Crooked House campaigners explain round-the-clock vigil at site of demolished icon
Nothing gets past Rob Brown without him checking it first.
For the past 12 days, the 57-year-old has provided a one-man, 24-hour security operation at the site where the Crooked House pub once stood.
"I'm making sure nobody takes anything away from here," he says with a grim determination. One day, Rob became suspicious when a van tried to leave the site, but it proved to be a false alarm.
"They had a look in the back of the van, and it was just a roll of cellophane," says the 59-year-old.
"We had to check, it might have been a valuable historic pot or something. They now know that I've got my beady eye on them, and that they won't get away with anything."
Rob, 57, has spent the past 12 days camped in his grey van in the narrow country lane leading up to where, until last month, the Crooked House stood.
"If I see anybody trying to take anything out, I will block the road with my van until the police arrive," he says.
The secluded, ramshackle and unlit access road had long been the pub's Achilles' heel, so one can only imagine how eerie it is after nightfall. Rob is unfazed, a bit of wildlife certainly isn't going to discourage him from holding his vigil.
"There's all sorts, there's the rats, bats and all sorts of animals," he says.
"The bats are amazing, there's loads of them, I just watch them," he says. "I've always been an outdoors person."
Rob says there is no chance of him leaving the site until the future of the historic pub is secured. On the afternoon of our visit there are half a dozen protesters, but they insist it gets a lot busier in the evening, with as many as 25 people turning up at some times.
Indeed, a mini-community seems to have developed. A Black Country flag has been draped over the safety barriers which seal off the site. A shelter has been built, patio chairs for the campaigners to sit on, and a wooden pallet forms a trestle table to store the food supplies.
