I lived on the Vale for a couple of years in the mid ‘80s when I was in my teens, having moved there from Kings Heath though not by choice. Not wishing to offend those who have fond memories of the place, and I’m sure many people have, but I wasn’t a fan. I’d never heard of it before and when I told someone I was moving there they replied, “Castle Vale…don’t you mean Hassle Vale?” To be fair I never got to know anyone there as I continued my social life on the other side of town but a few memories stick in my mind. It was an ugly place, flat as a billiard table with high density housing overlooked by grey, monolithic tower blocks, all sandwiched between the M6 motorway, an industrial estate and a sewage treatment works that, with the wind in the wrong direction, made the place stink to high hell. It seemed every pub on the estate had a “reputation” but I never drank in any of them so I couldn’t say if it was deserved or not. Within days of moving there I’d encountered one episode of “Do you know who I am” from a couple of young gentlemen when I dared to use the same bus stop as them, and a week or so later while waiting at the same shelter one evening I was surprised to see a chap come flying out of the Artful Dodger like Alan Wells pursued by another bloke who appeared to be carrying a bayonet or a bright steel bar, quickly followed by a the rest of the pub screaming for blood. I turned tail and disappeared up an alleyway. Honestly, I felt like I’d moved to the set of “A Clockwork Orange.” The day we moved away our house was broken into while we were ferrying stuff to our new home. As I said before, I’m sure there were a lot of good people there who loved the place (and still do) but I never missed it when I left.
