A Walk on the Wild Side

After exploring the enchanting Badger Dingle last weekend, we found ourselves in the thick of it on Saturday night, having been the nominated taxi service to two teens heading to their first gig in Birmingham's industrial heartland Digbeth, now slowly but surely shaking off its dark and dangerous reputation.

I love this part of Birmingham.  Currently the high street is a building site whilst tram lines are laid, as plans for the West Midlands Metro extension continue at pace.  As easy on the eye as Birmingham's Bull Ring and surrounding area is, something of the character of the city is always stripped away when restaurant franchises and chain stores dominate.  As of now, Digbeth is walking that tightrope between darkly creative underbelly - still wearing its industrial heart on its sleeve - and relentless progress and gentrification.  I know for some, gentrification of the area can't come soon enough, but for now, I'm enjoying experiencing the palpable excitement that a simple walk around Digbeth offers.  

I've visited a few times in recent years, most memorably at the first (and to date, only) Peaky Blinders Festival in 2019.

In September of that year, I took my partner in crime and fellow Peaky obsessive Vix to this fully immersive festival where little set dressing was required.  Naturally we stopped for a pint of Guinness in one of the Victorian Irish pubs Digbeth is famed for.  In retrospect we should have opted for Thomas Shelby's favoured Irish whisky, but we needed to have our wits about us, as became clear upon entry.

Firstly I was ordered to leave behind my camera (something which outraged me at the time as there was nothing on the festival website to suggest cameras were not welcome when smart phones were!)  This necessitated a detour to the Bull Ring where we managed to find a safe for me to deposit the offending item.  

Smart phone camera on standby, our first experiences on entry were somewhat surreal.  I was taken to one side by a gypsy, who took a keen interest in my jewellery whilst trying to relieve me of cash in some kind of gambling game (memory fails me here).  

We were also soon approached by a BBC director, keen to get the two of us on camera to discuss all things Peaky.  I wonder whatever happened to that footage?  We also chatted (and shared chips) with celebrity Brummie chef, Glynn Purnell, although neither of us recognised him at the time.

There were showgirls and Burlesque performers...

We drank beer, watched bands (including Slaves and Anna Calvi)

...hung out with Thomas and Alfie Solomons...

...received series secrets ahead of transmission from writer and creator Stephen Knight, pictured here from behind (centre)...

...admired the architecture and graffiti art...

...observed illegal boxing...

...supported the Suffragette Movement

and generally had the most amazing day.  Little did we know that Covid would emerge at the end of that year.

So, back to Saturday night.  We started out in Digbeth, but its dimly lit streets, shady characters and broken glass seemed less inviting before the nightlife had really come alive...

...so we headed on foot into the centre of everything...

where no one had apparently heard of Covid.  The bars and restaurants were full to bursting with no masks in evidence.  By 7.30 pm (still some way off witching hour), people were dancing and singing in the streets.  Talk about the roaring twenties!

Whilst photographing this juggler (more on him shortly)... 

...a man handed me an artificial rose, immediately followed by a small laminated note asking for financial support for his family. I explained that I wasn't carrying any cash and he promptly took the rose from my fingers and moved on. 

Back to the juggler.  I'm not sure if it was part of his act or not, but every so often, he would drop one of his batons, which landed with a clatter near to his peacefully sleeping (and healthy looking dog).  This would immediately send the dog off into a spiralling rage and he would charge at the nearest pedestrian.  Clearly, whilst the baton had dropped, the penny hadn't for this poor sleep deprived canine, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the real culprit was his owner.

Birmingham's famous Bullring

Tramlines

The reflective beauty of the metal clad New Street Station

Heading back towards Digbeth, we spotted this establishment.  After the fiasco in the House of Commons this week with our PM being forced to (yet again) apologise for parties in number 10, this is definitely a sign of the times; a load of old waffle and a PM on shaky ground.

Digbeth was by this time, coming to life.  There was ground shaking music and packed pubs and beer gardens.  We were happy to observe Birmingham's wildlife from a safe distance.  Incidentally and disappointingly, the teens reported back that no checks were carried out relating to the required negative lateral flow tests or proof of vaccination status upon entry to the concert.  I can only guess that this is typical.

How cool was this guy's patchwork outfit?!

The final series of Peaky Blinders airs this month, ahead of a planned film to bring this chapter in the life of the Shelby family to a close.  I was lucky enough to put in a stint as Filming Assistant on season 6 last Spring before restrictions had been lifted.  Miraculously, for once, the press failed to get wind of the fact that filming was taking place at the Black Country Museum, so it was allowed to proceed uninhibited and I feel so lucky to have witnessed these iconic actors walking the cobbles and filming key scenes.  But no spoilers here.

After a bleak and stormy weekend, the sun appeared on Monday, along with a teaser of spring-like weather.  The balmy temperatures on Monday were perfectly timed and enabled me to try out my new wool jacket.  I say new, but of course, it's vintage.  I've been searching off an on for a Harris Tweed jacket after visiting the Hebrides several years ago, but they command eye watering prices and ebay and our local charity shops have failed to turn up trumps with anything close in my size.  Naturally, all it took was a passing comment on Vix's blog and hey presto! one turned up in a Walsall charity shop (those folks have taste).  Vix sent me the photos and my jaw hit the floor.  

It was the exact size and shade I was looking for; a 1970s beauty with football buttons, ticket pocket, elbow patches and sewn up pockets.  A perfectly preserved piece of  vintage loveliness, pictured here teamed with a Breton top, second hand Zara jeans, Clarks boots, Turtle Doves recycled cashmere wrist warmers and second hand leopard print, bead-trimmed Anokhi scarf.

