Triangulation

All over the country, there are railway ghosts.  Lines that have been abandoned.  Stations that were closed.  Goods yards declared surplus to requirements.  You can trace their shapes on maps: big supermarkets right next to railway lines, or the tracks suddenly splitting wide apart to accommodate long demolished platforms.  Sometimes you can see a long vein of green that runs round the backs of houses for mile after mile.  It looks like some particularly forward thinking planners laid out a pedestrian route a hundred years ago, but it's actually the trackbed of a railway that was Beechinged.

The Liverpool Loop Line - or to use its older, more formal name, the North Liverpool Extension Line - was a railway that ran from Halewood to Aintree, skirting the city's eastern suburbs.  It took revellers to the races, freight to the docks, day trippers to the coast.  It's all gone now, turned into National Cycle Route number 62, part of the Trans-Pennine Trail, and a ghostly thread through the past.

I'd long wanted to walk the Loop and trace this piece of railway history but, to be honest, cowardice got in the way.  The line passes through some of the less desirable areas of the city, and the idea of being on an isolated, out of the way track, vulnerable and alone, put me off.  Fortunately, for this trip, I had backup.  It was only Ian and Robert, so it was less the Krays and more the Three Stooges, but there's safety in numbers.

We got off the train at Broad Green and crossed under the M62.  The flyover sweeps over the whole area, a grand concrete arc that refuses to bow down before the little houses below.  Its confidence is admirable, and it's sad that it almost immediately crashes into the mess of the Rocket junction, brought low by a lack of funds and ambition.  Cross the road by the Turnpike pub and you can find the slopes down to the former railway line.

It might be "just" a cycle route now, but there's no denying that heritage.  It's clearly a railway route, with that fantastic Victorian bridgework contrasted with their more prosaic 20th century cousin.   We followed the path down to the track level and we were soon on a cool silent pathway.

There was a secondary motive for our little journey.  Ian used to live and work in Childwall, before he headed off to the Big Smoke, and so this walk was something of a nostalgia trip for him.  I was intrigued to visit parts of the city I'd never been near before.  Generally speaking, if it's not on the Merseyrail map, I've never been there; famous chunks of the city like Old Swan and Knotty Ash are complete mysteries to me.

The old railway bridges are still intact throughout the walk; it's what makes it such a good route for cyclists, because it's miles of entirely segregated pathway.  We were frequently interrupted by the tring of a bell as another lycra-clad bicycler came up behind us.  One pair even had cameras mounted on their helmets; it's the Liverpool Loop Line, folks, not stage five of the Tour de France.  All you'll get out of that is a very dull YouTube video.

After a mile or so we peeled off the route to head into Childwall.  We were actually passing over the site of the former Childwall station, which closed in the early 1930s.  The railway company built the station to service the village, but it was a little too far for easy commutes, and when the tramways started providing competition they gave up and closed the station.

There's no sign of the old station; it was demolished not long after it closed.  There's a Sustrans information post, on which someone's graffiti'd Stab the BNP (combined with the Fuck UKIP at Broad Green, it made you sort of proud of the politicised vandals), but there's no info on the old station.  Across the road are cottages built for the railway workers, but they could be semis anywhere in Liverpool.

Before he became one of the London elite, Ian worked for Liverpool's most glamorous company: Mersey Television.  Ok, he was a website writer, not Chief Boob Wrangler to the many glossy haired starlets, but it's still a frisson of showbiz that Robert and I could only aspire to.  As he lead us through the village, he pointed out its many links to Hollyoaks - the parish church frequently pressed into service for weddings and funerals, the sandstone pub that doubled for Chester's boozers.  Childwall (pronounced "chilled-wall", not like a small human, in another of those damnable Scouse affectations designed to alienate outsiders) was a charming little place, green and pleasing.

