Decay, and other cheery thoughts

Thirty-one: that's me. I finally tripped conclusively into my fourth decade on the 12th, and I can't pretend I wasn't a little miserable. My job sucks more than a Dyson on super, and frankly getting even older doesn't help. You can muck about in rubbish jobs when you're in your twenties, but once you hit thirty one, you need to have a - big word - "career". I am damn good at my job - too good if anything - but I don't want it anymore. It's sort of like being really good at football, but living in a rugby town; you can fill the slot, but it's not really what you want.

So I wasn't on my finest form at the weekend. Plus of course you have that whole January/end of Christmas/holy mother of God will this winter never END! part to this time of year, and melancholy was setting in. Frankly, there was only one thing to get me out of this funk. You guessed it: tarting!

I can't believe how a project that only a few months ago was just a figment of my imagination has become so important, so pleasurable to me. I get genuinely excited as I sit on my first train out, and I love to pore over my A-Z to plan my routes and stations. Seeing the new places, collecting them, running over the photos - it all adds up to a pleasurable little experience for me.

It was a Monday, a birthday treat day off, and so I used it to break into new territory. Hello City Line! There was a practical reason for this. As I touched on in a previous post, at weekends, the City Line trains become more sporadic: this way I would be able to take advantage of weekday frequencies to venture out. I pitched up at Lime Street with the intention of getting the first City Line train I saw.

If you look at the map, you'll see that "City Line" is actually a misnomer. Unlike the Wirral and Northern Lines, or indeed a London Underground line, the City Line is just a Merseytravel confection. It's used to group together the local services run by a number of train operators. The red lines on the map extend as far as Preston and Warrington -indeed, they bleed off the map to Manchester. The trains also share rails with long-distance services to London and Scotland and all points beyond.

For Merseytart purposes, the new rules are these: I'll be covering the Merseytravel areas only. These are the stations in the yellow area on the map - so Garswood's in, but Wigan's out. This is for both practical (my "all areas" ticket only goes that far) and also creative reasons. I think I need some kind of boundary here, otherwise I'll end up getting every station that goes from Liverpool to Norwich or something ridiculous. (NOTE TO SELF: Do not even think about doing that).

The first train from Lime Street was a service to Manchester Oxford Road, via the south of Liverpool, so I climbed on board. I had already decided that I would go to the very edge of the map, and then work my way back into the city. I had a very real fear in the back of my head that I would board a train at some unknown station, meaning to go to St Helens, only to find it was a non-stop Glasgow train. This way, I knew that any Liverpool bound train would be fair game.

There was immediately a difference in the rolling stock. I'm not a train spotter, by any means, but this train was certainly a step up from my usual Merseyrail commuter fodder - there were deep seats, and plush cushions, and even tables. It felt like a real train, not just a little hop on, hop off engine, and it made me feel like I was going on a real, proper journey this time.

I was headed out to Hough Green, an anomalous station on the map. Even though it's actually outside Merseyside, for some reason, Merseytravel tickets are valid here without paying a premium. I was one of only three people to get off here, and I wasn't too impressed, I have to admit. It was a cold morning, admittedly, but the station seemed grey and unpleasant. I had a brief wander round the local area, but that was blandly suburban and unexciting, which was a shame; I had three quarters of an hour to wait until the next train out of here.

Instead I loitered on the platform. According to Wikipedia, the building at Hough Green is a Grade II listed building. I can only think that there is not much worth preserving elsewhere in the town. It was grim. The building might have been attractive, once, but it seemed dishevelled and disregarded. The ticket office was shielded by a badly cobbled together porch - in fact, I wasn't sure if it was open, it was in such disrepair. The door onto the platform was a massive steel affair which just brings to mind those covers they put over the doors of recently burnt out houses. I could certainly think of nicer stations to hang around for a while.

There was one unexpected delight at the station, but even that seemed symptomatic of the neglect at the station. Tucked away under the awning was the remnants of a charming station clock. True to form, though, it was not only not working, but it was actually missing its hands, and the face was filthy. The Merseytravel Corporate Identity Mandarins had also been at work, and painted the edge of it a completely inappropriate yellow. The clock made me unaccountably angry. This wasn't just a random architectural feature that had been neglected; it was a real, historic item that would be of great use to the passengers of Hough Green. Is a simple hint about when the next train might come too much to ask? Given the infrequency of trains to the station, a clock would be of a great help to the users. But it's been allowed to decay, and I suppose when they finally get round to revamping this station in around 2015 or something, this station will get a dot matrix next train indicator which will render this harmless feature even more obsolete. Never mind listing the station, and resting on your laurels; make preserving the building a reality and make it worth the paper that Grade II is written on.

