This is entirely in my head, I know, but it seems to snow in Birmingham a lot. Well, at least it seems to snow a lot when I visit. I was last on this section of the Cross City line in March 2023, and it was snowing then. I come back, and it snows the night before, and then again while I walk around. Perhaps I'm simply used to endlessly mild weather, being a resident of The Leisure Peninsula itself, the Wirral; we hardly ever get snow.
I was here to close off the last remaining gap on the line, the four stations between Bournville and Longbridge. This is, of course, the home of Cadbury's, purveyors of fine chocolate, and the local factory has contributed to its station by painting its metalwork Dairy Milk purple.
I was tucking my camera back in my pocket when a man in a car at the neighbouring lights called out. It took me a few moments to process that he was talking to me, and so I'd not been paying attention. If I don't expect chat, my brain is simply not listening for it; it has to go back and rewind and process it. I said, "what?", because I am a master of witty repartee, but he didn't say anything more and drove off.
My brain finally deciphered the words from the thick Brummie accent and I realised that he'd said "ain't you never seen snow before?" This immediately put me in a bad mood. I wasn't doing any harm. I was amusing myself. And this bloke decided to pop up and police it. Reader, if you see someone doing something innocuous you disapprove of, keep it to yourself, or do what I do: bitch about it on social media where they can't see it. Calling out to random people and judging their behaviour leaves them feeling angry and vulnerable and socially awkward, and I'm all those things normally anyway. Don't add to them.
Cadbury's is directly opposite the station, and it's an intriguing mix of architectural styles. There's this half-timbered Olde Worlde building, but right behind it is a high brick factory, while access roads give you glimpses of steaming vats and loading bays. A more modern office block and reception desk has been squeezed onto the street. It'll never be confused for Willy Wonka's place, let's put it that way.
I would not be visiting Cadbury World on this visit. For starters, I've already been, back in 2010 with my friends and their children. You shouldn't really visit unless you have children present, because the exhibition is very much aimed towards them. A single man wandering around that place would get some funny looks.
Secondly, I don't really like chocolate. I'm not sweet toothed at all. I'll occasionally get a craving, and I'll get a Dairy Milk or a Fruit and Nut, because Cadbury's is the best; I've tried those supposed luxury bars that are 60% cocoa beans or whatever and they all taste bitter and unpleasant. Otherwise, I can do without it. In fact, once on holiday in Yorkshire, we visited an artisan chocolate making factory, and I had to go outside because the sugary sweet smell was making me feel ill. I'd much rather have a packet of crisps or a pasty. (The BF is the exact opposite, and he was extremely disappointed when I came home from my trip without a sack of Roses for him).
I was far more interested in visiting Bournville itself, the model village built by the Cadbury family around the factory. It was constructed as an ideal place for working class people to live - all working class people, not just workers at Cadbury's. George Cadbury was a Quaker and it was his intention to create a community that was airy and well-maintained and with good architecture. It was a contrast to the small homes and squalid conditions most employees could expect at that time.
In addition to hundreds of houses, community facilities, parks, churches and shops were built - but, as a teetotaller, George refused to allow a pub to be built. Bastard.
If it had been a nicer day, I'd have happily wandered around Bournville for hours. Unfortunately the snow was really coming down now, leaving me cold and wet, so I did a loose circuit then headed back to the main road to continue south to my next station.
The village has become an incredibly desirable place to live in the century since it was built, and this has extended to the areas around it with a similar postcode. If you can't afford Bournville proper, then the terraced homes nearby will give you that same frisson of middle class glamour. It's why a flat row of shops, a strip that I'd seen all over the country that would normally house a corner shop, a couple of takeaways and a hairdresser, instead included a Zero Waste supermarket and "Birmingham's first organic butcher".
Kings Norton was a messy stretch of shops spread around a junction. Buses idled at the side of the road. People inched their way along the pavements, remarkably clear in the main, but with the threat that the stuff falling would settle. Chicken shops and pound stores and the Kurry Kingdom in an extremely impressive building. I hummed Heather Small as I walked past Pride Dry Cleaners and avoided the queues of people getting their lunch from Sophie's Pizza and Pasta.