Of course, the true hub of the Hollyoaks industry is the Lime Pictures complex (formerly a teacher training college).  It was easy to spot the entrance thanks to the dozen girls hanging around outside the entrance hoping for autographs.  I don't watch Hollyoaks, never have; my only exposure to it is when I change channels and catch another blonde girl arguing with a gay-faced teen about something.  I know Stephanie from Over the Rainbow is in it now, plus Gillian Taylforth and Candace from Coronation Street, and I assume that brother of the boy from 2 Point 4 Children is still in it because he is Chester's Ken Barlow.  Ian still filled us in on the behind the scenes scandale, with tales of production team changes and writing crises.  We craned our necks to see if we could spot any of the set (better known to me as Brookside Parade, because I am an old fart), but the site is surrounded by thick woodland.  Finally we bought a bottle of water each and headed back to the Loop Line, pausing only by Ian's old flat so he could criticise the new owner's taste in wallpaper.

Soon we were heading south again on the path.  Excited children on half term squealed and squeaked around their parents; women walked their dogs with the lead in one hand and their mobile in the other.  The thick trees formed a cooling canopy over our head, gently rustling in the low May wind.  We were isolated from the city around us.

Of course, that's part of the reason why the Loop Line closed in the first place: it doesn't really go anywhere.  Linking up the suburbs in a chain might work somewhere like London, where the outer boroughs are townships all of their own, but Liverpool is centred around its river.  A railway line that doesn't go anywhere near the city centre, just through a series of leafy suburbs, was going to have problems getting passengers.

The city recognised this when it was building what's now the Northern Line from Garston to Southport in the 1970s.  The original proposal was that the Loop Line would simply link into it, making a massive circle line around the city, until analysis showed that people wouldn't really use it.  The second idea was to make two loops, one in the south of the city and one in the north, which would have connected onto the main line into Lime Street.  There was going to be a massive, six platform underground station at Broad Green which would have enabled you to connect with trains going to all points of the compass.

Ambition is one thing; reality is another.  The Link and Loop works in the city centre went over budget, while the UK went into financial meltdown.  British Rail put the whole scheme into cold storage, which is a polite way of saying "the bin".

By now we'd reached Gateacre (pronounced "gattaca", because obviously), which used to have its own railway station.  In fact, it had a station right up until 1972.  It lost it in a broken promise that I'm sure the residents are still bitter about.

The Big Idea in the late Sixties was to send all Liverpool's long distance services into Lime Street, while the local service - the Northern Line, as it would become - would travel under the city centre through underground stations.  Problem was, the people of Gateacre had an existing railway service into Liverpool Central, which British Rail planned on demolishing.  For a while they had a shuttle going back and forth, but finally BR closed the line and promised they'd get their station back when the electrified Merseyrail services opened in 1977.

Since that's the former station site, you may have deduced that Gateacre never reopened.  Budget squeezes meant that the electric lines were only opened as far as Garston; a bit more money was found to extend it to Hunts Cross for interchange with the Manchester line, but after that, nothing.  In what can only be described as a mean-spirited act, British Rail whipped up the tracks and built a transformer over the tracks at Hunts Cross, effectively a big yah-boo-sucks to Gateacre.

It's a shame, for a number of reasons.  Hunts Cross is a rubbish place for a terminus; the line through there is far too busy, and it's close enough to Liverpool South Parkway for people to start suggesting that maybe it should be taken off the Northern Line altogether.  If the tracks continued on to Gateacre, it wouldn't be such a problem.

Plus, Gateacre is lovely, and it would be nice if it were linked into the rest of Merseyrail.  It'd be commuter heaven.  Instead, everyone's forced to drive to work, or take a bus, and we all know that buses are rubbish compared with trains.

We wandered into the village's centre, past Moran's (the oldest music shop in Liverpool) and over to the Black Bull pub for lunch.  We took a seat in what looked like an empty space near the front of the pub, but soon revealed itself to be the family room; not too much bother, really until we got onto Scottish politics and I called Alex Salmond a "c**t" three feet away from a toddler.  I'm not built for family areas.

After a quick trip to the loo, I returned with accusations; which one of Ian and Robert had corrected the sign in the gents, crossing out the unnecessary apostrophes?

