Shadow Line:~ Field Notes
Wolverhampton is not deficient in rewilded wastes. Those abandoned scraps of land where nature slowly reclaims its place, etching grey-greens and umbers over the ghosts of industry. Down a cobbled street we found one such hidden corner. Most pass by without knowing it’s there - the end of the road is just another dead end to be ignored.
Along one side, the railway embankment rises in sheer blue brick, braided with wires at the summit. Blue bricks are the stamp of the industrial Midlands. The red clay here is rich in iron, and when baked at high temperatures the bricks turn a blueish-black - a small kind of alchemy. They are not only darker, but harder and more enduring.
Opposite, the wasteland is scuffed roughly with the golden hues of moss and new-growth trees, lurking behind a crosshatch of wire. It is winter, but winter in its last throes. At the far end of the street, cut wire beckoned, and with a low shrug we pushed inside.
The moss formed an unnaturally flat blanket, hinting at the layers beneath. An abandoned industrial
building slept on the horizon, its colours blurred with the winter buddleia, weathered
green upon weathered green, but angular against the tangled branches. Further
in, through the tangle of undergrowth, a path had been cut by other explorers,
human and animal alike. It traced a line through stiff grass, leading gently downhill - the shape of former order now given over to quiet drift.
Following the path, we ambled down to where a large basin of open water had stolen trees, grasses, railings - all now half-submerged. Debris
drifted across the dark surface: bottles accumulating into fragile rafts, and
pale plastic forms - the ghosts of something once useful. The black water slipped
deep beneath two arches of the railway line, as though it emerged from some
hidden place within. Here, entropy had been set loose, softening edges and silting
over purpose. Even the sign, once declaring the dangers of entering the
tunnels, now hung half-submerged against a gaping, open gate, obsolete. All was
quiet, still, uncanny - as if all this, including ourselves, might remain
forgotten at this sunken threshold.
After we left, I scoured old maps. The darkness beneath the
arches held a deeper secret - a literal one. These had once been tunnels for
the Wolverhampton section of the low-level railway, owned by Great Western.
Trains would rumble into the shadows here and re-emerge in the overworld some
350 metres southeast, at Lower Horseley Fields, before continuing on to
Birmingham’s Moor Street and Snow Hill, and finally to London Paddington. The
mossy flats that we’d crossed at the threshold were the remnants of the old
railway routes. Where the tracks had once lain, nature had now placed its patient
claim.
I later returned alone. I wondered how far the water
stretched along the tunnels, so I followed their route overground to Horseley
Fields. Familiar blue brick gleamed faintly in the distance and showed the way
to the railway embankments. Within the crevice formed by their slopes, another
pool waited, stretching away from the street and darkening into blackness
beneath another two arches.
The whole route of the underground tunnels must be flooded,
forming a canal - a shadow line beneath the city. Silent, still, dark water,
stalking the daylight. An accidental canal, lost between worlds. Above it, the
world carries on: streets end abruptly, fences quietly yield, and hardy blue
bricks glint in the weak sun - unnoticed.
All text and photography copyright Jen Dixon 2025.
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| 1919 map of the tunnel (dotted lines - centre). |
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| Map of the Bushbury & Wolverhampton Railway Junction, 1903 and 1914. |