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Old Street No 3
An afternoon stroll down the old Wardley Hill in Rutland. I reckon this stretch of road, now by-passed by a streamlined version a field away, hasn't seen holiday Austins desparately trying to overtake grumbling Albions for at least twenty five years. I was surprised that the double white lines were still visible, punctuated by intermittent cat's eyes in their perished white rubber holders. Except the glass lenses had been levered-out long ago with local schoolboy penknives. The undergrowth at the sides had not encroached across the road nearly as much I would have expected, and on one stretch the precipitous drop on the north side is still guarded by a crash barrier entwined with hawthorn. What's so fascinating about all this? I think it's because this was once a thundering highway, one of the very few west-east routes between the heart of the Midlands and East Anglia, and as a child I remember sitting next to the driver of a fully-laden Midland Red coach as he skillfully sorted the gears out for the long climb. The coach was one of a red and black convoy making for Norfolk, and the white-jacketed driver heaved a visible sigh of relief when the summit was reached at Uppingham. I tried explaining all this to a lady taking her dog for a walk, but she smiled wanly and hurried off over the horizon.
An afternoon stroll down the old Wardley Hill in Rutland. I reckon this stretch of road, now by-passed by a streamlined version a field away, hasn't seen holiday Austins desparately trying to overtake grumbling Albions for at least twenty five years. I was surprised that the double white lines were still visible, punctuated by intermittent cat's eyes in their perished white rubber holders. Except the glass lenses had been levered-out long ago with local schoolboy penknives. The undergrowth at the sides had not encroached across the road nearly as much I would have expected, and on one stretch the precipitous drop on the north side is still guarded by a crash barrier entwined with hawthorn. What's so fascinating about all this? I think it's because this was once a thundering highway, one of the very few west-east routes between the heart of the Midlands and East Anglia, and as a child I remember sitting next to the driver of a fully-laden Midland Red coach as he skillfully sorted the gears out for the long climb. The coach was one of a red and black convoy making for Norfolk, and the white-jacketed driver heaved a visible sigh of relief when the summit was reached at Uppingham. I tried explaining all this to a lady taking her dog for a walk, but she smiled wanly and hurried off over the horizon.
10 comments:
As a child I always wanted a cats eye...any left?
All gone Thud I fear. I did prise about inside them with my scout's knife, but to no avail.
I have memories of a School skiing trip to Scotland in about 1967 (wooden skis, leather boots). We were taken from the Youth Hostel to the slope in some ancient bus. I can stil hear it grinding up the 1:4 hill in first gear, every rivett rattling, each tooth of the gear groaning in pain.
Atmospheric or what! Disused roads (and airfield perimeter tracks) have a similar fascination to disused railway lines...not quite the same atmosphere I grant you, but the sense of much use, much to-ing and fro-ing much business and human and mechanical activity now laying idle and inert. Spirits dwell here (or did I imbibe too much at The Green Awards last night?).
I too like these lonely, nearly-reclaimed-by-nature roads - except that in our overcrowded isle, one rarely gets the necessary sense of isolation....there's nearly always a good-life lady with a dog! Route 66 is series of old roads, especially in Missouri where I rode quite alone through Hooker's Cut on a long abandoned dual carriageway!
Ah, the ghosts of Albion. Great drifts of leaves and splotches of sunlight in the photograph too.
Affa. Only you could ride a trail called Hookers Cut!
Even as I wrote it....
Is it possible to contact administration?
Thanks
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