Wordsley, Stourbridge, England: 11 degrees, cold, sunny and slightly overcast.
It’s Saturday, and like most Saturdays for the past month or so, it’s usually something to do with Julie and Austin, the man.
The weather is quite nice in England; if it’s not raining, it’s already good. It’s not too warm, but it’s sunny, and at least the forecast isn’t for rain.
I didn’t do any morning exercise as I am still with a cold; I can’t seem to shake it off, and there are times when it gets better or worse. Last night, Julie and I discussed whether to go to Bridgnorth or Stourport, and I think we will probably decide by flipping a coin when she arrives.
Julie prefers Bridgnorth because it is much more sophisticated than Stourport. Stourport has a reputation for being a little tacky, especially along its Main Street, with amusement arcades, fish and chip shops, and some fast food restaurants and pubs. The town is again separated by a river, which does not cut through precisely, but the river is an integral part of the town’s composition and culture, much like Bewdley.
Julie arrived with Austin, and he was very happy to see me, making a fuss to stay with me in the front seat of the car. Why do dogs love to stick their heads out of the window while the car is moving? We flipped a coin, and Stourport won. We put Stourport in the USS Enterprise’s Mini GPS, and we were off on our way. In 20 minutes, we were arriving in the town’s centre.
We followed the traffic and checked the GPS, which showed various car parks near the river. It was easy to find a spot, and in less than 10 minutes, we were parked. Austin was already out and running around the car like a madman, while Julie was deciding what to take with us. As I had already mentioned, it was chilly; even though the sun was shining, the cold was exacerbated by a breeze in the air.
The car park was 100 or 200 metres from the riverbank, with all sorts of touristy attractions in between that adjoined and formed part of the town’s public park. There was crazy golf, a dinosaur park, food and drink kiosks selling hot dogs and candy floss, and a variety of other attractions. Behind us, in the opposite direction to where we were walking, was the town’s main amusement arcade with rides, located beside the bridge in front of the river and the High Street.
We were walking away in the opposite direction from the bridge beside the river, following a path that runs along the river. We had passed the attractions and were now on the path with the Seven River on our left and a large open field for tourists to have picnics on our right.
This picnic field brought back memories of when I was very young; my parents had already separated, and one of the few times I can remember having quality father and son time was when he took us—my brother and me—to Stourport on a Sunday, and we had a picnic in this very field, after more than 40 years.
I am now thinking about the past and my father, with whom I unfortunately had very little contact.
We continued walking along the path, eventually reaching a gate that indicated it was the entrance to a Yacht Club and Marina. It was not the kind of Yacht Club typically associated with a grand entrance, security, and high residential blocks of flats surrounding the complex, with piers extending into the sea, numerous sailboats, and large yachts.
It was simply a plain gate with a sign on the path, which continued normally beyond the gate, so we decided to go through and carry on our walk. As other couples came and went along the same path, it felt natural for us to proceed after the gate.
On the left was the River Seven, lined with numerous small plots of land, each fenced off and featuring entrances that led to a mini pier or dock extending into the river. Some of these plots had boats moored at the pier, while others didn’t.
It was clear to me that you could rent or purchase a plot where you could park your boat with a small garden or some extra space. Each plot came equipped with barbecue facilities, a small dock, and everything else you might desire for your boating experience.
As we continued along the path, it opened up and, on the right, there was a large, well-maintained field with neatly trimmed grass. In the centre, there appeared to be a clubhouse, and at the back and around the edges of the field, there are wooden sheds, trailers, and chalets.
This suggested to me that people owned a small plot of land where they would erect small prefabricated static houses or trailers within that little area. The path now resembled a driveway with wheel tracks circling the edge of the green field, so we decided to follow it, tracing the wheel tracks made by cars constantly crossing the grass.
There was essentially a small collection of prefab houses within a condominium. Some of the houses were interesting and well-maintained, and I would have liked to see the inside of one or two out of curiosity. However, others were quite tacky, unattractive, and in poor condition. I also noticed that each cabin or house had a different design; there was no consistent planning, DNA, design language or uniformity among them, which reminded me a lot of middle to lower class housing in Brazil.