I was happy when my Northern Rail train turned up to whisk me away to my next stop, Halewood. In a complete contrast to the 19th century Hough Green, Halewood's ticket office was 80s all the way, a red brick Brookside station similar to the glorified sheds I had already seen at Kirkby and Fazakerley, and was consequently completely uninteresting. But, Halewood did have one bonus: an ALF!

I seriously hadn't expected to find any Attractive Local Feature boards on this trip, as I'd assumed they were a Merseyrail thing; but I was extremely happy to see it. The Halewood Triangle, incidentally, is the name given to a country park created on the site of a former railway junction. There used to be a loop line, circling Liverpool's suburbs, which ran from Hunts Cross to Aintree; it managed to struggle on through Beeching before finally closing in 1979. The trackbed has been lifted now, and it forms part of the Trans-Pennine Trail cycle route. (A vague, idle thought has just occurred: are there any station remnants on this route? Hmmm...)

The next station on the line is Hunt's Cross, which, of course, I had already "done" as part of the Northern Line, so I wasn't keen to go there again. Besides, the next "all-stations" City Line train (instead of heading straight to Lime Street) wasn't going to be for another hour or so. I decided that instead I would walk right past Hunt's Cross and head out to Liverpool South Parkway, just to kill the time. I hate hanging around on station platforms, and I'd much rather be kept busy.

It was lunchtime, and I had to walk past a high school on my way from Halewood. The school gates were surrounded by gangs of kids eating chips, laughing, jockeying. I instinctively felt that slight contraction of the stomach in fear at the sight of a teenage gang. As I pushed past, I was just waiting to be happy slapped. But they parted quite politely, moved out of my way without a second glance, and it hit me: that's because you're a man, a grown adult, and therefore a figure of (limited) authority. In fact, you're old enough to be their Dad.

You hear all these pensioners on tv, celebrating their hundreth birthday and saying "I still feel like a teenager inside", and you think: yeah, right. Yet here I was feeling exactly the same. In my head, I'm young, but to these teenagers, I'm old, past it, a fogey or whatever they call it now. I may as well have waved a telegram from the Queen as I walked past. I'm an adult. That's a weird experience. It reminds me of the first time I was ever called a "man" by a complete stranger - coincidentally, as I sat down opposite a woman and her child on a Merseyrail train. The mother told her little girl to make some room so the "man" could sit down, and I felt like saying, "obviously, you don't mean me". I was about 24, but I still didn't feel grown up. Still don't.

With the noise of Stannah stairlifts in my ears and cholostomy bags dancing in front of my eyes, I pressed on through Hunt's Cross. I had resolved to be healthier in 2008, so you can imagine how pleased I was to find that practically my entire route to Liverpool South Parkway was lined with chippies. Or at least it seemed that way. Every time I turned a corner the smell of batter seemed to assault me, making my stomach growl sinisterly.

If I had more time, I would have had a poke round Allerton Cemetary en route; there's nothing like a walk through a silent graveyard on a winter's day to refresh you and fill you with contemplative thoughts (and to remind you that you may be a decrepit loser, but it could be a lot worse). Instead I bypassed the station in search of what remained of Garston. Mr D had queried in the comments on an earlier post what was left of the station, and I couldn't think. It had been closed when Liverpool South Parkway was constructed as a connection between the City and Northern Lines.

Sadly, the road down to the station has been fenced off, so I poked my hand through the bars and took a snap. Even more sadly, I seem to have deleted this shot by accident somewhere along the line, so I have nothing to show for it! Basically, there's nothing left. From what I could see, squinting through the railings, the station building and platforms are long gone, and it looks like an electrical substation has been installed in their place. You'll have to take my word for it, I'm afraid.

Anyways, off to Liverpool South Parkway. I had read that the head of Virgin Trains called this station a "white elephant", and that was why Virgin would not stop there. At the time I had been annoyed by this. From a purely practical level, connecting two stations as close as Allerton and Garston with one building seemed logical. Walking round the deserted station on that Monday, though, I began to wonder if he was right. There was no-one there at all. On my previous visit, I had assumed it was because it was a Sunday, but there didn't seem to be any excuse now. The station still shone as new, but it didn't seem like anyone was breaking their neck to dirty it up with their presence.

Another train, and I was at West Allerton. The stairs from the platform to the surface were the rustiest ones I have ever seen. Every single step seemed to be completely encrusted in brown, and I was genuinely apprehensive about walking on them. If I was going to die, I wanted something better on my tombstone than "killed by falling through some stairs" (preferably something more like, "died while making love to his boyfriend, Russell Tovey, at their home in Antigua").

The surface station seemed to be another 80s replacement, and from the platform side it seemed uninspiring. There were a couple of interesting features though which made me think that perhaps someone, somewhere in British Rail in the 80s had a little bit of soul and heart.

