The Definitive Ranking Of Merseyrail Lines

This is an homage* (*blatant rip off) of the excellent Buzzfeed post by Tom Phillips you can read here.  He's a bit harsh on the Northern Line, and I wouldn't have put the DLR first because it's not a Tube line, but anyway: at least he is satisfyingly cruel and cutting about the Arabfly Dangleway.

THE DEFINITIVE RANKING OF MERSEYRAIL LINES

Note On Methodology: for the purposes of this evaluation, the lines are broken down into sections, based on their terminus - so there are four entries for the Wirral Line, and three for the Northern Line.  Otherwise this would be a very short list, and I would miss the opportunity to waffle on.  I'm also going to deal only with the bits of lines that exist entirely on the Merseyrail map, so if you want to hear complaints about the points work at Manchester Oxford Road you'll have to go elsewhere.


19.  That annoying bit of red line between Earlestown and Warrington Bank Quay

It's too short, it has a stupid kink in the middle, and it doesn't really relate to any proper services.

18.  Ellesmere Port to Helsby and beyond

Because it gets about four trains a month, and to get one you have to clamber up and over the bridge at Ellesmere Port like a hamster in a run. It's like they don't want you to use it.

17.  The line to Blackpool North.

A route which exists purely to carry low-rent stag parties to fun pubs, and which never quite shakes off the smell of stale booze and unspent testosterone.

16.  Ormskirk - Preston

Everyone tumbles off the fast, frequent, electric Merseyrail train and wanders up to a manky Pacer that's chugging like a tractor running on pig manure instead of diesel.  It'll be rammed, no-one will be happy, and it takes forever.

15.  City Line to Wigan

With the exception of the rather fantastic St Helens Central, this is a stream of boring stations with odd names ("Thatto Heath"?  You're just making these up now).

14. Kirkby to Wigan

It's a line for people who want to go to either Wigan or Kirkby.  It might get a branch to Skelmersdale in the future.  Must I say more?

13. The Mid-Cheshire Line

It connects Chester with Manchester, it goes through some very pretty countryside (including the Delamere Forest), and it's got some very posh bits.  Usually full of nice old ladies going out for tea and lunch in Altrincham or somewhere equally glamorous.

12.  Crewe and Runcorn

Ok, it's got nice fast whizzy trains, but they don't always stop at Winsford and Hartford, and Acton Bridge is practically a ghost station.  That's just rude.  Also the trains tend to be full of twats shouting into their mobile phones to let you know they're very important.

11.  Southport to Wigan

Because my friend Jennie used to live in Parbold, and so I have a great deal of affection for this line.  It's my list, alright?

10.  Wirral Line to Ellesmere Port

Get your own damn line, Ellesmere Port, and stop stealing Chester's trains.

9.  Northern Line to Kirkby

Fun fact: the Queen was made to ride the line out to Kirkby when she opened Merseyrail in the Seventies.  I bet she was overjoyed about that.  Now it's just a little stub, and you have to sit on the platform for what feels like forever before the train leaves, all the while hoping that those scallies bounding down the ramp towards the platform aren't going to sit in your carriage.  They always do.  And they always decide to try and compete with one another for who has the most offensive and misogynistic rap music on their phone throughout the journey.

8.  City Line to Warrington

Liverpool South Parkway makes this a surprisingly useful line, busy and interesting.  You can interchange for a whole lot of more fascinating places.  Also: Widnes.  Oh yes.

7.  Wirral Line to New Brighton

Like the Kirkby line, it's too short and stubby, but it's got the seaside at the end, so at least you can have an ice cream.


6.  Wirral Line to Chester

This would be a perfectly fine line if it didn't have Chester on the end.  Chester is a big succubus of snobbery and pretension, and doesn't deserve to be on the same route as perfectly respectable places like Bromborough and Birkenhead.  Also, I'm pretty sure you get radiation poisoning every time you go through Capenhurst.


5.  Northern Line from Southport to Hunts Cross

It's too long.  It takes an hour to get from Hunts Cross to Southport, and boy, don't you notice it.  Somewhere around Freshfield fatigue sets in and all those level crossings and golf courses become a blur, until next thing you know the guard's waking you up back in Hunts Cross because you've slept there and back again.