They both denied responsibility, but we collectively agreed that whoever did it was a wonderful human being and we should buy them a pint.

Full of sandwiches and beer (except Ian, who remains bafflingly teetotal), we headed back to the line for the last stretch.  There was an information point on the south side of the road, which we hoped would have a lot of stuff about the railway, but was very much cycling-centred.  It's a shame they gloss over the line's history this way; it's so glaringly obvious why the route is there, they should celebrate it.

We trekked back up to the main route.  Ian turned to me and said, "Does it not bother you that we've missed out walking over a section of the track?"

I paused.  "Well, it does now."

I HAVE OCD, ALRIGHT.  Much to Robert and Ian's bemusement/annoyance, I insisted that we backed up a little, so that I could cross the railway bridge and walk over the twenty yards or so of the path that we hadn't passed over.  I blame Ian.  If I hadn't realised there was that little section, uncrossed, I would have been quite happy to carry on.

Having indulged my mental illness, we headed south again.  An abandoned tin of Asda "Smart Price" lager seemed to act as a marker that we were heading into less salubrious surroundings.  The path was the same, with the greenery all around us, but the people changed.  They were noiser and harder.  The jogging women had thin, gaunt faces and bodies, and they wore unbranded track suits instead of the head to toe Nike we'd seen earlier.  At one exit, a man was slumped against the bollards; something had put him out of it, and I'm guessing it wasn't joy at the onset of summer.  Three teenagers appeared and nudged him into consciousness via shouting and prodding with the toes of their trainers.  A gang of lads, spread across the path in a single line, walked a straining, sinewy dog.

It was still pretty, it was still charming, it was just a tiny nudging up of tensions, a hint of threat that hadn't been there before.

There were no bins along the path - a real oversight if you ask me - and so the bushes became the place to put your litter.  Dog turds were left out on the tarmac too.  It was a shame, especially when now and then you'd get a break in the trees and you could take in a long view over the Cheshire Plain to Fiddler's Ferry.

We'd left Liverpool now, and entered Knowsley.  A cast-iron sign welcomed us to the "Halewood Park Triangle", which sounded wrong to me; shouldn't it be the Halewood Triangle Park?  This was the point where the railway line used to split in two directions to form a wide junction with the Manchester line.  When the track was lifted, they turned the whole area into a country park, with a lake, playground and sculptures.  It's a pleasant place to wander, though I'm not convinced by some of the artworks.

That's just an exploded lamp post.

The path split, and we headed west, with the aim of reaching Hunts Cross for the train back into town.  I was sweating profusely - the afternoon had turned out to be unexpectedly warm - and the tree pollen had got into my throat and made my voice croak.  These sound like complaints, but really, I was absolutely content; I was with my friends in a railway based adventure, and we had a nice meal booked for later that day.  It was about as good as it could get.

The green bridge carried us over the railway line and onto Higher Road.  After the gentle noises of the country park, the A562 seemed overpoweringly loud, a cacophony of traffic and noise.  I insisted that we pause for a selfie outside the park sign, then immediately hated myself for using that word: I was doing up the nose shots on my phone long before Kim Kardashian and Ellen at the Oscars.

We trekked along towards Hunts Cross, pausing only at the pedestrian crossing so I could embarrass myself again by discussing female ejaculation just as a nice middle aged lady turned up next to us (it's a long story).  There was a nice surprise when we reached the station; it was one of those cheapskate brick ones last time I visited, just a kiosk for the stationmaster to sit in.  It's had a bit of a makeover, and now there's a proper ticket hall.

It's a vast improvement, with a nice covered area and wooden ticket windows.  Good work, Merseyrail.

It seemed appropriate that after a day of travelling over Liverpool's dead railways we should end up at a very active one, a station that seemed to have a new life in fact.  The platform was full of people travelling back towards town.  I wish the line carried on, and we'd got that massive Broad Green interchange, but at the same time I'm happy with what we've got.  Merseyrail's great.  We're lucky to have it.