I'd not seen any similar name signs on any other stations, and even in its decaying state, it looks interesting. The font looks suspiciously like Gill Sans, the typeface invented for the Underground, or perhaps something from the 1950s. More interesting, however, was the sign above the entrance, which I nearly missed:

A small station in the fag-end of Liverpool, but it looks like one architect still had the romance of the railways in mind. I wonder if this sign was cribbed from the original station building. Whatever its provenance, it was another of those little subtle glories this project occasionally throws up.

My day trip was nearly over, with just one more station to visit today. The road between West Allerton and Mossley Hill parallels the railway, and I could see the overhead lines down cul-de-sacs as I walked. The rain that had been threatening all day made a half-hearted effort to fall at this point, big heavy drops that seemed to be only a token effort on behalf of the giant grey clouds that had been following me around.

I had no idea what to expect at Mossley Hill. In fact, I didn't even know where I was, really. The Merseyrail map has become my map of the city, in the same way the Underground map is my default for London; I refer to the A-Z only to find a route between stations. If you gave me a car I expect I would have real problems finding it again. But there it was, and, pleasingly, the station master was in the middle of mopping the floor as I approached. I'm always pleased to see people caring for train stations, and Hough Green had illustrated what can happen when they are neglected.

The building was another 80s affair, but it was nicely done, and certainly better than the brick boxes seen elsewhere. Mint glass and concrete, with a skylight above the booking hall to let natural light in, and hanging baskets for colour. It was pretty, and clean. Kudos to you, Mr Mossley Hill Stationmaster; I was pleased to end my City Line splurge here, on a high note.

This first trip out reminded me why the City Lines are the red-headed step-child of the Merseytravel rail system. On the Northern and Wirral lines, you get the feeling that this is a local, integrated network, that people care about. The station buildings are smart and clean and have attention paid to them. These stations carried an air of neglect about them, though, from Hough Green's dead clock to West Allerton's rusty stairs. Even Mossley Hill had less than inspiring platform areas. They felt ignored, and I guess that's because no-ones interested in them. If you're Northern Rail, who manage the stations, you're not that interested because the revenue is not going to be as great as from other long-distance stations. If you're Merseytravel, you're less interested in a network which you don't have much influence over, unlike the Merseyrail services where you award the franchise. So the stations fall through the gaps, which is a shame. I hope that other City Line stations prove me wrong; I hope they're loved. Otherwise this blog could get a lot more depressing, really fast!

Map! The Third

And here's where we are right now - not doing badly, really. But doing the City Line means suddenly I have a massive wad of uncollected stations! Damn!

Northern Lights

Another day, another trip out. Fact is that the Bf was going to be firmly stuck in front of the tv all Sunday watching Liverpool vs Manchester United and Arsenal vs Chelsea, and frankly I had better things to do than listen to him swear at Sky Sports. Besides, I wanted one more tart before the end of 2007 - a nice way to finish the year, I reckon.

I'd originally planned on hitting the City Line for the first time. Yes, faithful viewer, I'm breaking that rule I had about just doing the Northern & Wirral Lines. It was just too tempting. They sat on the map, calling to me - and since I can use the City Line to visit a number of friends en route, there didn't really seem to be a reason not to do it.

Sadly, Sunday services on the City Line are at best infrequent. I was looking at one train an hour from most stations, and since I had to be in Manchester by 7 to have dinner with a friend and it was lunchtime, I needed something a bit better than that. The bottom end of the Wirral Line was a potential, but I wanted to go somewhere a bit more unfamiliar, so I headed for the middle of the Southport branch, to a load of stations I had never visited before, and knew little about.

Of course, this meant passing through what was left of Sandhills. As it only closed a month ago, I wasn't expecting revolutionary change, but I was shocked to see there was nothing left. I snapped a blurry pic through the window, but it was basically wholesale destruction going on. I don't think I'll come back this way for a month or so - I'd be interested to see the next step change in the development.

So: to Blundellsands and Crosby. That's just one station - in fact I think it should be ampersanded. Blundellsands & Crosby was strangely disassociated from its surroundings. There was a scrappy car park between the platform and the road outside, and it was overlooked by one of those "retirement communities" - four floors of old people; a pensioner stack that turned its back on the pavement and had a gated entrance.

I snapped a pic and ventured down the nicely-named Serpentine. (The soundtrack for this portion of the trip, before my iPod died, was Sir William Young and his Keep On album). This long curved road snaked between B&C and my next stop, Hall Road. With it being Sunday, there was only one train every half hour, so I had a fair amount of time to take in the large mansions and elegant driveways. Crosby is posh, you see. In my head, I always associate it with David "Bing" Crosby, from the late lamented Brookside, and from what I understand, he sums it up quite well - slightly up tight, slightly down to earth, all in one package. The Serpentine seemed to embody this. One house had a shrine to the Virgin Mary in its garden; I hope this was some sort of priest house, and not Ruth Kelly's summerhouse. (I can't stand that woman).

