Birmingham is essentially made up of (1) the city centre, (2) the inner city ring and (3) the suburbs. The suburban district of Sheldon lies five miles to the east of central Birmingham. The family homestead of 68 years sits on the main Coventry Road, a spur road that carries the town-bound traffic at speed 24 hours a day. The sound of the traffic is in no way intrusive and it was the background hum to my childhood nights.

My mother, 94 now and slower, lives on her own there now perfectly happy and has never had any intention of moving elsewhere. She has the ‘near’ shops and the ‘far’ shops within walking distance and these framed her children’s daily lives growing up in the 50s, 60s and 70s. Those shops have changed identity and ownership again and again down the years but they still remain.

Sheldon is adjacent to the more ‘desirable’ district of Solihull where properties leap in value with the change in postcode. That first drizzly afternoon I set off on foot in that direction, tracing footpaths which were once familiar. Lyndon Playing Fields which was where we used to kick a ball around as kids and wander in and out of the ‘dells’, a couple of old clay pits long disused and reclaimed by nature. During the winter months there were a dozen or so football pitches laid out and the Sunday morning teams would play their matches there. Now it is a green, open space, all infrastructure long gone.

On past the Lyndon pub and into the increasingly affluent Olton and Solihull, quiet and featureless, like much of English suburbia. That’s the way those fortunate enough to own property there like it. Nice detached houses down leafy roads and lanes, each with its own set of vehicles so little need for crowded public transport. At length I come to Robin Hood cemetery. Here in 1966, at age 13, I attended my first funeral, the wife of my school sports teacher. Then I found, at the first try, the graves of my dad and my two younger twin brothers Colin and Kieran.

From there a long, clockwise loop back through Hall Green and Acocks Green. These old Brum villages live on, their shops now largely owned by the ethnic communities I discussed a couple of posts back. Far fewer pubs these days, times have changed and so have social habits. One of the pubs which has disappeared is the Swan at Yardley, again on the main Birmingham-Coventry-London turnpike. A landmark since 1605 it was demolished in the 1990s, an unforgivable act by those with no interest in heritage. Still, the Swan lives on as a district in its own right to many old Brummies.

Down the last familiar couple of miles to Sheldon and – hurray – the ugly and heartless Harry Ramsden’s which replaced the old Good Companions pub has itself been replaced by a bar and grill. And that evening, Mum and I toddled down to the long-time family local, the Three Horse Shoes. The original fine building long since replaced by a nondescript affair with no craft beer, it is nevertheless an oasis in something of a beer desert.

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Off early doors next morning to check out the area north of the Coventry Road. Greater Birmingham generally is blessed with many parks and other green areas and these days Sheldon Country Park graces this part of the city. Following the course of Westley Brook, in my day this was a ragged area of wildness where us kids hung out. Today it is nicely managed and one can stroll along for a few miles as far as Marston Green. Still raining though as I walked past my old primary school, St Thomas More and on towards the viewing area at the end of the airport runway where I make a left turn and out onto The Radleys, Church Road and through the churchyard of St Giles which marks the old centre of Sheldon, the present building dating back to the 14c. And there’s a little tea room nearby where I take my coffee and cake and sit in the little garden area as the drizzle eases. Who knows, this may be the last time.

Finally, a walk to the ‘far’ shops. The old British Legion club is boarded up, the Italian restaurant which was there forever is now a little hotel. The Wheatsheaf, an old coaching inn survives (hurrah) and for my last coffee I choose the Sheldon Café over the brash Costa next door.

Who knows if and when I’ll be back but Sheldon will live on, evolving in its own slow way.

You will typically arrive at New Street Station, itself redesigned and rebuilt several times down the years. These days you’ll be decanted from your train onto a vast concourse featuring Ozzy the Bull. This mechanical beast was the symbol of the 2022 Commonwealth Games held in the city. It was due to be scrapped but, by popular acclaim, was saved and now sits glowering on the station concourse.

A word for English railway stations in general. They are generally accessible, welcoming and with arrival/departure times clearly available and updated in real time. The same goes for the West Midlands bus services. It is a far cry from the day where it was in the lap of the gods where your train/bus was and when it would arrive/depart. It’s beyond this that, out on the rail/road itself, that you might incur issues.

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They say that Birmingham is grim and ugly. At first glance it is hard to defend against this accusation. The old Victorian city has largely been demolished, grand buildings gone, functional edifices in their place. Old roads extinguished or re-routed. The historic Bull Ring is no longer to be seen at all after a series of redesigns. As I took my first walk through the city, roads were closed, construction sites abounded. The city is walkable but, by heck, it’s not a pleasurable experience. Nothing seems to conform to a coherent whole except in the heads of deranged city planners. This is the latest abomination, the 49-storey Octagon Tower. Who the hell thought that this was a good idea?