Hinge and Racket

It wasn't even as though we were talking loudly. We were sat at a table on the train with an elderly man across the aisle, and I turned to Robert and said, "So. Did ******* shag that 18 year old, or what?"

The man's response? He got up and moved to a seat down the other end of the carriage.

How rude!

What was worse, Robert didn't even know if our mutual acquaintance did shag the 18 year old or not. I will have to put in some more research.

We were on a train headed for the badlands: Greater Manchester. Robert had a week off work, so we decided to slip in a quick tart. Roy was meant to have joined us, but a better offer meant he had to drop out, so just the two of us were on our way to Bryn.

Somehow I'd managed to miss Bryn out. I'd done the line as far as Garswood in the days when I was trying to stick to Merseyside only (such a long time ago...) and I did the two Wigan stations in one swift go. Bryn had therefore lingered: a single isolated blip that needed to be caught on its own. It seemed like a nice simple target for the day.

What can I say about Bryn station? It's not very interesting, mainly. It's a "bus stop" station - no ticket office, no staff. Not even a building. Just a couple of platforms and shelters. I wasn't expecting St Pancras International, but the lack of any kind of facility was disappointing. Nice big sign though.

So that was that: station captured. Theoretically we could have just got on the next train back, but where's the fun in that?

Besides, I'd put in some preparation. My own research into Bryn had thrown up only one pertinent sight - the Three Sisters Recreation Area, so called because it was planted on top of three enormous slag heaps. I don't want to go into the psychological make-up of a person who thought "slag = sisters". It didn't seem too promising, so I contacted Phil, one of the blog's loyal unto death readers, who is originally from Haydock. "Phil," I asked. "Whither Bryn?

"It's an interesting little place," replied Phil, and who am I to argue? Certainly, it had a Bargain Booze PLUS, which sounds impressive. There were some little shops and a road crossing and terraced houses with enormous tellies in the windows - some of the residents must never see daylight - and it all seemed nice enough. However, Phil advised, "You can pass an hour or two in Ashton-in-Makerfield town centre," so that seemed like a better bet. My own research - i.e. Wikipedia - also informed me that:

The place has long been a centre for the manufacture of locks and hinges

which was all the incentive I needed. The Hinge Capital of the Northwest? Yes please!

We strolled down the A49 into Ashton-in-Makerfield, enjoying the warm spring sunshine. We especially enjoyed the shirtless men playing football in Jubilee Park: it's a wonderful sign of the advance of nature when you catch your first glimpse of male nipple. Like a cuckoo, but sexier.

With apologies to Bryn, we were certainly rising up the social scale as we advanced into town. The houses got bigger and grander - we were sure we heard a horse whinny behind one of them - and soon we were in Ashton town centre itself.

I'm not sure how to put this, but there was a distinctly odd air to the town. Not a bad air: just something odd. Perhaps it was the lack of chain stores, the small shops, the little cafes, but it somehow felt like we'd stepped back in time to the 80s. There were a lot of pet shops - when did you last see one pet shop in a high street, never mind two or three? There was this place, which should win a prize for that pun:

There were butchers and bakers, but sadly we'd missed the market. It was a type of town you didn't see any more. As Phil put it, "Ashton's very much its own ecosystem where you could spend your whole life without venturing even into St Helens or Wigan."

Apparently Ashton's also where Kym Marsh, a.k.a Michelle "Harpy" Connor from Coronation Street, grew up. She's just had a baby, so I won't be too impolite, but suffice to say she's not my favourite person.

All this tourism lark was terribly straining, so Robert and I did the only logical thing:

I had steak and chips and a lager in the Wetherspoon's while we watched the local characters. There was an elderly lady in a disability carriage who seemed to spend her whole time driving around, pausing at tables to give them the benefit of her wisdom, and not buying a drink. We snuch out before her and her velour twinset caught up with us.

There wasn't much more to see, after that. Phil had suggested we check out the border between Greater Manchester and Merseyside, which was tempting, but we were bloated with alcohol and onion rings so we decided to waddle back to the station.