The road carries itself in a gentle arc until it slips up against the beach, and Liverpool Bay, and here was the northern extremities of one of my favourite pieces of art: Anthony Gormley's Another Place, the dozens of metal men studded along the length of Crosby Beach. I have been to see it twice already, and it's such an affecting piece of art. Each figure seems so individual, and lonely, and gathered together they just carry a great poignancy to me. It's almost like they're suicidals, all getting ready to walk into the sea to die, and none of them noticing the others around them who could help. If they were able to turn their head, they'd be able to live and move together, but they can't, so they just wait for the sea to wash over them and wipe them away again.




The tide was in, so only a few figures were visible; plus the sea wind was bitterly cold on my face, and I didn't know how long it would take me to get to Hall Road, so I tore myself away and promised to revisit them again.





As it turned out, I reached Hall Road with time to spare, and I got my first ALF. I have no idea about sport whatsoever, so I don't know if Waterloo Rugby Club are really famous and I've just never heard of them, or if the ALF is giving them ideas above their station; I will say that it would be nice to see a face on an ALF that didn't look like it belonged to a burns victim.



Hall Road was strangely desolate, and I began to feel quite melancholy. For the first time in my solo travels round MerseyRail, I felt lonely. I'm quite happy with my own company, and I like the fact that this project is all down to me and me alone, but I was looking up the rails where I was headed and all I could see was a meagre winter landscape, cold and bitter and unwelcoming. It didn't help that Hall Road was run down, and deserted. There was a rotting maintenance depot besides the platform, and the ticket office on the opposite side was screened off in such a way that there was no light showing from it. I shuddered in the wind, and leapt aboard the next train gladly.


No time to sit down, though, because I was off again at the next stop, Hightown. It gets a lot jollier from now on, I promise! The train seemed to revive me - it certainly restored heat to my freezing ears! - and so when I got off at Hightown I was happy and enthused again.

I was travelling without A-Z for the first time, this week, because my Liverpool A-Z only went as far as Hall Road - everything north of that belonged to a different map. A look at Google Maps had shown me one thing though: Hightown was an island. On three sides was green belt, and on the fourth was the estuary of the River Alt - there was no chance of me walking to the next station. I was stuck in Hightown for half an hour. Still, it meant I had plenty of time to get a high-level shot of me and the sign, halfway up the pedestrian bridge.



I'd imagined that Hightown would be a little village, and I was disappointed to find that it was determinedly suburban, in architecture and style. The newsagent on the village green had a sign sponsored by the Daily Mail, for goodness' sake. There was a man scrubbing the tyres of his 4x4 (the type that never offroads) with hot soapy water. I headed from the station through a couple of streets of semis to what I believed would be the sea, and I got a shock.


Suddenly it turned beautiful. This shot was taken literally three minutes from the train station. That is not something you expect to see in a place with an L postcode - it reminded me of holidays on the Norfolk Broads, and the weak winter sun just added to its wispy attractiveness. It was tranquil.


Apart from the gunshots. Yes, it seemed that the other side of the river, there was a shooting range, and my whole wander round the estuary was against a backdrop of cracks and bangs. It definitely impeded on the whole peaceful nature image. So I headed back to the station for the next train.




I've noticed a pattern starting to form through this blog: the penultimate station on my travels will be a gem. Last time it was Bank Hall, and not long ago, Hoylake got me squeeing like crazy. So it was on this trip, with Formby. For starters - ALF! The buckets and spades are a bit downmarket, though - Formby is definitely not a rival to Blackpool, and its sand dunes are of the windswept and elegant sort rather than the Kiss Me Kwik type. The whole Sefton Coast is a very delicately maintained series of sand dunes, carefully maintained as a coastal wilderness.

However, because I am a bit sad, the majesty of nature is nothing in comparism with a nice station - and Formby was a nice station. A plaque in the ticket hall said that it was restored in 2005, and they did a great job; just look at that wooden ticket booth, and the beams. But the best part was outside.

A tiled sign! A genuine, lovely, tiled station name sign. How fantastic! I may have to kill the local transport planners who decided that it was a great idea to put that traffic light in front of the FOR - if I find out who it was I may have to dump him in the shooting range at Hightown in a luminous coat. I was also disappointed to find that my picture of the mosaic tiled LYR (Lancashire & Yorkshire Railway) logos that had been restored on the sign didn't work for some reason. I am seriously tempted to go back and get them, because they were amazing.