It makes Jersey’s planners look like visionaries.

The shops and precincts are fine I guess. Bold and brash is the overall feeling, fitting into the 21st century demographic of the city. I was able to easily buy the two essential items I’d forgotten to pack – toothbrush and comb. My one-night hotel was a part of a city centre Wetherspoon’s, both comfortable and affordable. Eateries abound and you’ll find plenty to fit your budget and taste buds.

And the pubs, to me an essential part of any night out. Happily and surprisingly, many solid, old-fashioned boozers remain, with most of them selling well-kept Real Ale. In the 1970s I used to head after work to the Old Royal in Church Street. I popped in (it’s now simply the Royal) and it’s hardly changed. Wandering down by the canal, the Prince of Wales has miraculously evaded the bulldozer as redevelopment rages all around.

On my single evening in the city I took a nostalgic trip along Bradford Street, a remnant of Birmingham’s industrial heritage. Still going strong and selling great beer are the Spotted Dog, White Swan and Anchor. I wonder if they’ll still be standing in a few years time.

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Actual visitor attractions are far and few between. I headed for the Jewellery Quarter, an old corner of Birmingham once home to small workshops and factories producing precious items to sell on to wholesalers. Sadly this is now no more than rows of shops offering stuff directly to the public. It’s a tawdry look. I was more interested in the much-signposted Museum of the Jewellery Quarter. When I got there I found that it was closed, probably permanently. It summed up my visit.

Returning to the city centre I made a beeline for an old haunt, the Museum and Art Gallery, always free and tolerant of well-behaved schoolboys. It was closed for renovation. Not a good look.

The very best thing you can do in Birmingham, dear visitor, is head for the canals. Here is where you’ll find the heart of old Birmingham and its industrial past. Miles and miles of well-maintained canals which offer peace after the mayhem of the city. And here is the gem not to be found in the Jewellery Quarter – it’s called the Roundhouse.

Here is a homage to old Birmingham and specifically to the two sets of workers who were based here, the lamp-lighters and the night-soil men. Beautifully researched and presented by passionate volunteers and also offering a lovely café with a slice of pizza to go with your coffee.

So there’s my impression of Birmingham city centre in a nutshell. I’ll move on to the ‘burbs shortly.

I recently spent a short time in my home city of Birmingham. (The old colloquial name for Birmingham is Brummagem, or Brum.) I left to live in Jersey in 1977 and last visited the city eight years ago. I racked up nearly 90,000 steps in a full day and two half days in the city. I thought I’d jot down a few thoughts arising during my short stay.

Immigration is a hot topic these days, but it is not new. It is very evident today how multi-cultural the city has become compared to the old days. And that I account a very good thing, but let’s go back to look at the history of new immigrants, especially with regard to Birmingham. The very first immigrants were Irish. They came over in numbers in the second half of the 19c to find work on the roads, railways, canals and in the factories born of the Industrial Revolution. They formed their own communities and there was much animosity between the Irish gangs and their native Brummie rivals. Those were rough times and many were the pubs wrecked and the police needed to be fond of a scrap and breaking a few heads.

In the early 1950s came the Windrush generation from the West Indies. Then the Indian and Pakistan folk started to arrive, bringing a huge work ethic with them. The local shop owners were agog to find the newcomers opening shops and selling goods cheaper, remaining open when all others had shut.

Those were the days where those with rooms to let would hang signs outside – No Blacks, Dogs or Irish. Accordingly, enterprising new immigrants would buy properties and let them to their own country folk.

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And today, as I arrived in Brum for my short visit, little more than 50% of Brummies are White. 31% are Asian. 10% are Black. And my impression is that this mix, including many young, intelligent and vivacious people, have added a definite sense of liveliness to what was once a bit of a gloomy place. Everyone rubs together quite happily and any undercurrents of tension or violence are well hidden, if they exist at all.

The Asians in particular are hard-working and determined to succeed. Retail businesses in the inner city and out into the suburbs will usually be owned by Asians. They are also very family-aware and those a little better off will try to support others, maybe newcomers, to find their feet. The Uber driver I hired was a chap from Pakistan, for example. The married women often wear traditional clothing and can be reserved, though the younger ones are as lively as any White girl. Getting on a bus with my 94-year-old mother, a lady with full-face covering immediately got up and offered her seat.

Not only in Brum of course, but all over, various old buildings have been repurposed as mosques or other religious centres. I, with others, might remember when these places were pubs or Bingo halls, our version of the ‘good old days’. But if these places were so good they’d have stood their ground and be trading still. Most everywhere we remember older times through lenses which filter out the negative aspects and leave only some false idyll. This lives on amongst the cranky few who can’t let go of the past – there are thinly-disguised racial comments on certain social media groups but those people will never be happy under any circumstances.