There was yet another reason to turn our noses up at Bryn station once we got there. Call me old-fashioned, but I'm not really keen on rodent traps on the platforms. It makes a bad impression.

On the journey back, I did remember one of my favourite things about the City Line. It's a sign, just outside Broad Green station, and Robert managed to snap a pic of it:

I love the phrase "jump off at Edge Hill" anyway (it's slang for coitus interruptus, Edge Hill being the last station before Lime Street) but this smutty, innuendo sign has always appealed to the Kenneth Williams in me. Bravo, builder's merchants; bravo.

Diversions

Is Twitter passe yet? I suppose it is, since it's been on telly now, and the Guardian is regularly going on about how cool it is. The minute anything is described as "cool" by the Guardian or the Observer it immediately gets tagged as repulsive (example: this list, or as it's also known, "50 people you really don't want to be stuck in a lift with"). I'm a Johnny-come-lately to it, but I'm finding it surprisingly addictive. It's a lovely little way to just get some random thoughts out there, and is a lot less bother than Facebook. My new fondness for Twitter should also come as a relief to regular readers, because it provides an outlet for my inane whitterings, and leaves this blog unsullied.

In the spirit of the 21st Century, I combined Twittering with Merseytarting (Twittarting? Merseyter?) as I assaulted the City Line. My primary reason for today's tarting was to avoid the Bf, or rather, to avoid the Bf's Double Header of Doom i.e. two football matches in a row, therefore putting him out of the equation all afternoon. I started at Lime Street with the following Tweet:

At lime street, getting ready to hit the city line. 11:37 AM frommobile web

Do I have to call them Tweets? I much prefer Twits. Anyway, this was the start of my day trip, and so I boarded an utterly rancid train. Extensive internet searches (i.e. Wikipedia) have led me to the conclusion that it was a "Pacer", a locomotive which takes all the charm and romance of the railways, bins it, and turns it into a rickety bus journey.

We shook, rattled and rolled our way out to Huyton. This is the point where the line breaks, with services to Manchester continuing, while others veer off to head for St Helens. The station here is a yellow Victorian building, but it was on the other side of the tracks and was surrounded by violent looking scallies (Huyton has become sadly notorious lately for the number of people murdered by knifed up youths) so I wandered out to find the station sign. It was lunchtime, so the sun was at its height, which is nothing in February. As a result I had a heck of a time getting a snap in front of the name plate. The result was therefore a bit disappointing.

To make up for it, Huyton offered up an ALF for me, my first one in absolute ages. It's not a bad one, all told.

Since I was in Huyton, it was only polite that I nip round and see my friend Barry. Also, I wanted a cup of tea and a wee. It turned into two cups of tea, actually, largely because of the sporadic City Line services (honest). You'd make a move to go, he'd say something utterly ridiculous like "Quantum of Solace was pathetic," I'd spend ten minutes explaining exactly why he was wrong, point by point, and then I'd realise that I'd missed the next train so I may as well stay a little bit longer.

Net result was it was three hours before I dragged my arse out of the house and headed for Roby. However, I did something very stupid on my way out the door.

Barry: "You do know the way to Roby station, don't you?"

Me: "Yes. It's up there, turn left, and then it's there on the right."

Barry: "No, no, no. This is the way you go." And he told me. And, like a fool, I followed his instructions. Which lead to this Twit:

[Merseytart] is in search of roby.3:30 PM from mobile web

I was wandering round suburban streets, aware of my tight timescale for the next train, and equally aware just how far away from the railway line I was. I should have known better, as I have witnessed Barry's complete lack of direction on many occasions before. This is why I should absolutely never listen to anyone, ever. It's not because I'm arrogant; I'm just always right.

I should also say that the streets of Huyton were without a doubt some of the filthiest I have seen in my life. I have never seen so much dog mess. It was like the canine residents of the town had banded together for a dirty protest. It was bad enough having to rush to catch my train, without having to do a quickstep every twenty yards to avoid another heap of faeces. Sort it out, please, Knowsley council.