My light was fading, and I had only twenty minutes to get to Freshfield, the day's final station. If Crosby is posh, then Formby is really posh - it's sort of like the difference between Victoria Beckham and Victoria Harvey. This is where the Liverpool & Everton footballers move to once they hit the hundred grand a week mark, and it was a constant stream of security gated residences all the way to the next station. If I win the lottery, this is where I'll probably end up - either here or cavorting with celebrities and drinking champagne, I haven't decided yet.

I reached Freshfield with only a minute or two before the train arrived to take me back to Liverpool, and I suddenly found myself trapped in a horrific Sophie's Choice. Freshfield had only one station sign, on the northbound platform - on the other side of the closed level crossing, in other words. It also had an ALF.

I was torn. I didn't have time to get right the way to the end of the platform, where the ALF was located, then back down and over the footbridge, to get myself in front of the station sign. The clock was ticking, and I had to decide which sign I needed more.

Snap decision: get the ALF, then a picture of yourself in front of a platform sign (rather than the entrance sign). I ran to the end, grabbed a shot of the rather mangy looking red squirrel (no wonder they're endangered) and then managed to crouch in front of a platform sign as the Liverpool train appeared on the horizon. Job done.

Except... Except it didn't feel right. It felt like cheating. It felt like laziness. I'd got a platform shot once before, at Birkenhead Park way back at the start, but I was just an amateur MerseyTarter then. Now I'm a pro. And yes, dammit; the obsessive compulsive part of me was saying, "Will you ever be happy knowing that you missed one? That you didn't get it right?"

And that, reader, is the case for the defence for this picture.

I didn't get the train. Instead I spent half an hour arsing around on the platform, on the street, and on the footbridge, trying to get a not bad shot, and this one is the one I like the best. My head looks bigger than the Face of Boe, but stuff it; it's me at Freshfield, and it tidies away a nice little section of the line.

The funny thing about these five stations is for the first time I felt I had travelled somewhere. All the stations I had been to before had been urban, either in their location or their architecture or both. The stations here - Hightown and Freshfield, certainly - felt like little country halts that just happened to have been swallowed up by the Liverpool metropolis. I felt like I had progressed somewhere. Even when the trip back into town took about half an hour, it seemed as though I had had a nice day out in the countryside somewhere. And I hadn't even got to the end of the line!

(Actually, I don't think there's any defence for that last picture...)

Thin Blue Lines

This is how obsessed I am now; I took a day off work so I could Tart Sandhills. Surely there's something wrong with me somewhere? Without thinking, without even consulting anyone, I took the Monday off so that I could get to Sandhills before it closed. Please remember - this is a train station. It's a train station that will be open again one day, albeit in a different form. I was treating it like Doctor Beeching was going to turn up with a napalm gun unless I attended. OBSESSED.

But sod it; I enjoyed myself. The closure of Sandhills gave me the opportunity to polish off certain aspects of the Northern Line. For these jaunts I was venturing into territory which was known of by reputation. I had been to Kirkby once before, for a job interview, and so I knew the gauntlet of death that stretched from Kirkby station to the town centre. Yes, this is a hopelessly patronising middle class reaction to being inserted into a working class world of high unemployment and low expectations, but damn, I don't care; I was scared. Kirkby was a scary town. It was built as a new town for Liverpool, and by "new town" what I mean is "dumping ground". The BF has family from Kirkby, and he talks of it like it's one of the rings of hell; to a poncy southern poof, it's really rather frightening.

But it's on the map, so I had to collect it. I took the train from Moorfields and poured myself out there. The thing is, Kirkby is a dead end in every sense of the word. Not only is it the end of the branch of the Northern Line - to change for a Wigan train, you have to walk down the platform and board a different train - but it's also miles from anywhere. Kirkby is cut off completely from the rest of Liverpool by the M57, so there was no chance of me wandering down the line to the next station. Kirkby therefore became a hop on, hop off kind of place.

I hopped off and took a pic of myself in front of the naff 80s box of a ticket office. One day, this might change, and the line will be extended to somewhere called Headbolt Lane; I like to imagine this is where Frankenstein's Monster lives (arf!). I had wracked my brain, trying to think what I could do in Kirkby for fifteen minutes until the next train came along. Fortunately, it turns out that the train has a massive dwell time before it departs again, so I was able to nip back on it a moment later and ride out to the next station.

Can I say that I love Fazakerley? Firstly, it sounds like something Worzel Gummidge would say. It's got too many consonants; if only you could use proper nouns in Scrabble - it would be worth a bomb. And secondly it has an ALF, and it's ages since I had one of those - I missed them.

Ok, it's a crap ALF. Don't use a road sign on a train platform - it's just wrong. Perhaps a broken limb or two, or maybe some MRSA bugs; something with a little joi de vivre. It's better than nothing though, so I happily snapped it and moved on.

