Crazy Horses (Wah! Wah!)

I was on the train home this evening, when the BF called to tell me he was working late. So why diidn't I hang around in town for a bit and meet him for a pint?

Well, I could have done that, but I wasn't in the mood. Instead, to kill the time, I jumped off the train at Liverpool South Parkway so I could have a look at the horse picture I talked about before. It really is ridiculously huge. I mean, just silly. Not just because of the size, but because it bears absolutely no relation to its surroundings.

But I'll let it off, because it is pretty cool.

All's Fine on the Preston Front

I apologise if I seem a bit rough around the edges. This is my first post using Blogo, on my Mac laptop; my PC, which has long had the constitution of a consumptive Victorian orphan, has decided to take to its bed for the Last Rites. So this is an emergency port to the Mac, and away from the familiar world of LiveWriter to something new. Any spelling, grammar or layout mistakes are entirely the fault of Blogo, and nothing to do with me. Honest.

Anyway: Preston. Cards on the table- I came here to mock. It had always struck me as one of those "meh" cities. Like Northampton, or Middlesborough - one of those places you've heard of, but you can't really say why. It hasn't got any famous landmarks, or alumni (though I did read that as a tribute to Nick Park, the creator of Wallace and Gromit and former resident, the city council is considering building a statue to the plasticine characters. Which makes me die inside a little). It's sort of in the back of your head as somewhere up North that's big and in some way important.

But it turned out I was seduced. (Oh - I've given away the ending now). I'd taken the Northern Rail train from Lime Street, over the West Coast main line, and I have to say that Preston station's a joy. A good, decent sized Victorian trainshed, with a load of impressive sounding destinations (London, Glasgow, er, Colne). Some money had been spent cleaning it up, so the steam train soot had been washed away, and the ticket facilities and shops were resolutely 21st century. It was smooth, well proportioned, and nicely busy, even though it was a Friday morning.

Outside, there was a good entrance, at the end of an impressive taxi road off the main street. I should point out it was a right bugger to arrange myself with the station behind, and it took me a good half a dozen shots, much to the amusement of the taxi drivers.

From there it was into the city centre itself. I'd been to Preston a grand total of twice before. The first time, with my friend (and Preston resident) Jennie about 12 years ago. We came on a Saturday, poked around Waterstone's, went into Woolworths and made cruel jokes about the similarity between a Hallowe'en mask and someone of our acquaintance, and went home. It was a good day, but mainly for the company; the town itself didn't register.

The second time I went to Preston, about five years ago, it was a longer trip. My employers had paid for me to take a professional qualification, and after a year's study, I had three days of exams at UCLan. Actually, when I say I did a year's study, it was in fact a couple of weekends and a lot of cramming. So those three days basically found me locked in a sweaty, non-airconditioned Holiday Inn room, desperately scanning every inch of my course books in the hope that some of it might possibly sink in. When each exam finished, I staggered back to the hotel room and collapsed on the bed, before getting out my note cards and starting all over again. (In a big two fingers to the entire education system, I actually passed and received letters after my name).

This was my first proper look round, and I really enjoyed it. I had a couple of hours before my train out, and I just wandered around. From the main Fishergate, I headed into Winckley Square. It came as a great shock to me. I'd seen it on the map, and I thought it was a typical Georgian square - four sides, bit of garden in the middle, you know the thing. It turned out to be a proper park, a real oasis right in the centre of the city. I wandered into the centre of the green space and it was like I'd walked into the countryside; the traffic noise melted away, and the birdsong replaced it. Then I was through, and out the other side, and back into the square proper. Sadly, a lot of the houses around its perimeter had been replaced over the years with less than stellar architecture, so it had lost some of its unity. There were a few little gems. As seems to be the case in all public squares, the buildings were occupied by a combination of solicitors, accountants and the Inland Revenue. In the corner was a single residential development, but the rest was office space. Which seems like a waste of a perfectly good square, if you ask me.

From there I advanced to another of Preston's gems - its market halls. I'm not talking about the inside market, the fish-scented home to dodgy Outspan floggers. I'm talking about its iron and steel market canopies, outside where you can breathe. I had a poke around the book stalls, of course.

What's the correct term for a gathering of Agatha Christies? A Marple? A Murder? A Massacre?