4.  The Borderlands Line

There's town (Bidston, Upton, Heswall, Wrexham).  There's country (a lot of unpronounceable places in the hills).  It's got a river crossing, it's got posh bits, it's got rough bits.  And did I mention that it goes to ANOTHER COUNTRY (ok it's only Wales, but it counts)?  Points are however deducted for  terminating in the middle of the marshes at Bidston. 

3.  City Line to Newton-le-Willows

It's the first intercity railway in the world.  If this line didn't exist, we'd all still be stuck in tiny villages, eating mud and marrying our sisters because no-one could go anywhere else to experience new things like cauliflower and eggs and people with less than eight fingers on each hand.  It's railway history, no, legend, and poor old William Huskisson died in the process.  You should doff your metaphorical hat every time you travel on it.  HUSKISSON!

2.  Northern Line to Ormskirk

I'm not just putting this second because it's my old home line: the Ormskirk branch is a veritable roller coaster of emotions and experiences.  SHIVER as you pass Walton Gaol and the Ashworth High Security Hospital!  THRILL at the idea of crossing the track on that really really high footbridge between Walton and Kirkdale!  LAUGH as you speed past all the poor queuing cars at Switch Island!  PERVE at the many attractive students who take the train on a daily basis!  ENJOY the sweet spot between Sandhills and the plunge into the tunnel where for the briefest of moments, the two cathedrals and the Radio City Tower are in perfect alignment, and you fall in love with Liverpool just that little bit more. 

1.  Wirral Line to West Kirby

You board at a petite Victorian terminus in a charming seaside town.  There are fast, regular trains, that take you through classy suburbs and expanses of golf links.  At Moreton and Leasowe, there are actual biscuit factories, like Willy Wonka but crunchy.  Under the motorway and past the docks, then a stop at Birkenhead Park - the oldest public park in the world - before you go to the modern, shiny Conway Park.  Then you're underground, through Hamilton Square and under the River Mersey into the Loop.  Four stations to take you pretty much anywhere you want to go in Liverpool city centre.  And before you know it, you're back on the way out again, heading back towards the sea.

We have a winner.

Thanks to Sean for suggesting this.

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.

Can I Get A Widnes?

I've been accused of having something against Widnes, but that's not the case. Due to a series of circumstances that are frankly too dull to detail here, I managed to miss it off the Warrington branch of the City Line. It was nothing personal, just one of those things. Ever since then I've been meaning to go back, but either haven't got around to it, or something else has got in the way.

Finally, on a January Saturday that could best be described as "miserable as sin", I managed to drag myself to Lime Street for a Northern Rail train to Halton. I believe it was a train; the amount of dirt clinging to the side made it look more like a recently surfaced hippo, but fortunately once you'd got on you couldn't see the filth (or out the windows). To try and pep up the journey, I'd invited Robert along to bring his unique blend of sarcastic rudeness and railway factoids.

He joined the train at Liverpool South Parkway, and brought with him a present - a "sorry I forgot your birthday" card. Yup, I turned 34 a couple of weeks ago, and, incidentally, THANKYOU constant readers for remembering. It's not like I don't dwell on my own impending mortality every year about this time, but there you go; you people are fickle and uncaring, I understand that.

The train whizzed through depressing, January countryside towards Widnes. It really is an astonishingly miserable time of the year. England gets shaken down, stripped of anything beautiful and made ragged and rude; even the green grass looks like it's been molested by a drunken suitor. It's bare and cold, and it wasn't helped by the clingy fog, obscuring views of more than twenty metres.

Incidentally, I'd like to make a complaint; the old lady in the seat behind me had a Merseyside-only travel pass, and the ticket inspector chose not to charge her for the trip from Hough Green to Widnes. Outrageous! If she'd been a teenage hoodie, he'd have whipped the pennies out of her pocket, but just because she's got a blue rinse he let her get away with murder. I made sure to direct particularly resentful psychic energies in her direction.