The bus layby came with another of Centro's pieces of art, a pair of metal feathers on top of the transport information board, but unlike many of the other ones I'd encountered during my visits to the West Midlands, this one still had its information board, telling me about the work and the artist. I'm not sure if that's because of a commitment to informing the public or more likely nobody's got round to taking the poster down.
It means I can tell you these are the Feathers of Freedom and were designed by Paula Woof in 2001; they are made from stainless steel and represent "the sense of freedom felt by generations who moved here from central Birmingham". So now you know.
Kings Norton (the apostrophe seems to be an optional extra) is about to get a lot more important. The Camp Hill Line once carried trains direct into Curzon Street, but, starting with the replacement of that terminus with New Street and continuing through the improvement of other lines that shadowed it, it slowly fell out of use before closing to passengers in 1946. It continued as a freight line but that was it.
It's now, excitingly, rarely, significantly, being brought back into passenger use, albeit incredibly slowly. Three new stations have been constructed along the line and, eventually, trains will split off at Kings Heath for the city centre, making this an interchange station. Fortunately it's already got four platforms to accommodate the two lines.
I mean, that's the theory. As is usual for British infrastructure, it's both hopelessly late - it should be open right now but they're still working on the stations - and also done on the cheap. Those extra platforms are going to remain out of use, because the money isn't there, just as the money isn't there to build a viaduct at the other end to get Camp Hill trains into Moor Street (where there is capacity) instead of New Street (where there is not). These will, presumably, be completed at a later date, when all the engineers have gone home and the planning permission has lapsed and they'll have to start all over again from scratch. Clever.
I followed two Eastern European ladies down the steps from the platform, listening to them chat merrily to one another, then passed through the subway under the tracks to the other side. There was another piece of Centro art and, once again, there was an information piece for it, confirming my suspicion that these are only still there when someone at TfWM forgets to take them down.
I walked down the hill from the station entrance, past a garage advertising £40 MOTs and onto a side road. The snow had stopped falling and the thaw had started, leading to a great river of water cascading down the drains. I stepped into a patch of open land, breaking the snow with my feet, and following a short path into a copse of woods.
The drips of the melting snow were everywhere around me, accompanied by the rustle of bushes as lumps fell to the ground. One or two pieces careened off my forehead, and I briefly considered the humiliation of being discovered unconscious in a wood having been accosted by frozen water. I'd have to lie and pretend I was mugged.
I decided I'd swing back to the main road, rather than persist on my country walk. The River Rea crosses The Mill Walk as a ford here, something you don't really expect to see in suburban Birmingham.
Immediately after I took this photo, a BMW appeared and crawled through the ford. The driver then burned away at a ridiculous speed, his engine roaring, in case you thought that his slowness through the water indicated some sort of reserve or timidity and you didn't realise that he was actually an extremely masculine man who was manly. Needless to say, I was extremely aroused, and definitely didn't assume he had a micropenis.
The main road was a wide straight boulevard with space for trams in the middle if they ever decided to restore them - which of course they won't - and plenty of shops. On the corner was a JobCentre, which was pretty essential, as I was now entering Longbridge.
If you're of a certain age, the name "Longbridge" brings back memories of news reports, first about strike action, then about decline and closure. This was the home of the Austin Motor Company, later British Leyland, later Rover, the builders of dozens of legendary British cars and a hotbed for complex industrial relations for over a century. The factory took up a huge expanse of land and employed thousands of workers locally, before slowly declining over the second half of the twentieth century for a million different, equally sad, reasons. The plant shrank and contracted until its very last stub - making MG cars for its now Chinese owner - was closed in 2016.
This leaves the question of how to regenerate the fallen area. Housing has been a key part of it, of course, with flats and houses filling the former assembly areas. The people who live there need jobs though and so a new Longbridge town centre has been constructed.
