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.