I arrived at Roby station (which was exactly where I thought it was, and which I could have got to a lot quicker via a much more interesting route if I'd gone my way), hesitated at the entrance for a snap, and then marched onto the platform for my train. Too late. I'd missed it by a matter of only a minute. If I'd sniffed hard I could probably have caught a whiff of diesel. As it was, I now had a half an hour wait. So I Tweeted:

missed the roby train and will now be snowed on for half an hour.3:47 PM from mobile web

because yes, by now it was starting to snow. Thick, white, dancing flakes, the type you want to catch with your tongue. I hid under the wooden awning and watched it flutter down. Roby wasn't a bad station to be stuck in. It was pretty, and there were plenty of seats to rest my fat behind on. I wrapped myself up and had a quick internet surf on my mobile.

I notice, incidentally, that the station signs have been replaced on this bit, so that Northern get to plaster their logo over them too. I don't mind this, too much, but I do mind that they've changed the font. Merseytravel are very inconsistent with their designs, and it's getting worse now. As a corporate identity, all they seem to believe in is that there should be yellow and grey everywhere - apart from that, anything goes. So fonts are altered at the drop of a hat (note that the Merseytravel is now written in - shudder - Comic Sans). It might not sound like much, but like the blighted Merseyrail map, these are the public faces of the PTE. Keeping a tight hold on the style makes you look stronger, and stops your station from descending into a mess.

I almost missed them, but, at the very last minute, I suddenly realised that the platform wall had been tiled with a mosaic. It was quite charming, and I was especially taken with the scattered dandelion clocks. It turned out there was something similar at Broad Green, my next stop:


and I realised to my annoyance that I must have missed some at Huyton as well. A plaque recorded that these were designed by a local school, to celebrate the nearby National Wildflower Centre, and they're a lovely touch. My next Twit was quite brutal, however:

Broad green - rubbish alf.4:11 PM from mobile web



Look familiar? If you're going to copy someone else's ALF, Broad Green, at least copy one of the good ones. And get a damp cloth while you're at it - that sign is filthy.

It was a miserable little 1970s station building, too, wedged beneath the motorway, and not even the golden sunlight of the afternoon could pretty it up. I wasn't impressed, but I suspect this was partly because my head was filled with what could have been.

Broad Green is where Liverpool's transport ambitions go to die. Above my head, roaring away, was the start of the M62 - a motorway that begins at Junction 4, because the scheme to take it closer to the city had withered and collapsed a long time ago. And behind me, the railway line was a Victorian hangover that could have been a modern, exciting metro, if things had gone to plan.

Back in the 70s, the plans for the Link (connecting the Southport lines with the Garston lines) and the Loop (the Wirral line extension under the city centre) were in full swing, and thoughts turned to where to go next. The idea came to resurrect the Outer Loop Line, and connect it into an electrified City Line, through a burrowed underground junction at Broad Green. Basically, the line running from the north through Knotty Ash and from the south through Childwall would disappear under the earth and turn into a massive, six platform underground station at Broad Green, where the three lines would merge into a single electrified line to the city centre. It would then have disappeared underground again at Edge Hill, and used the existing Victoria and Wapping tunnels (with a new University underground station behind the student union on Mount Pleasant) to get into Liverpool Central. It was a brilliant, impressive scheme.



It got remarkably close to being built. Powers were obtained, plans were drawn up. The Rocket pub (above) was being rebuilt at the time, and agreements were made to use its car park for a park and ride, while beneath the pub to this day are (apparently) skeletal remains of an access passageway to the underground station.

Then... the Loop and the Link went over budget. The local residents, already dismayed at the disruption caused by the M62 construction, kicked off about this new, busy, railway line coming so close to their homes, and got their MP to lobby against it (even though he believed it was a good idea). Outside, the British economy was collapsing, and belts were being tightened everywhere. The scheme got less and less likely, until it finally disappeared sometime in the 80s. Now the Outer Loop line's been pulled up to make a pathway. There's nothing left.

