On the approach from Moor Street Station, the traveler sinks down beneath the rat race into the rabbit warren of subterranean passages. The echo of the singing accent of market stall traders fills the concrete chambers, whilst bright colours dance on the wall as people move to and from at the end of the tunnel. At a crossroads the natural land form leads into a forgotten plaza where one could get a haircut from someone situated in a hexagonal booth. You could buy newspapers and cigarettes from another, beneath the grime and shadows is the shell of the former Chinese supermarket, great quality cast iron woks for three pounds. Dormant rock music stored on vinyl discs used to be procured from beneath the vacant multi-storey car park. From this point directly opposite, over the concrete wall and railings and four lanes of traffic at the end of Digbeth High Street, is the totally black façade of St Martin’s church. Nestling between strangled trees.
The aroma of over ripe melon and bananas fills the air as you emerge from the North end of the Bull Ring Subway into the interface between small shops selling cheap goods and the fruit market. The familiar banter of the market traders, the rotting vegetables on the floor, as you stop to get your bearings, the whack in the leg from some old lady’s shopping basket distracts your train of thought as you look for Nelson. The statue of Admiral Nelson stands in a strangely concealed and at the same time prominent position, from the fruit market you need to work your way through the rabble past the aromas of mature cheddar from the region, to the flight of steps that doubles back on itself, at this point Nelson is completely invisible. Up the steps, treads coated with blackened chewing gum and pigeon droppings, passing by chipped paintwork of the steel box section handrail. Along the ‘promenade’ heading back in the direction of Moor Street Station, although disconnected from it by the traffic intersection, the air heavy with the smell of salt and vinegar on fish and chips, to be led to Nelson who stands in a kind of plaza, surrounded by people eating their lunch whilst sitting on park benches overlooking the 'harbour' where the market stalls become the boats and the heads of people the sea.
As Nelson observes the scene from a respectful distance, the route from the plaza takes you past trees and shrubs trying to hide the noise of constant traffic, curving down past the boarded up public conveniences, a rat scurries across your path and disappears into the cover of shrubs, and it is back at the subterranean crossroads. Turning right into the tunnel once again, following the path straight ahead the route passing the market stalls on the right, shear wall on the left, market traders’ clothes racks dominate the scene, at the bottom of the ramp that rises back up to the stairs and fish and chip shops, continuing onwards beneath the shopping centre building and into the narrow gully of Bell Street Footpath. Walking past the crumbling brick and concrete façade of the centre, blackened windows obscure the view of the indoor market behind, the image of the former market hall is set into the finish of the concrete wall opposite in a type of tactile mural, the wall holding up the traffic, overhead ramps span the gully to link the cap park to the ‘Ringway’. Along the gully brightly coloured paintwork heralds the entrance to the ‘new’ market hall where you can buy fresh fish or poultry but you need to climb down from the street to get to it. At the end of the gully a subway to the right takes you into Manzoni Gardens which we will come back to later, the gully curves round to the left rising gently to the grand entrance to the Grand Parade, the entrance faces the back of the Odeon Cinema and constant clouds of diesel exhaust that issues from new street station in the pit below.
The grand entrance sits on a deserted plaza as though addressing an event that has yet to happen. To the left a supermarket, to the right a night club. Above the entrance sits a dull green office block with the legend ‘FUJI FILM’ in six foot high letters running along the full length of the facade on the top level. Into the entrance, tatty old worn grey and green lino, chipped and peeling paintwork, an undersized and under-lit foyer with a sign that informs you that the management reserves the right to refuse admission. Dark timber varnished doors invite you into…the car park, dark, dark place air heavy with exhaust fumes, forming the heart of this city within a city. From the so-called foyer, crowd control stairs double back on themselves to lead the unsuspecting visitor on the bridge link between the Bull Ring centre and the department store building complete with banqueting suites on the top floor. Taking the route along the one sided bridge, when you can avoid being bumped into by bargain hunters. The left taken up with shops, the right dominated by heavy concrete columns. The view over the pit seems to demonstrate that the plaza was originally intended to span across to the station buildings to form a central public square. At the edge the trees of Manzoni Gardens make a brave attempt at shielding its predominantly inebriated inhabitants from the constant dizzy whirl of traffic.In between the traffic flows a central reservation with a giant north point, rumour has it that that was where it was on the drawing, and the ground workers just built it.
