Hello!! Welcome, greetings, thank you so much for stopping by to read and wonder at my little adventures around and frequently underneath the highways and byways of Birmingham. I welcome you all in the spirit of sharing and fun. Just don’t expect anything deep and existential, thinking hurts right now, I’ve finally succumbed to that dreaded Cold 😦

If you didn’t catch my first feature, I’ll bring you up to speed: I’m on a mission to document what’s left of the pedestrian subways, bridges and any connecting concrete spaces that remain in the City of Brum, my hometown. These date predominantly from the brutal days of concrete construction, when the 1960s ring road system brought all that jazzy Modernity to town. I wouldn’t blame you for thinking I’m a bit doolally, jeez why the feck would you even wanna do that? These places, they’re ugly, aren’t they? Smelly old tunnels, weedy islands, ramshackle bridges, they’ve become dumping grounds for those hairy bits and doodats that even the Wombles of Wimbledon would stay very firmly away from.

Well, yes they are now. But they weren’t always like that, although, being honest, they were never PRETTY places. However, I’m not writing about these places to make you, dear reader, want to visit them or even enjoy them. These are utilitarian places, built for expedience, to get you the Pedestrian, from A to B as quickly and safely as possible. The designs are austere, stairs and ramps, sturdy metal fences line the bridges, the lighting is basic, there’s nothing flash here (unless it’s all coat and no trousers). I’m writing about them because I want to honour them, preserve their memory, despite their faults and mishaps, before they fade away.

Despite how they look I have a strong affection for these places, they’re a part of my history and the collective memory of Birmingham. Above all, they represent the dying embers of Birmingham’s dynamic 20th century ambitions to be a thoroughly modern utopia, THE Motor City built on the craft and guile of Birmingham’s finest engineers, architects and planners. Back in the day they were super clean, brightly new, weed free and freshly planted.

I grew up calling them Underpasses, tunnels for people, subways for safe, direct transport. They’re not unique to Brum let’s face it, subways, flyovers, concrete islands and bridges they’re part of city infrastructure the world over. To navigate the city you had to go under, because the Road was King. However, these places are in sharp decline after years of lax management and disrepair, they’ve been have left in a poor state. Now, as pedestrianisation, cycle paths, the Tram Network and the need for clean air quietly pushes the vanquished Car away from the city centre, underpasses, connecting bridges, flyovers and those in-between concrete islands are slowly but very surely being filled in, demolished and forgotten.

So, what are these spaces like? Why do I ‘enjoy’ them so much? Hmmmmm, enjoy is perhaps too strong a word. Let’s face it, when travelling through narrow tunnels, subterranean spaces and concrete islands the word ‘enjoy’ isn’t the first emotion or sensation that creeps across the skin. The lighting is poor, so the shadows run deep with unnatural fears, subways are narrow by nature, they easily induce claustrophobia if you’re that way inclined. Concrete maws swallow those hardy souls that brave them. Noises echo and multiply like contagion, our internal fears amplified. These are untidy, grimy places, hollow winds wail dragging detritus from all directions. Passersby carelessly dropping the casual plastics of their everydays.

The proximity of these places to roads and railways defines them, these are transitory spaces not social. Waves of turbulence crash ceaselessly over, a roiling viscous tide of restless reptilian noise. There’s no seating (although sometimes there is, in some very weird places, more on that later) but you don’t hang here for a kick-about or meet for a date. You walk through, to get through, you don’t stop or linger in these leftover spaces.

One such place is Park Circus. I walked there from the City centre, visiting other spaces along the way. It’s located on the jagged fringes of old Aston Park; a busy roundabout encircles a concrete island that in turn sits astride the deep asphalt chasm of the A38 Aston Expressway. This eight lane uber-road cuts an uncompromising swathe from central Birmingham, connecting to the M6 Interchange at Gravelly Hill, that’s Spaghetti Junction to you and me. On it’s way north it ducks and dives through some of Birmingham’s oldest parishes, a deep valley of black-top tarmac, the wild heart beating beneath.