Sun and fashion frivolity however, provided little distraction from the very sad news we received on Sunday evening, that our friend Sandra had passed away.  Whilst not unexpected, it came a little sooner than we had anticipated.  Sandra, although originally from Durham, had made a life with her husband and three children in her spiritual home, a remote and stunning corner of County Donegal.  Consequently, we saw each other once in a blue moon, but those occasions were always filled with laughter.  We were still regularly in touch, chatting on the phone or virtually - sometimes during one of her many hospital stays - until late December, when Sandra said she would raise a glass to me.  In these circumstances, the word "bravery" is often used.  Sandra really did face her illness with a boldness and bravery I can't even begin to imagine being able to muster.  She was clever, sassy and funny, one of my favourite people and I will miss her dreadfully.  

So tonight, on the evening of her wake, I will raise a glass of whisky - Irish of course - to Sandra.

Badgers, Birds and Keeping Out The Body Snatchers

Talk about a week of contrasts.  We started the week (or more specifically last weekend) by visiting a gentile English village and marked the start of this weekend in deepest, darkest Birmingham.   

After discovering some reasonably priced vinyl on sale in a Shropshire Antiques Centre (I bagged the Kate Bush album Never Forever, which sounds incredible!), we headed to a village at pains to distance itself from the short legged omnivores with distinctive white striped heads, despite being called "Badger."  I'm hazarding a guess that it was named after an individual who was, for whatever reason, named after a badger.  I like to think it was a village squire who, after a row with his wife one stormy evening, headed outside for some air, traipsed up a hill in a black mood, had an unfortunate encounter with Zeus and henceforth became known as Badger.  Subsequently, as a result of the squire being held in such high esteem, the village promptly adopted his surname and the rest is history.

Fantastical stories aside, Badger is a tiny little village with its origins lying in the Anglo Saxon period (it is referenced in the Domesday survey of 1086, comparing the situation at that point, with that before the Norman Conquest).  In reality, its name appears to have been taken from the tenant of the manor in the mid 12th century, William de Badger.  The village has barely grown over the centuries and in the 2011 census, was registered as home to 126 people.  

Here's the Thatched cottage reflected in the village pool...and resident duck.

The church, a 19th century Gothic Revival church built from sandstone has remnants of an earlier Medieval Church.  It's position on the edge of a tranquil pool was instantly calming.

Unfortunately we discovered the church at the end of our walk and were a little pushed for time, so whilst I have no photographic evidence, I can report that it contains some early Flemish stained glass and a memorial window to Dr Margaret Dix, who died in 1991 and was the daughter of the last rector and an eminent Neuro-Otologist, having published important research on vertigo which led to a common diagnostic tool for paroxysmal positional vertigo.

The primary purpose of our visit  however, was to locate the village's best kept secret; a stunning little wilderness created in a narrow valley landscape, known as "the Dingle".  

The area was landscaped in the 18th century by William Emes (commissioned by the British Tory politician, essayist, Old Park Ironworks owner and one time lord of Badger Manor, Isaac Hawkins Browne) to further enhance its picturesque qualities.  

Sadly the early Georgian house, Badger Hall (not named after a badger), was demolished in 1953, after years of neglect.  Once upon a time it allegedly housed the most incredible collections of Renaissance art and the consensus today is that had it survived intact, it would have been one of the most important treasured houses in Britain.  Here is is in its former glory.

The Dingle as it is known, comprises four pools, the two most prominent being Church Pool and the Town Pool.  The pools are the result of the damming of a small stream running down to a brook in the Dingle.  However, they had been a central feature of the village for centuries before as evidenced by an historical dispute which lead to Francis Kynnersley (Lord of the Manor in the early 1600s) threatening to "throw the rector into the pond".

The Dingle was opened to the public in 1851 and is now fairly accessible with a circular walk taking in the pools and the Dingle's other notable features, although it does have a few precipitous pathways and was very muddy when we visited.

There are sandstone outcrops and caves and weathered sandstone cliffs flanking the valley.  I loved this Ash tree, rooted in the sandstone outcrop.

A wooden bridge takes us over the Snowdon brook.

There were stunning reflections created by the trees...

...and a cascade!

This building pictured above, is a reconstruction of the Doric Temple, originally commissioned by Isaac Browne, now managed by the Landmark Trust as a holiday let.  Just after this photograph was taken, a couple appeared on the terrace with a bottle of wine.  Don't let the sunlight fool you - it was an icy cold day, but they were understandably determined to make the most of their mini escape.  Who can blame them?

In other news, we revisited Dowles Church, the eerie, abandoned church just outside Bewdley, mentioned in a recent blog here Winter Peach Photography: Answers on a postcard, found the mortsafe (a rarity in England) and a clootie - the pagan, early Christian tradition of hanging coloured strips of rag in trees, believed to bring about healing!

The Big Garden Bird Watch, organised annually by the RSPB, where the British public is encouraged to spend one hour in the garden at any time during a designated three day period, was a disaster last year.  The weather was flat, grey and freezing and the UK's bird population sensibly checked into a bird hotel and studiously avoided the majority of British gardens this time last year.  This afternoon, layered up like the Michelin tyre man, I sat, stock still, in the garden.  What did I see?  A pair of mating pigeons, a blue tit and a male and female blackbird.  Better than last year.

This was about as energetic as I felt after a night wandering the streets of Birmingham.  Last night, we found ourselves in the urban jungle of Digbeth in our second city, Birmingham, observing other forms of wildlife, but more on that very soon.