In Brazil, you can visit places, condominiums, beach towns, etc., where each building or residence is entirely different from the next. Instead of uniformity, you’ll find a mix of houses, ranging from not-so-good ones to interesting or beautiful ones, strange structures, and charming homes, all lacking a shared design DNA, uniformity, or style.
Each one reflects its owner’s taste and the level of quality.
We were following the driveway around and beginning to loop back on ourselves. Austin had been off the lead for some time and was loving it. One woman, probably a resident, called our attention, saying he should be on his lead. We put him on, but within five or six metres, Julie took him off again; she loves taking Austin for full-open walks where he doesn’t need to be on a lead and he’s totally free.
It’s not that he’s a misbehaved or a dangerous dog—he’s a cockapoo. He’s certainly not a Doberman, Pitbull, or Rottweiler—just a very inquisitive dog with loads of personality.
We retraced the original route, completing a 360-degree loop around the condominium and the field. The area was quite interesting, and probably spending a long weekend here could be worthwhile. As we followed the original path back, we headed past the touristy area, with the River Seven now on our right and the open picnic field, the park, and the crazy golf on our left. Finally, we reached the main bridge, with the amusement park located on the other side.
We arrived at the amusement park, which was already bustling with people and quite loud, with the typical fair swings, rides, loud music, and much noise. We wandered around. There was an amusement arcade, and we tried to go in, but it was clear that it would be too noisy for Austin, just as it was too loud for us.
The fair brought back memories of my childhood in Wollaston. At that time, these fairs would move from town to town, staying at each place for a couple of weeks before moving on. They would set up in a park behind my old primary school in Wollaston, creating a lot of hustle, movement and excitement when the fair arrived. We would plan to go with friends, or go because it was there; we knew we would meet everyone and have a great time.
This fair in Stourport is an integral part of the town and its culture, remaining unchanged. We left the fair and entered the main High Street. Before walking up, we both went to the toilet in a large pub that looked like a Wetherspoons, but it wasn’t.
Julie explained to me that it was the direct competitor to Wetherspoons.
After relieving ourselves, we walked up the High Street and again passed some amusement arcades that, for the upper middle class, are seen as tacky, and in some ways, they are. However, sometimes tackiness can be fun, especially when sophistication can be seen as dull at times. Going to a place and having fun, doing something silly, stupid, different and out of the ordinary, can be seen as good.
Therefore, something that makes you feel good is not necessarily tacky; it is positive!
We did not go into any of the amusement arcades because they weren’t interesting to us; they were too loud, and besides, we were with Austin. The town’s main High Street, like many High Streets across England, is divided by a side street, splitting the High Street into two halves, the lower and upper parts.
The side street separating the High Street in Stourport leads us to the car park where we left the car. After crossing this street, we are now walking through the upper part of the High Street. It was clear that there were more interesting shops with unique themes, and near the end of the street, we found a charming little coffee shop, a café.
We were able to enter with Austin; we ordered two cakes to share and two cappuccinos. The place was nice, common, and modern, but it had a lot of stuff in it, which made it a little confusing. The cakes were good, and the coffees were not bad. We began to talk to a young couple about the region, and everything was good. They gave us some tips for where to have lunch, but to be honest, it was too much information for me.
I was in ‘I don’t really give a fuck mode’!
We paid and left the coffee shop, which we later discovered was a bakery, and supplied sour bread to our future favourite pub, which we didn’t know about yet. The couple had suggested a pub for lunch, just 200 metres from where we were, beside a canal.
‘The Black Star’ was a lovely pub, situated in a privileged place on the edge of the canal bank with tables and chairs outside. It was very quaint and English, but we felt it was still too early for lunch. We decided to follow the canal in the direction of the river, seeing where it would take us and what we might find and do along the way.
The back streets, away from the busy central part of Stourport, were terrific to me, much more interesting than the main High Street. The canal guided us towards a marina for long boats or narrow boats, where there was a meeting of locks and other canals. There were also beautiful green lawns around, along with a lovely old pub and inn at the end, called ‘The Angel’, which we thought would be an interesting place to stay overnight.
‘The Angel Pub and Inn’ was quite large and impressive, positioned directly opposite the river on an elevated spot, overlooking the beer garden and the river itself. Beside the pub stood a beautiful, old, restored house that was also quite majestic, standing and overlooking the river.