So: Widnes station. It's a pretty standard Cheshire Lines building, like the ones at Hough Green or Sankey (for Penketh); a little pointy roofed station house with an extended single storey side building containing the ticket hall. The house had been converted into "Debbie's Salon", which promised eyebrow perming. I have no idea what this involves, and nor do I want to ever find out. Thank God I'm a man.

Inside the ticket hall was a little plaque commemorating a moment in 20th century pop music:

"At Widnes station in 1965, Paul Simon wrote the song Homeward Bound."

A couple of points about this. Firstly, it's pretty much agreed that he didn't write Homeward Bound at Widnes station. The generally agreed location was the now-closed Ditton station, which is on the Liverpool-Runcorn line, with Warrington Bank Quay throwing its hat in as a secondary bid. Paul Simon himself seems to think he wrote it at "Liverpool" station, so I'm guessing he just assumed anything north of London in the Sixties was "Liverpool".

Secondly, Homeward Bound is a rubbish song, and doesn't deserve a plaque in the first place. Paul Simon's done a grand total of two good songs in his life: (a) Mrs Robinson and (b) You Can Call Me Al, though the latter is mainly because I really liked the video when I was young and I actually thought Chevy Chase was the singer:

Trumpet!

Anyway, Homeward Bound is a sentimental dirge, so frankly I wouldn't bother commemorating it. Even if Paul Simon was married to Carrie Fisher once and is therefore amazing-adjacent.

The above sign in the car park commemorates the fact that we're in the Farnworth parish of Widnes. Which is nice, and totally relevant.

Since I had a second body to play David Bailey, you've been spared the up-the-nose shot:

Score.

From there, we headed into town. I already had the adjoining stations, so there didn't seem much point in going and checking them out. Instead Robert and I decided to look at the wonders of Widnes town itself. First up was Victoria Park, almost directly opposite the station and a classic example of 19th century gentrification. It had it all - a pond with a fountain, a war memorial, a band stand. It also bore the signs of a National Lottery-funded rebirth, in the form of a glass and steel pavilion serving coffee. There didn't seem to be anyone in it though.

Another 21st century intervention was a nature path, and Robert and I ventured into the trees to follow it. It had been specifically designed to encourage wildlife in the park, with birdboxes, bat boxes, and squirrel food all on show. There was also this:

which is a man-made nest for bats to hibernate in. Robert bravely peered inside, but couldn't see any. Neither did they all come swarming out to attack him like that bit with the Penguin at the end of Batman Returns.

Later on the path two nice middle class people dumped their dog's faeces on a Bug Home, like it was a bin, which shows that no matter how polite people are, they'll still get rid of a turd as soon as they can.

Beyond the park was Widnes proper. I was a bit disappointed that you could only see the Silver Jubilee Bridge in the fog if you really concentrated hard, and also squinted a bit. I'd imagined it rearing up over the town, dominating every view, but the filthy weather meant it remained shrouded. Robert was already regretting his decision not to wear a coat, and jammed his cold hands into his pockets to keep them warm.

We reached Widnes town centre and were greeted with this lovely notice:

Classy. After that it was a mish-mash of small pedestrian precincts, filled with a mix of chain stores and down at heel independents. It was a typical mid-sized town, struggling to compete with the big cities around it and maintain a vibrant shopping community of its own. We wandered round the WH Smith because I had a voucher, but it pains me to say there was nothing worth buying. I worked in Smiths in Birkenhead for nearly five years as the uberfuhrer of the Entertainment section; shelf after shelf of videos, CDs, DVDs and computer games. It was really quite depressing to see that all they stocked in Widnes was two drops of the most popular DVDs - no music, no software, nothing. (Though admittedly the pitiful excuse of a WH Smiths in Liverpool One is the most depressing thing of all). I couldn't find anything to spend my money on, which is a story in itself.

I should also note that Widnes has two Argos's (Argoses? Argosi?). I'm not sure why. Perhaps they take competition very seriously. The woman outside the one in Albert Square was very keen to hawk the new catalogue.

We eventually ended up by the market. While Robert had a quick pee in the gents, I took a picture of some interlinked shopping trolleys. It was that kind of place.

By this time we were both hungry and thirsty, but the first pub we came across was showing a football match, so that was out. We ended up in the FM Caffe, which we'd already spotted on an earlier circuit. I have to admit we hadn't been over keen, because they can't spell cafe. I know that sounds snobbish, and that's because it is.

