red a while ago. You can almost feel the anxiety in the drivers’ attitude. They thrust their cars forward, almost connecting with the bumper in front ensuring they don’t have a prolonged wait before their next green light opportunity.

There is a convoy of oncoming traffic queued up waiting for their turn; for their green light opportunity. They will have an anxious wait because a substantial amount of drivers behind me crossed the line on red. This no doubt will be the theme during the early morning chaos that these road works will cause.

As I drive toward the Vine Island I take a deep breath in amazement as the sky is alight with red and amber. I wanted to stop to capture this on my mobile phone camera; I would certainly use it as a desktop picture when I reached work. The traffic behind me is too heavy and my stopping would add to the frustration that everyone is already feeling.

There was a strange similarity between the morning sky and the traffic situation. The sky was a vibrant red and amber with the relaxing green foliage below, an amazing image and very calming. The traffic lights were also red and amber with a green light below that brought relief to the motorists who passed through them. What a great morning, what a great start.