The pub, the house, and the marina were all connected, forming a natural walk around and towards the amusement park. They were hidden behind the fair, which for us were the principal hidden gems of Stourport. Nobody talks about this part of Stourport, not even Julie, who is quite critical at times, but even she thought it was very nice and beautiful, nothing like what we had expected. In fact, it was quite the opposite; it was rather sublime.
We passed by the fair again, walking along the path beside the riverbank towards the tourist picnic area and ultimately the car park. When we reached the car, Julie suggested for lunch that we either return to the Black Star in the centre of town or drive to a pub outside Stourport.
She mentioned ‘The Hop Pole’, a pub at the top of the hill in Bewdley. I quickly searched on Google and found a site listing the kitchen as open until 3:00 p.m. It was already 2, so I called to ask if we could get a table if we arrived by 2:30. I also told them that we were leaving Stourport now, so Bewdley was just a stone’s throw away.
They said they would wait for us, and we were on our way. We entered ‘The Hop Pole’ pub into the GPS, and by 2:20, we were pulling into the car park. The pub looked quite ordinary from the outside; it sits on a hill with the car park below, in front of the street. There were small gardens around the grounds of the pub as we walked up to the main door.
Externally, both the pub and the gardens did not seem very well maintained, even a little tatty. However, when we entered, it was a classically cosy and straightforward rustic-style British pub, with natural light flooding in from all sides through the large bay windows on every side.
There was a special area for people with dogs, supposedly dog-friendly, but for us, it felt more like segregation than friendliness. Several friends had recommended this pub, so our expectations were high; however, they seemed to be going more south. Ebony, a young, friendly, beautiful barmaid, came over, showed us to a table, explained the menu, and what they didn’t have for us that day.
I ordered a glass of Malbec and Julie had half a lager and lime. Austin was a bit restless but behaved well. Julie’s fettuccine with a white sauce arrived; it was warm and mediocre, nothing special. My burger with chips was good, the chips were very hot, and the burger was fine but not outstanding.
Another waiter, a short, pot-bellied middle-aged man, was very friendly, attentive, and helpful. We asked some questions about the pub and the region, and he answered our queries. As we were so close to the centre of Bewdley, just 10 minutes on foot according to John’s estimate, we asked if we could leave the car in their car park for an hour and a half while we took one last walk around this charming town.
He said there would be no problem and not to worry, so we went ahead with it.
We walked down into Bewdley, marking the third time we have been together and my fourth since returning to England. The town was bustling with people and visitors. We strolled along the main High Street, popping into a few shops. Julie picked up a souvenir for her grandson, Ozzy, while I bought oven gloves for my mother, who needed them.
Then, coming from over the bridge, came a large convoy of motorbike riders, possibly from one or two clubs combined from the region. They turned right after the bridge into the side street that runs along the riverbank, where we parked the last time we were here.
These unexpected, unplanned events make our days different.
Exploring the marina and the side streets of Stourport. Visiting Stourport while having lunch in Bewdley. A spontaneous, quick drive to Bewdley that wasn’t planned at all. Doing a bit of shopping in Bewdley on a sunny Saturday afternoon, walking past parked motorbikes. Seeing the motorbikes and bikers brought back memories of Brazil, especially of ex-president Jair Bolsonaro, who would participate in motorbike convoys as part of his presidential campaign.
He once came into Copacabana riding a massive superbike along with literally thousands of motorbikes, probably from hundreds of clubs representing their clubs, families, and different regions of Brazil, including probably the Brazilian people in general.
We walked around the motorbikes, taking in the atmosphere created by so many different people together, then started our walk up the hill back to the car. Clearly, walking back and uphill at the end of a long day was more tiring, but within 15 to 20 minutes, we were back at the pub with the car still there, no extra scratches, and no slashed tyres, so everything was fine.
We set the GPS to go back to Wordsley, and we set off once more. I think we were all a bit wacked, but I believe the real problem was that we would have to go back to our own houses and not stay together.
Parting from each other was a little difficult; I think neither of us wanted the day to end separated.
In bed by 10:00 p.m.
Thank you.
Thanks for reading this blog post. Please explore my other posts and share your thoughts in the comments section.
Richard