Thankfully we put our prejudices aside, and consumed some delicious paninis and lattes. We managed to resist the incredibly tempting All-Day Breakfast, me because I didn't want to stuff my face, and Robert because he doesn't like baked beans. No, really. Freak.

It was very satisfying food though, and reasonably priced too. Plus they were playing Harry Connick Jr. Highly recommended. Just look at the joy on Robert's face.

And that, I'm afraid, was that for Widnes. I hope I haven't sounded too down on it. It was exactly what I expected: a mid-level North Western town, like Birkenhead or St Helens - a little dowdy, a little rough round the edges, but sparkled with the occasional gem that caught the light. The people seemed happy, friendly, the shops were compact, the architecture pretty and not excessively bland or horrific; it was a nice little average place. We didn't leave because it was driving us to drink - we just left because we wanted a drink in our regular pub, so we headed back to Liverpool, where Robert got a bit smashed and confessed things I shan't share on a public website.

A pretty satisfying day all round, I'd say...

Industrial Strength

I'm sorry to say this but: Widnes stinks. I'm not passing judgement on the town here, just stating a fact. We'd barely stepped off the bridge when our nostrils were assaulted by a nasty, greasy chemical scent. Combine this with a pile of scrap in the distance and a Tesco recycling centre to our left and we weren't exactly getting the best impression of the town.

The district beside the bridge is known as West Bank, a little enclave that's separated from the rest of town by canals, railway lines and bridges. It used to be incredibly busy. Before the Silver Jubilee Bridge was built, there was a transporter bridge here, which lifted cars up and over the river on an elaborate elevator. The landing stage for it on the north side was here in West Bank, and you can still see the brick toll buildings. Traffic would back right up the street, as the transporter bridge could only carry about a dozen vehicles, and so the West Bank became a thriving commercial district.

Now it's just a slightly down at heel residential district, with 19th century two up-two downs and some more recent council housing. It was still only nine am, and everywhere was silent, a slightly eerie effect. It was all a bit 28 Days Later.

We were following the route of the Trans-Pennine Cycle Path, which crosses the country from Southport to Humberside. The route hugs the canal around the north of the Mersey, taking it all the way to Warrington. It was a bit of a trek, but the weather was being kind, warm but not over hot, overcast but not threatening, and to be frank we both needed the exercise.

Though you wouldn't know it now, Spike Island in Widnes was once a thriving centre for the chemical industry. The Bf is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Chemistry, so Widnes is a bit of a Mecca for him: he explained to me about how the combination of the railway and the canals made it perfect for the burgeoning industries in the 19th Century, and the processes that were invented there. I think he was getting me back for going on about the Halton Curve. Spike Island used to be a mass of factories and plants, but they have long since gone, and the island has been reclaimed as parkland.

Spike Island was also where the Stone Roses held a famous outdoor concert in 1990. I considered putting them on my iPod as a tribute, until I remembered they're a load of baggy shit.

There were some boys already set up for angling in the canal, along with a drunk, reeling across the path clutching his Red Stripe. Now, I'm fond of a few drinks, but being hammered at nine in the morning is going a bit far even for me.

As we walked along, we encountered other anglers, rods set up, little stools, tupperware full of maggots. Can someone explain the appeal of fishing to me? I don't get it. The only exciting bit seems to be the casting off; after that it's just a lot of sitting around in pacamacs. Hours and hours of sitting around. The fishermen didn't even have books to keep them occupied - they were just staring off into the distance, waiting for something interesting to happen. And their poor wives. What goes through their heads when their husband gets up at 7am on a Saturday to go and squat by a canal? I can't help thinking it's a bit of a slap in the face.

As we left Widnes, though, we were the only people on the path. There are hardly any bridges to the cycle route, so once you start on it, you're pretty much committed. A mile or so on we did find a bridge at Tanhouse Lane, which also gave access to the railway line that follows the north side of the Sankey Canal. Widnes used to be riddled with railway lines, most of which have long gone, but the line still clings on here for freight purposes. Funny how this obscure line is double tracked and well maintained, while the Halton Curve (which people actually want restored) struggles on with one track and bad signalling.