I wish it had been built, but even more, I wish we still had the ambition and the vision to come up with this sort of idea. Reusing existing infrastructure, constructing something brave and forward thinking, opening up new markets - isn't this a good idea? Isn't this what we should be thinking about all the time? Clean, efficient railways taking you into the heart of the city centre are not a bad thing. Can't we resurrect this idea, somehow? Except, sadly, there'd probably be objections from ramblers that this thrusting new railway is taking away their walk.


I pushed on under the Rocket flyover and along Edge Lane Drive. It's another area which has seen money thrown at it recently to get it looking good in time for 2008, and it's certainly a vast improvement. It's still a traffic choked dual carriageway, but on a glowing Sunday afternoon, it seemed clean and modern and appealing. Also, Knowsley, take note: Liverpool city council is taking action to try and curb its problems with dog fouling. Either that or Banksy is getting a lot less ambitious these days.

I take back my earlier criticisms of Barry and his sense of direction, because I managed to take a wrong turn all of my own. I knew that a left hand exit would take me directly to Wavertree Technology Park, my final stop (Edge Hill has no Sunday service), but I took the turn too early. I lay the blame for this firmly with the Highways Department for not putting up street signs on Mill Lane. I was merrily wandering along when I suddenly realised there was a railway bridge up ahead, and no sign of a station. I peered through the fence and I could see the platforms under the next bridge.

Damn! I took the next right hand turn, assuming this would take me towards the station, but instead it plunged me into a Brookside clone. My Tweet pretty much sums up my position:

[Merseytart] is in a cul de sac nightmare.4:40 PM from mobile web

I thought there had to be just one pathway to the station: these red brick Barratt Homes looked like prime commuter material, and I assumed they'd want access. But no. After wandering round the dead ends, I realised I'd have to turn back and retrace my steps, which would mean I would miss my train, which would mean I would have another half hour wait.

Frustrated, irritated, and with the light fading around me, I returned to Mill Lane. Instead of going back up to Edge Lane, though, I decided I would make a diversion, turn right, and go along an unfamiliar route to the station.

I'm very glad I did. Wavertree, the district that waited for me at the bottom of the hill, was wonderful. I knew I'd like it the minute I saw an 18th century lock up on the village green. Opposite it was a Victorian clock tower, and from then on, I walked into town past great, old fashioned 19th century buildings. In the side streets, I could see little cottages, while overlooking the main road were busy, interesting looking pubs, preserved bow-fronted shops, and even a 1930s mansion block. I loved it. It was a great, fascinating district. Even the local Somerfield was housed in a converted cinema. I felt the urge to Twit:

[Merseytart] has fallen for Wavertree.5:08 PM from mobile web



And so to Wavertree Technology Park station. I absolutely hate that name. It's clunky, it's restrictive (there's more to the area than just the Technology Park), and it's basically a PR exercise rather than a valid station name. (It is, however, better than the suggestion laid out when the station was first mooted in the 1970 - Pighue Lane).

I'd like to point out that the Merseytart does not endorse Village Cars in any way, despite appearances. The station only opened in 2000, and it's very much from the Merseytravel corporate design school - a grey station building on the bridge over the platforms (see also: Kirkdale). It gets the job done, but I wish there could have been a bit more ambition to it.

The snow started coming down heavily as I waited for the train - not heavily enough to settle, but it was still wet and cold on my face. There's no shelter at Wavertree TP, so I hunkered under the station building for some shielding. The train that arrived, fortunately, wasn't a Pacer, so I was able to sit on a comfortable seat on the ride back to Lime Street, without numbing my buttocks in the process.



It had been a good day. I'd discovered new crannies of Liverpool I didn't know existed, caught up with a friend, got up close to one of the great "might have beens" of the city's transport network. But my final Tweet pretty much sums up the best bit:

[Merseytart] is home and dry and toasty warm again. 6:13 PM from web