The route flows through to the Pallasades shopping centre, slightly cleaner, upmarket shops pink neon and considerably more browsing space. Escalators form the way down into the main entrance of New Street Station, an undersized concourse where people wait to meet others arriving from far away places, at the same time, others send their friends, family, loved ones away to far off places. That is if they can avoid being bumped into by people getting on and off trains. The whole melting pot of activity takes place in the airborne aroma of burgers and hot cookies. From within the pit that accommodates New Street Station part of the Bull Ring Centre remains visible. The rotunda, (formerly known as the Coca Cola building). The dull green clad office block (Fuji Film building) that stands above the main shopping centre. Trains can be seen passing beneath the subterranean streets that in turn pass beneath the traffic of St Martin’s Circus. At the opposite end of the station, a similar pit like arrangement is spanned by a very tired and weathered looking, ‘white’ steel and supposedly translucent paneled bridge link that forms the Navigation Street Entrance. Around the edge of the concrete walled pit, Birmingham’s entertainment quarter butts up against a solid barrier that defines New street Station and the Bull Ring Centre across a one sided street. The whole complex consists of things uncomfortably placed on top of other things: Car park on top of Shopping Centre atop Railway station. Apartment Block on top of Parcel depot, Shopping Centre atop Bus Station. Ring Road over Bus Station. The stench of Diesel exhaust dominates the gloom as buses move through regimented channels and the passengers move between the buses if they can. Concrete columns coated in grime obscure any real way of moving about comfortably whilst the only signs inform you that loitering is not permitted, A bit of a problem if you are waiting for a bus. A set of double doors lead through to the food hall and fish market, Fish and Diesel, what a combination!
The indoor bus station exits onto Edgbaston Street and the unofficial outdoor bus station, where more buses pass by than use the official one, making a moving barrier outside the rag market. Further along Edgbaston street is the Flea Market, across the road from St Martin’s Church. From this vantage the rotunda sits uncomfortably on the top of the hill. Walking beneath the trees, over cracked paving slabs, past broken park benches to the main external space provided by the Bull Ring Centre. A female street preacher with megaphone and sandals rants on a great speed whilst the market population continue about their business.
A spiral ramp leads somewhat awkwardly up to a deserted plaza with a manufactured Irish pub. Nelson looks out from across the sea of heads, in between being completely obscured by passing buses. The spire of St Martin’s casts a distorted reflection on a shear glass wall to mark the entrance into the main shopping level. Through the double doors is a narrow corridor, the central space shyly presents itself, Flagstone flooring, the now familiar gray lino and light green paneling. Escalators drag you sluggishly skywards through a green void, the solid wall being formed by the back of the car park, to another shopping maze. Round a corner, up a ramp, and the solid wall of shops gives way to glazing, forming a bridge over St Martin’s Circus, not much of a circus, more of a traffic island really. Over the pedestrian gully of Bell Street Footpath, Manzoni Gardens with its rows regimented of park benches with very few people. The journey through the centre ends with another escalator ride, past a sign that says ‘Thank you for shopping at The Bull Ring’ past flower sellers in the lobby, to another subterrianean crossroads, this one somewhere beneath the Rotunda. To the left Manzoni Gardens, to the right the fish and chip shops and the path to the statue of Nelson, Straight ahead, through the glow, painted murals adorn the subway walls, illustrating the Bull Ring past and present, all giving a pleasant view of life, which in this case are far removed from the experience.
