5 March, 2018
Heading East, I reached the concrete bridge going under Frank Perkins Parkway, one of a series of dual carriageways encircling the City. The road is named after a local early 20th Century industrialist who was big in diesel engines. The engravings on the bridge presumably some sort of reference to Perkins, are strangely reminiscent of Eastern Bloc brutalism. I was short on time, but the urge to pass 'through' made me abandon worry of such trivialities.
Beyond the bridge the environment changed immediately. Used car lots, MOT test centres, an industrial estate or two. Further up a dog track. A grease cafe, currently closed due to family illness. Hopefully a temporary phenomenon. A blacksmiths operating out of a bungalow. A mobile home park. I felt I'd been teleported to a place far further out of town than I actually was by passing under the concrete bridge, both physically and metaphorically.
Eventually I managed to loop back via Boongate, negotiating a busy slip road where a footpath had abruptly and inconveniently ended, then through a residential area which turned out to lead me to Star Road. I knew where I was then and made it back, only 10 minutes late.