Further on the path suddenly opened out into a gravelled area with a strange sculpture. This was the "Widnes Future Flower", apparently, one of those regeneration company funded curiosities that you sort of look at and go "hmmm". It wasn't awful, by any means, but it just seemed a bit abandoned. It's only been there a few months but it already looked forlorn.

Still, at least there were some benches to enable us to sit down.

We crossed the border into Warrington Borough and I'm sorry, but shame on you Warrington. Halton Council's portion of the trail was marked by well-gravelled, clear paths, benches and artwork. Warrington, however, clearly has other things to spend its Council Tax on, and the quality of the path deteriorated almost immediately. The reeds were twice the height they had been, and it all felt a little downmarket. It didn't help that the canal itself was stagnant here, filled with algae. It was divided from the Widnes section by a sewer, and the symbolism couldn't have been more apt.

Above us were the massive cooling towers of the Fiddler's Ferry Power Station, gargantuan concrete behemoths that dominated the view. They were strangely silent, for an enormous industrial complex, but I suppose that's modern technology: it's probably all run by two men in a control room somewhere.

Then things got even more oppressive: not just the power station on the left, but a massive cast iron pipe and fences on the right. We couldn't see anything of the Mersey any more, and instead we were being pushed along the ramrod straight path, no exit, no turning back. It was a bit disheartening: this nature hike was turning into a walk through an industrial estate.

Somehow I'm guessing there aren't secret underground tunnels here.

Just when we were beginning to lose the will to live, the canal opened out into a marina. I don't know why this surprised me: there's a river, there's a canal, of course there'll be boats as well. I suppose after all the grime it was odd to be in the world of yachts. Not that this was exactly Howard's Way; a lot of the boats looked like they were in permanent residence. I imagined there were a few of them that were basically used as a place for the owner to relax in the sun with a beer.

We were getting closer to Warrington itself now, and the path was starting to fill up with dog walkers and women with buggies. The car park at the yacht basin was probably a great place to stop and go for a walk. No anglers, though: there were signs warning us against getting our rods out, so to speak, not only because of low power cables overhead, but also because of the unstable canal wall. At least, I think that's what the signs meant:

A couple more miles of walking, and finally we were approaching civilisation: Sankey. I have to say, right now, that Sankey is another of those grimly unpleasant Northern names. It sounds like something Charlie Chan would say in a racist 1940s short ("Sankey, honourable gentleman! You are most kind!"). It's now a residential suburb of Warrington. With the decline of the industries that used to line the canal, it's now principally marked out by parkland, with big semis and an astonishing amount of buses: seriously, we were passed by dozens of the things.

It was twenty past twelve, and we'd missed our train. We had to find something to do to kill time, and nice though it was, Sankey didn't seem to be overburdened with galleries or museums to pass the hour. What to do?

Well, obviously.

The problem with sitting down after an eight or nine mile hike is you realise just how tired you are. With a pint of beer and a packet of crisps inside us, the Bf and I slipped into "lazy contentment" mode: our feet and legs were barking at us, and we were in no mood to argue. It seemed like a revision of the schedule was in order. The plan had been to get Sankey station, then off again at Widnes and walk to Hough Green before coming home.

Instead we agreed: Sankey station was enough. Widnes could wait for another day - it meant that I'd be able to visit the town as well as the station, which was a plus. So all that was left was a tart of Sankey station:

Sorry, Sankey for Penketh station. I'm not sure what's so important about Penketh, but Northern Rail seem to like it:

The building is the standard Cheshire Lines construction, identical to Hough Green and the like. It even has the same non-functioning clock. Northern Rail blue's a bit easier on the eye than Merseytravel yellow and grey, though.

We collapsed onto the train, a packed Pacer with bus seats (which the Bf thought was awful. It's not just me). It was hard maintaining consciousness. We'd been up for nine hours, striding through the countryside, experiencing vertigo, geeking out over train lines. It was strangely exhilarating, but incredibly tiring, and we were sweaty and sore.

We got home and ran a very deep, very hot, very soothing bath. It was a fair reward, I feel.