To cross this great urban Styx, as a Pedestrian, you have to go down through the subways. The roundabout above is very busy, there are no paths across, going directly under and through is much quicker on foot. Originally there were underpasses on all sides of the Circus, but two have been filled in, leaving curious paths that end in with an ill-fit in-fill, walls within the wall. There’s probably a metaphor there somewhere but to the walker it’s just annoying.

So you don’t linger, you hurry through. It’s interesting watching people, their body language, hunched, tight-faced, defensive and downcast. Passersby don’t meet your gaze for fear of rousing the urban ghosts of violence. And there’s me, lurking in corners with a camera, a ganglion of focus for their troubled gaze. People don’t like being caught candid on the street at the best of times. Underground in these most ominous of places confronted by a stranger with a camera, you wouldn’t blame the wary walker for defending themselves, least of all to tell me to fuck off. I don’t blame them, I am a realist.

Oddly, by and large, it’s been quite an energising experience for me – most of the time the quizzical confusion of “what the fuck are you doing here?” dissolved into puzzled smiles. One gent, Sajid (pictured above in the Underpass) asked me if I was lost and did I need help. He was quite partial to hats and took a real shine to mine. Another asked if I was a reporter. A little Asian lady offered me tea. Astonishingly, she was packing, tea bags, flask and milk, within her voluminous coat. She didn’t want her photo taken but her smile was softer than saffron. I couldn’t refuse such uncommon kindness. The common thread was, why are you here, why are you lingering in these places? You don’t STOP here, you’re not meant too. Are you high?

Park Circus is an odd place, a concrete island connecting either side of the Expressway. It’s rather generous and open to the skies, despite the narrow underpasses. Two half moon shaped ‘recreational’ spaces, greened up with grasses and spindly trees, sit either side of the Expressway, connected together by a wide flat bridge. The air is filled with the noise and fume of Traffic, despite the sunny aspect it feels neglected, forgotten, unloved.

The uniform shapes and straight lines of concrete and steel are set deep into a concrete promontory as the space steeply slopes from north to south, leaning towards a view of the distant city. In an unexpected twist, ancient park benches overlook towards the City and the unending stream of traffic. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed this masterstroke of recreational planning! “Visit Park Circus, witness man’s victory of speed!! The modern miracle of transport, it’s a feast for the eyes! (chips are extra).”

There’s a distinct lack of chip papers, however. Instead it’s beer cans, spliffs, silver cannisters that populate the floor. Bags of spoiled things tied to a coat, strewn around a grubby duvet shawl, there’s a person asleep beneath. Encountering those who lurk here, slumped on the benches, could be a problem I imagine. But the space just feels sad and mournful, like an unwanted malformed child. I don’t pretend to know the history of this space, I can only see what I see and react to it.

Moving around Park Circus the overarching feeling I had was one of puzzled wonder. There are shades of design here and there, some neat curves in the stonework, that perhaps embraced an interesting outdoor feature or artwork, if they existed they’re long gone, as has the money to maintain. I was forced to ask, what were the designers trying to achieve here? Was it meant to be an actual ‘park’ space? If so it’s half arsed and a bit mad, but oh for goodness sake, seriously look over there, across the bridge, yes, there were bloody more of them! Park effin benches!! This time overlooking the road as it travelled beneath the roundabout. I stood for ages watching the traffic, hypnotised by the absurdity of it all. Maybe that was the point? I didn’t sit down, because, you know, needles and glass 😦

Despite all of this: the necessity of pedestrian safety, the banality of the space, the rubbish reality of the drugged up homeless man sleeping in the Underpass, I came away from Park Circus feeling oddly energised. Not because of the grim reality of Life, that’s just sad, and it’s something that we all have to face up too, both on personal and societal levels. I left the guy my emergency cereal bars beside his broken TV set.

The people that I met there though, the Pedestrians, their warmth, their instinctive concern and humanity, they made me see the value of this space, it’s an accepted necessity of their lives. Sajid and his hat, the Asian lady with the unexpected tea. They can’t do anything about the reality of the Expressway; Park Circus is what it is, an ill-thought out diversion from the local reality. Or maybe that’s the point? Thinking back on those moments, those benches, the traffic flowing by like a restless sea, quietly being hypnotised by it all. Another diversion from reality.

Thanks for stopping by Folks. I hope you’ve enjoyed my little adventure.