Longmoor Lane runs from Fazakerley to Walton, and it's another of those wide roads that Liverpool seems to be blessed with. Sadly it's a little more run down than most. There were quite a few "no win no fee" solicitors in the shopping parades en route, but I was strong and managed to resist the temptation to chuck a brick through the windows. No win no fee is a blight upon society, and I reserve the right to be extremely indignant about this until the day when I suffer terrible whiplash in a car accident.

As I hit Walton I actually passed a little Goth/Emo couple who had been snogging on the steps at Kirkby station. I'm afraid, being hopelessly aged and out of date, that I'm not sure whether kids of today find being called a Goth insulting. Personally, I have never met a Goth I didn't like; they're tremendously lovely people, and I sadly fell out of touch with a particularly nice specimen a few years ago (Eve, if you're out there, I'm sorry! Get in touch!). Emos seem to be the 21st century version of Goths; they like the make-up, and the morbid fascinations, but their music is particularly rubbish, and they seem to want to combine a mortal depression with owning a Wii and getting a good job in the City. Doesn't seem right somehow.

Anyway, the point is, this little pair of teenage EmoGoths (why weren't they in school? Anyway.) obviously recognised me from Kirkby station, and a look of befuddlement crossed their face; they clearly couldn't understand why I was walking along a street in Walton when they'd plainly seen me get off the train in Fazakerley. I'm afraid to say I grinned at them as I passed; though I didn't look back, I like to think they rolled their eyes in a dismissive teenage way. (In a moment of lovely local colour, they were listening to the same iPod, one ear bud each; I like to imagine it was some Robert Smith or Siouxie Sioux, but I have this horrible dread feeling it was Nickleback).

I was in Walton so I could use Orrell Park station to get me back on track (hoho). Regular readers (hello you!) will remember that I was delighted to find a man cleaning the platform last time I was here. On a crisp - some might say chilly - November morning, I was even more delighted to find that there were actually two men clearing the platform of leaves today. I also noticed for the first time that there are flower boxes on the platform. Orrell Park, I salute you and your hard working staff.

It was doubly nice because the next station was Kirkdale. This is the point where the Kirkby and Ormskirk lines split. Collecting this station made a whole branch of the Northern Line disappear forever, so that was good. Also good was that Kirkdale is another redeveloped station, with that somewhat pedantic Merseyrail habit of listing exactly how many steps there are to the top; there was also a glamorous glass lift that was packed full of lazy train workers from the nearby depot for whom 48 steps is apparently a struggle.

Kirkdale also has a nice new sign, which is different to the flat and boxy ones I'm used to. This is where the good things about Kirkdale end, because, God help us, it's in a really not very nice area. At least Kirkby had trees. I walked from the station along some frighteningly grim streets of terraced houses; broken glass was all over the pavements, and the new housing that had been built in the 60s carried the grim tint of despair. This is where dock workers once lived, and once the docks went, so did the reason for living here; the people who remain are not there through choice. I rushed through here, along Stanley Road, in search of Bank Hall station.

My expectations were low. The area was just the wrong side of horrible. I had read on Wikipedia that Bank Hall is extremely underused, because of its remote location. My friend Barry's ex-boyfriend's brother (are you keeping up?) used to work here, and he said "Bank Hall" like it was the Hellmouth. It just didn't seem like a tantalising prospect.

This just shows why preconceptions are rubbish. Bank Hall was wonderful. I can't describe how pleased I was by it. The ticket office is a perfect little Victorian gem; as you can see from my grin in the pic, I was utterly charmed before I even stepped inside. A flight of steps took me down into a dramatic space, a single island platform between long curving lines under a high brick wall. And it had something better than ALFs. It had art. Proper, decent, platform art.

Spaced along the platform were three concrete posts, each of which was inlaid with metal figures. At first, the sun, then at right angles to it, the moon; at the next, a fish, with a squirrel alongside; and finally, a representation of industry, accompanied by a copper sailing ship. I'll show you these features before I continue.


How wonderful are they?! There were no signs to show what this art project was for; how it came about, or what it represented. I can see the land/sea links, how the area was guided by the common themes and so on; but usually there's a plaque somewhere talking about it. Even better, while I was waiting, more people arrived on the platform, and another traveller took as much of an interest in the art as me. My terminal shyness prevented me from saying anything, but I was unfeasibly pleased to see how it was appreciated; he did the same as me, touching the cold metal, seeking out each image, and half-smiling to find such an unexpected diamond. I love you Bank Hall, and I'm not afraid to admit it; what better way could there be to break my Southport line duck?

After all that, Sandhills couldn't help but be a bit of a let down, even if it did have less than a week to live. It's a breezy station, a couple of platforms perched high on a viaduct in the middle of industrial estates; its principal interest is that you can get a train to any Northern Line destination from here. When it's completed this will be a modern transport interchange, with lifts to the platforms, and finally a decent shelter so you don't freeze your knackers off while you wait - in the meantime, I'll preserve it for eternity in digital form.

