Stroud: The Town That Takes Your Breath Away – Literally
Visit the Cotswolds they said. It’s beautiful, they said. They forgot to mention the free trial of lung disease.
Now look, I’ve always thought the countryside was meant to be a sanctuary, all birdsong and fresh air, the odd slice of overpriced sourdough and the comforting possibility of bumping into a man named Nigel selling organic beetroot at the farmers market. That’s what I signed up for when I wandered along the canal in Stroud, expecting to spot kingfishers, otters or possibly a cheerful old bloke whittling something unnecessary out of oak.
What I got instead was a faceful of chemical warfare.
Honestly, if I’d wanted to marinate myself in carcinogenic vapour, I’d have chain-smoked Benson & Hedges inside a submarine. Because rising from a graffiti-covered building with a sign that reads WSP — which presumably stands for ‘We’re Slowly Poisoning’, is a scene straight out of a dystopian documentary narrated by David Attenborough; if he’d finally had enough... A pipe so large and sinister it looks like it was stolen from a Soviet-era power station. And it doesn’t gently exhale mist like some whimsical countryside sauna. Oh no. It pumps. Thick, choking grey smoke with all the subtlety of a bonfire made from old mattresses, asbestos and tyres nicked from Malvern tyres.
It smells like Satan’s armpit after he’s been tanning with creosote. When the wind isn’t blowing, which sod’s law is always when you’re nearby, the noxious soup hangs there in the air like a stomach-churning fart. You don’t so much breathe as chew.
And you know it’s bad when even the locals won’t hang around. People practically sprint past the thing, head down, eyes watering, emerging on the other side like chimney sweeps from 1883. I half expected someone to burst into a coughing fit and start singing “Step in Time” while hacking up a lung.
The pipe itself, which I’ve immortalised in my summer holiday photo album, filed between “fun with baked goods” and “possible chemical warfare”, is caked in a tar-like residue so thick it could be used to patch potholes on the M25. Black, waxy and utterly revolting, like someone’s been melting down discarded vape pens and spreading them on toast.
And the smell… oh good lord, the smell. It clings to your clothes like the memory of an ex you’d rather forget. By the time you’ve made it home, you stink like the perfume aisle at Home Bargains on a hot day. You could walk through a field of lavender, roll in it and still smell like a tyre fire wrapped in damp compost.
Now let me remind you… I’ve had cancer. The full menu. Chemotherapy, radiotherapy, bone marrow transplant, the lot. So I’m not particularly eager to breathe in what I can only describe as second-hand crematorium. I mean, this is a canal. You’re supposed to see ducks and the odd canoeist pretending they’re Bear Grylls. Not industrial smoke billowing out like Willy Wonka’s evil twin has moved in.
Surely someone should be dealing with this. The council? Health and Safety? The RSPCA? Or at the very least a bloke with a clipboard who looks concerned and mutters things like “This is highly irregular.” But no. Nothing. Meanwhile, the local tourism board continues to sell Stroud as the gateway to the Cotswolds, which is fair enough, if the Cotswolds you’re referring to are located inside a poorly maintained cremator.
There’s even a funeral home conveniently located by the train station. Handy really. You arrive. You breathe. You keel over. Job done.
So next time someone tells you to “Visit Stroud, it’s lovely,” maybe remember it’s also the only place where you can get a sunburn, smoked like a ham and have your lungs pickled when walking along the canal – all before lunch.
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Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
Bsky: @chrisgeiger.com
Bsky: @thecancersurvivorsclub.com
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