52° 41’ 15.05” N
1° 47’ 00” W
elev.
Field Report
South of Derby the road runs arrow straight for fifteen miles, a Roman route, less famous than the Fosse Way or Watling Street, but ancient nevertheless. Re-named Ryknild Street by a Saxon king, traversing the northern marches of Mercia, past ancient English settlements with names like Alrewas and Wychnor; the past haunts the low gravel plain of the Trent, a palpable presence.
At Streethay, east of Lichfield I made a detour, tracking Ryknild Street through the affluent southern suburbs of the city, towards the literally named 'Roman Road'. After less than a mile my plan was stymied, the route blocked by what was once called the London and North Western Railway. The road bridge marked on the old Bartholomew's half inch road atlas was long gone. I had reached an impasse.
I parked the car in a gateway and got out. It was a raw, early March day, grey and blustery with spots of cold rain carried on the breeze. I walked across to the pedestrian level crossing, opened the gate and stood by the side of a signal box. It resembled the Airfix model I once made when I was ten or eleven to embelish a model train set.
The sun broke through, the landscape glowed in a garish wintry light. Nothing seemed connected, the railway resembled some giant Hornby (what was the meaning of the letters CZA sprayed on the building's side?). If the disused Victorian water pumping station was simply a disregarded relic why had four large traffic cones been placed at exact intervals up the stone steps leading to its needlessly grand entrance? The modern exec-detached housing estate that I'd driven through moments before looked shallow like a movie flat. Not a soul stirred, though the regimented blue wheely bins guarding each driveway hinted at hidden consumption, bourgeois detritus, what was discarded as much as what was on display (well polished 4x4, thoughtfully clipped conifer). The place seemed like a monument to commodifled individualism.
My way of seeing seemed like an odd dialect, outmoded and half forgotten.
What was I doing here, what was the point?
Field Report
South of Derby the road runs arrow straight for fifteen miles, a Roman route, less famous than the Fosse Way or Watling Street, but ancient nevertheless. Re-named Ryknild Street by a Saxon king, traversing the northern marches of Mercia, past ancient English settlements with names like Alrewas and Wychnor; the past haunts the low gravel plain of the Trent, a palpable presence.
At Streethay, east of Lichfield I made a detour, tracking Ryknild Street through the affluent southern suburbs of the city, towards the literally named 'Roman Road'. After less than a mile my plan was stymied, the route blocked by what was once called the London and North Western Railway. The road bridge marked on the old Bartholomew's half inch road atlas was long gone. I had reached an impasse.
I parked the car in a gateway and got out. It was a raw, early March day, grey and blustery with spots of cold rain carried on the breeze. I walked across to the pedestrian level crossing, opened the gate and stood by the side of a signal box. It resembled the Airfix model I once made when I was ten or eleven to embelish a model train set.
The sun broke through, the landscape glowed in a garish wintry light. Nothing seemed connected, the railway resembled some giant Hornby (what was the meaning of the letters CZA sprayed on the building's side?). If the disused Victorian water pumping station was simply a disregarded relic why had four large traffic cones been placed at exact intervals up the stone steps leading to its needlessly grand entrance? The modern exec-detached housing estate that I'd driven through moments before looked shallow like a movie flat. Not a soul stirred, though the regimented blue wheely bins guarding each driveway hinted at hidden consumption, bourgeois detritus, what was discarded as much as what was on display (well polished 4x4, thoughtfully clipped conifer). The place seemed like a monument to commodifled individualism.
My way of seeing seemed like an odd dialect, outmoded and half forgotten.
What was I doing here, what was the point?
voceti: Anecdote of the cones.
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