Sandhills also provided the opportunity for a lovely bookending ALF trip. In my last post, I recounted my disastrous misadventures on the Wirral Line, which saw me collect Birkenhead Central. In all the shenanigans, I wasn't able to get Central's ALF. To make up for this, I started today's trips at Birkenhead Central, and so I managed to get a great compare and contrast as all Merseyside's professional football teams are encapsulated in the form of ALF boards.

Birkenhead Central's Auton is a bit scary, I have to admit. I also don't like the fact that the town centre is relegated to an afterthought in comparism to a bus to Tranmere, but still. In my OCD fashion, the idea that I'd started and ended my journey with footie-related ALFs was a great way to bookend my trip.

So: another five down. For the first time, I had travelled on all three branches of the Northern Line, and I've knocked another branch of the list. The only stations remaining on the Ormskirk line are the three Lancashire ones, but I have the whole of the Southport line glittering before me...

Just try and ignore the hair.

Fact: Merseyrail is the best performing railway franchise in Britain. This is a bit of a cheat, to be honest, as all its rails are separated from the rest of the network, but still, it's a fact, and certainly a change from when it used to be nicknamed "Miseryrail".

However, the Gods demand karmic retribution for this, and so when things go wrong on the system, they tend to go horribly wrong. As I found out last Tuesday on my way to work. My usual train leaves Birkenhead Central at twenty-five to eight, and gets to Chester at ten past. On Tuesday, though, it stopped suddenly in the tunnel outside Green Lane station. After a few minutes of terse silence - during which every passenger carefully avoided catching the eye of anyone else, in case an unbidden conversation started - the announcement came that there was a defect on the train and our journey would end at Rock Ferry. Another service to Chester would follow twenty minutes later.

We were disgorged at Rock Ferry, and I was presented with a conundrum: do I stand here on a platform of disgruntled people, listening to them all moaning about "typical British Rail" even though British Rail hasn't been in existence for about fifteen years? Or do I do something useful with my time?

Here's a hint: I hadn't collected Rock Ferry yet.

I had a more practical reason for zipping out of the station. I knew from previous experience that Green Lane, the preceeding station, was only a ten minute walk away; I could therefore double back on myself and get the next Chester train before it hit all those people at Rock Ferry - meaning I probably wouldn't have to fight for a seat in the process. Pleased with my little plan, I hied myself out of the station and captured it for posterity.

Rock Ferry was once a large, important interchange. It used to have six tracks going through it, and was the terminus for the electric trains to Liverpool; this was in the days when there were through services from Birkenhead's Woodside ferry terminal to London. Then some of the tracks were ripped up, and the electrification of the line was extended south, and Rock Ferry became just another station on the Wirral Line. Its large station building was demolished, and now there's a pathetic ticket office which, as you can see, barely qualifies for the name. In addition, to cut down on maintenance costs, the waiting room on the platform was bricked up, forming a large red box that is of no use whatsoever. It's a sad shadow of its former self.

I walked back through the fag-end streets of Rock Ferry, past boarded up pubs and scary looking houses that turned their back on the street. It was the morning after Bonfire Night; though I hadn't realised it at the time, I'd walked past a murder scene on my way to Birkenhead Central - a man had been killed and put on a bonfire as a gruesome real-life Guy Fawkes. Here, the signs were less macabre, but still hinted at violence - fences were raggedly burnt, and remnants of fireworks lay on the pavement with beer cans and smashed glass. I didn't linger, but scurried on to Green Lane.

It was ten minutes since I'd left Rock Ferry, so I figured I was in plenty of time for the train; but as I poked my head round the door and squinted at the departure board, I saw that the replacement Chester train had also been cancelled. There was no way I was going to loiter on the platform for three quarters of an hour, so I turned round and walked off - heading for my start station, Birkenhead Central.

The electric trains under the Mersey were operated by the Mersey Railway before nationalisation, and Birkenhead Central was the headquarters of the company. It was built with more impressive features as a result, and an office block adjoined it, but like Rock Ferry its glory days are behind it. Not only did the change to British Rail mean that it was relegated to just a staff headquarters, with the offices shifted elsewhere, but also the rebuilding of the Mersey Tunnel entrance in the sixties meant that a massive flyover was constructed right in front of it. Now the "Central" station is cut off from the town itself by dual carriageways, and it cowers under the road.

Unlike at Rock Ferry, though, there are still remnants of the glory days. This gigantic advertisement on the gable end, for example, still shouts at passers by. In fact, as you speed out of the tunnel, onto the flyover, it's practically the first thing you see on the Wirral; no longer accurate, perhaps, but still somehow defiant in the face of the drivers. It looks like Merseyrail repaint this sign, as well, which makes me think they take a perverse pleasure in it - its certainly in better condition than this one, on the front of the station. I'm pleased to note that I've collected all these stations (except for Chester, which I am gaining a perverse pleasure from ignoring for the time being).