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Inevitably our ethnic communities have enlivened the cultural face of the city, bringing their own talents and outlook to bear, hand in hand with their White contemporaries. Birmingham has always contributed hugely to the performing arts and our new, young population has only enhanced this. Anybody who watched the closing ceremony of the 2022 Commonwealth Games held in Birmingham will never forget the multi-cultural theatre and performances which showcased the city. Dexys Midnight Runners and UB40, Musical Youth, Beverley Night, Goldie, all topped off by the Brummie-born Black Sabbath.

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But two puzzles remain for me. The first being, where are the West Indian community? I remember them in great numbers, raucous and fun, supporting the West Indies cricket team at Edgbaston, a riot of noise and colour. They are around but less in evidence these days.

Secondly, after so many years of integration, the Black and Asian community have – with exceptions of course – not forged any identity with our local professional football teams Birmingham City and Aston Villa. My Pakistani Uber driver knew little and cared less about Birmingham City as we drove past St Andrew’s, yet for us older Brummies these grounds are like shrines.

So finally, for those readers who may not be familiar with the Birmingham accent, or indeed English football, I give you Jasper Carrott with a football sketch.

It had been eight years since I had ventured off this 9 x 5-mile rock. For many years I’ve been perfectly happy to travel vicariously via blogs and documentaries, happy that I don’t actually have to move from my armchair and go to whatever fascinating place is depicted.

An hour ago I gratefully fell into that same armchair after a four-day trip to Birmingham, England – the city I grew up in – to see my aged mother. I’ll be writing about Birmingham in a separate post but what follows are, in a nutshell, the reasons why I’m never leaving my armchair again.

So first of all, I’m a scaredy-cat flyer. I pulled out of a recent booked flight to Birmingham, I just didn’t go. Instead, seeing a four-day gap in my diary I grasped the nettle and booked ferry and train tickets. This is how it went.

• Ferry Jersey to Portsmouth. This is an overnight slow boat, arriving in Portsmouth about 7am. This was actually quite a good start. I’d booked a recliner in a lounge away from the great unwashed (though in truth there were few travellers that night of either the washed or unwashed variety). The sea was flat and, after a couple of beers at the bar, I settled down, read a book and caught a couple of hours sleep as we sedately proceeded across the English Channel through the night.
• Train Portsmouth to Birmingham. There is supposedly a train station at Portsmouth Harbour. This is where my troubles began. Wandering like a lost sheep and enquiring of three separate citizens that early morning, I eventually stumbled upon a station in the city centre a mile or so inland from the harbour. The saving grace was that my train called here en route from the mystery harbour station. Safely aboard and I was deposited at Winchester to change trains for the run up to Birmingham. A packed service but on time and I arrived in Brum.
• Birmingham city centre to Sheldon (Mum’s house). Back in my day there were black cabs lined up in their dozens outside New Street Station. These days it has all changed and things called Ubers dominate. I tracked one down near to my hotel and poked my head in. The driver was from Pakistan and after much debate and misunderstanding I finally got my ride – £25 and tip, payable in advance.
• Birmingham International to Poole. The return journey. Birmingham International Station is the one after New Street Station and it was already packed on arrival. Standing room only. Two passengers with pre-booked bikes took an age to fit them into the ludicrously designed bike rack and we set off six minutes late like sheep going to the slaughterhouse. Long story short, I stood all the way to Basingstoke with many others. People, buggies, more bikes squeezed on though (thank the Lord) some got off as well. There is so much wrong with the way Cross Country Trains run their business it’s untrue. So many easily controlled issues causing mayhem. It’s only the innate politeness and goodwill of the people on that train, and the hopelessly under resourced staff, which make it work after a fashion. The second leg, Basingstoke to Poole, was perfect by comparison.
• Poole to Jersey. Uh-oh. A message to say that departure time from Poole Harbour had been changed due to ‘adverse weather conditions’. Sure enough, it was blowing a gale as a more-or-less full boat pootled out of the bay into the Channel. The captain had said there would be some ‘movement’ – he wasn’t kidding. For two hours we were tossed around like a cork, highly uncomfortable, it must have been close to the boat’s operating limits. At least everyone had seats, mine a reserved recliner in a slightly more comfortable though full lounge. I heard that cars had been damaged down on the car deck. The Condor staff were heroes, working to keep everyone safe and as comfortable as possible. The storm abated somewhat after a couple of dreadful hours and became just ordinary rough. Finally into the sheltered waters of St Helier Harbour and home.

So keep up the travel blogging and making of documentaries, no more will I roam. I’m just not made for it.