It's heralded by the South & City College Birmingham, housed in a truly hideous building that strives for "iconic" but actually ends up as "messy". Architects and city planners have looked at the likes of the Bilbao Guggenheim and their takeaway seems to be "weird angles, gotcha". They've avoided building square boxes and have instead embraced lumps, shards, spikes, all layered with coloured cladding. They are, almost without exception, hideous, and will be demolished in about twenty years time when they stop being fashionable because nobody will want to refurbish them.
Beyond it is open space, a series of terraces and flower beds beside the River Rea that form Austin Park. There's also Austin Way, Cooper Avenue and Princess Street, all named after the former marques, which seems off to me. Imagine being a former engineer at the plant, spending decades crafting those vehicles, and now having to trudge down Ambassador Avenue to get to your job fetching trollies in Sainsbury's car park. That's rubbing salt in the wounds.
Because Longbridge has now been reborn as a shopping centre. The signs might pretend it's a civic heart, but make no mistake; this is an out of town retail park that has been allowed to bloom here. It was surprising to me how bad it was. We've learned over the past few decades that making a place is the future of retail, that now we can get anything we want delivered to our homes, we have to encourage people to venture out.
This is an L of boxes arranged around an open-air car park. You could've put in a pedestrian square here, a space for exhibitions or events, or arranged the shops into more interesting avenues to be explored and enjoyed. You can hear the developer grumbling: "we gave you that park, isn't that enough?" It shows how big business can take advantage of down on their luck areas. With the closure of the car plant, no doubt Birmingham was simply happy anyone wanted to build anything that would provide jobs, and waved it all through.
It was lunchtime and I had time to kill before my pre-booked train home so I decided to sample the delights of a Hungry Horse. I don't think I'd ever been to one before, but it wasn't exactly a surprise; sub-Wetherspoons decor, blandly unthreatening, plenty of seats and a reliance on food rather than the odd old bloke nursing a half of bitter. It was a Tuesday, which meant the special was a "sizzler" for nine pounds. This meant I got a skillet of vegetables with some breaded chicken, some onion rings and some chips, plus a mysterious powder that was supposedly a salt and pepper herb mix. It was, technically food, but only technically, because food usually also has flavour and texture. This was more like eating polystyrene that had sat next to an air freshener and had picked up a bit of the scent. However, after several hours of walking in snow and getting soaked and frozen I was simply glad to get something hot inside me.
Also, they served beer.
I tottered out an hour later with a couple of pints sloshing around and wandered towards the railway station. TfWM have constructed an enormous multi-storey next to it, with the hope of making Longbridge a park and ride. As you'd expect for an area formerly filled with factories, there's a good road direct to the M5 from here, and the hope is that this will become a hub. Network Rail, too, want to make Longbridge into a secondary rail centre, getting people to change services away from the overcrowded city centre termini. As usual, there are lots of lovely reports, and not much in the way of action.
Longbridge has, at least, got a flashy new building out of the redevelopment, with a completely pointless architectural flourish over the roof, which was probably called a "placemaker" or something in the plans.
As I took the picture of the statue, a man lurched out of the bus stop and towards me, clutching a bottle of Stella. Obviously I disapproved; one should confine one's alcoholism to inside spaces. Like me. I moved away quickly, down to the platform, and was able to almost immediately jump on a train.
Then I began to get a niggle at the back of my head, a light tap of disquiet. Something was up. I picked up my camera and scanned through the pictures and - yep. I'd not taken the sign selfie.
This is becoming disturbing. My brain is starting to forget to do the one thing I have always done when I visit stations. I've been doing this for nearly eighteen years. Is this how dementia starts? I got off the train at Northfield and transferred to the southbound platform to go back on myself. This meant that, sadly, I wasn't able to visit the refurbished University station as I'd planned; two long waits for trains put me dangerously close to my train time from New Street and my anxiety was raging. I'll have to check it out another day.
Still, I'm sure you'll agree the trip back was totally worth it for this magnificent photograph.
Don't answer that.