This is where I sort of, slightly, broke the MerseyTart rules, but only if you are being pedantic about their application. It occurred to me that having embarked at Birkenhead Central, and then got off at Rock Ferry, I'd actually visited the stations either side of Green Lane; it seemed perverse not to get Green Lane as well. I had to get the train from there to fully comply with the rules. So I took my picture outside Birkenhead Central, even though I didn't then get a train from that station, but since I'd got one from there about half an hour earlier, I figured it still counted. If you don't agree, tough. It's my website.

(By the way, yes, I do know my hair looks awful. Only on downloading these pics did I realise how dreadful I looked. In fairness, it was a very windy day, but still. The last person to have hair like that was Grace Jones circa 1984, and I do not want to be known as a white, male Grace Jones impersonator.)

It was a case of back up the hill then to Green Lane. I have been here many times, and I have to say, I love it. It's a very odd little station. Firstly, it's half underground. What do I mean by that? Well, the southbound platform is covered by a brick vaulted ceiling; the northbound platform, on the other hand, is open to the elements. It's just strange. Did they run out of money halfway? Was there a bomb strike during the Second World War?

It's actually handy, because without the open platform, the station would be unbelievably dark and oppressive. It's a genuine Victorian-built station, and it screams 19th Century; the walls are dank, and wet, the lighting is barely there, the overbridge is wood and metal. The ticket office has some lovely tiling around what must have once been a huge ticket window.

The next reason it's odd, is it is advertised as "Green Lane for Lairdside" on the signs. Cammell Laird shipbuilders is a couple of hundred yards away, so this is theoretically accurate, but I don't understand why it's being advertised. Port Sunlight didn't say "Port Sunlight for Unilever". And there's no such place as "Lairdside" - it's not a tourist attraction. Perhaps they wanted to give Green Lane an ALF, then realised there were no Attractive Local Features, so they compromised.

My last reason for loving strange little Green Lane is it's almost always deserted. Since Birkenhead Central and Rock Ferry are so close, people tend to head there, so it's only shipworkers (of which, sadly, there are fewer and fewer) and the very few locals who use it. I had the whole station to myself while I waited for the Chester train, and I got a sudden power rush. ALL YOUR STATIONS ARE BELONG TO ME! BWAHAHAHA!

A train finally turned up, but even then, I was infected; the MerseyTart bug had bitten me again. I debated it in my mind, but finally gave in - I needed one more station! Off I leapt at the next uncollected station.

This was Spital, winner of the competition for Worst Station Name Ever for the past hundred years. Yes, it is pronounced "Spittle". Who in their right mind moves to somewhere called Spital? Was Phlegm too hard to spell? Despite its horrific name, Spital is actually a charming little station; it feels countryfied, even though it's smack bang in the middle of suburban Wirral. The station building looks like a little cottage. I nipped out, took my pic, and then went back down so that I could turn up to work. I could have quite happily have carried on whizzing round for the rest of the day, but I have to pay for my rail ticket somehow...

We Announce An Unscheduled Alteration To Your Travel Plans

While in work today, I thought I'd plan my next MerseyTart trip (this is how devoted I am to my job). So I nipped to the Merseytravel website to find this disturbing news:

Temporary Closure of Sandhills Station 17 November 2007 to March 2008

From Saturday 17 November 2007 through to March 2008, Sandhills station on the Merseyrail Northern Line will be closed for refurbishment.

During this time it will not be possible to get on or off a train at Sandhills station.Rail replacement buses will be running between Sandhills and Bank Hall stations, and between Sandhills and Kirkdale stations for the benefit of passengers wishing to travel to and from Sandhills. Please note, there will be no change to Northern Line train times.

The refurbishment works at Sandhills includes:A new ticket office and booking hall; platform improvements including a new canopy and enclosed waiting rooms; a lift to platform level; a passenger ramp; a fully-accessible passenger toilet; new lighting and CCTV for improved passenger security and new customer information displays and help point.

Merseytravel and Merseyrail are sorry for any inconvenience this closure will cause.

I knew that Sandhills was due to be revamped, but I didn't know it was going to be closed; I'm now presented with the panicky situation that I have only one weekend to get out there and tart it in its present form. In my head, it was lumped together with the Bootle stations; but one of those is also being revamped, and so I was saving it for when it was in its full glory. Damn you Merseytravel! You've cocked up my plans now. This weekend is going to have to be the plunge out there, but the question is: where do I go after that? I could finish off the Kirkby line, but I don't know. Oh, the decisions!