There were plenty of books to tempt me, but there always are; that's why my house has a permanent smell of yellowing paperback. I almost bought one just because of this notice. My head was conjuring up an epic tale of stallholder rivalry, of other booksellers resenting this man's success with the second-hand Grisham, and concocting tales to Trading Standards. Mills and Boons at dawn, angry marketeers throwing heavy Stephen Kings at one another; like the Sopranos, but with more Barbara Cartland. In the end, I decided not to, because I had a long day's walking ahead of me, and half a dozen Will Selfs in my backpack might be a hindrance.

Here's my attitude towards buses: I don't like 'em. In my opinion, buses are to be used only in the following circumstances:

a) rail replacement service;
b) open topped city tours;
c) sheer, bloody desperation.

I don't subscribe to Mrs Thatcher's "anyone over the age of 30 on a bus is a failure", but I would rather crawl on all fours than climb aboard a double decker. I find them miserable, oppressive vehicles; perhaps it's the preponderance of pensioners and teenagers, neither of which I'm particularly comfortable with. When I was growing up, we didn't have a car (start your violins now), so we had to go everywhere on the bus; a trip to see my nan in Hertford involved three different buses. Perhaps those experiences ruined it for me. Certainly, once I was old enough to go into town on my own, I would always walk twenty minutes to Leagrave train station for the hop into Luton, rather than take a bus from the end of my road.

I do have an unhealthy interest in bus stations though. Again, I can't explain it; it's that transport architecture gene in me coming to the fore again. Merseytravel does some great glass and steel bus stations. Luton's, before it was demolished, was a hell of quite epic proportions. But Preston bus station is a marvel, a thing of beauty, and it's soon to be demolished. So I had to go and say goodbye.

Ok, I admit: my concept of "a thing of beauty" may differ slightly from the norm. And even I will accept that it's not really up there with the Taj Mahal or the Pyramids or Russell Tovey. But look at it! The graceful upward sweep of the car park above the wide concourse. The brutal concrete made curved and gentle. It's built as an island, with the station surrounded by bus-only roads; travellers access it through a network of subways. Which is, of course, not great. I've spoken before about the sad gap between architectural aspirations and human nature. While to the architects, it seemed like an ideal solution to the problem of getting people into a bus station without them being run over, the rest of the world took one look at the subways and thought "Yay! What a great place to get raped!"

Inside, it's a wide open space, which to me seemed more like an airport terminal - it had that same feel of movement, and progression. There's plenty of circulation space, and light streams in through the double-decker high glass walls. Look at it closely though, and you see that it's been abandoned. The finishes are scuffed and broken, the shops are empty, the clock doesn't work; even the cafe has plastic moulded seats and should more technically be termed a "caff". In short, it makes a bus user feel second class by being miserable, and grim.

Somewhat inevitably, it's marked for demolition, even though it's only forty years old. Within a generation it's gone from being the gleaming young hero of public transport to the unwashed dirty uncle in the corner, smoking a fag and muttering about the good times. The developer is Grosvenor, and it will be replaced by a whole multitude of shops, as well as a new terminus; while I'm very grateful to Grosvenor for Liverpool One, I'm also glad that the credit crunch has come along and put the redevelopment on hold. I think a few more years and we'll start to reappraise the bus station, and come to enjoy it - architectural fashions are cyclical, and just as Centre Point and the National Theatre have gone on to be, if not loved, then at least valued by the public, I think the bus station can have its time too. I'm not suggesting a huge amount of investment. I'm being realistic. A decent restoration, a few plasma screens, a Costa coffee and - ok, I'll let you have this one - a way into the station that doesn't involve underground travel, and it'll be great again.

Back into the city itself, and I headed for the Harris Museum, which, sadly, is not named after the legend that is Anita Harris. It's a particularly fine example of a local museum, and should be held up as an example to other cities. It has a beautiful building, centrally located; the exhibits are interesting and informative; there is a commitment to touring exhibitions; and there's a nice coffee shop. I admit, it suffers from the usual over-excitement about Paleolithic pottery, and in keeping with the law regarding provincial museums, there's a bad dummy in Victorian dress in a recreated street scene, but if you're like me and killing half an hour before your train comes, I recommend it.

At the station, I spent about thirty eight pounds on a sandwich and a bottle of water (the woman behind the counter was very cheery; I assume she's on commission) and ate them on the platform. I have to admit, I was immensely cheered by my morning. Preston had surprised me with its compact pleasantness. It was a town centre done right; good transport, a nice mix of shops, open spaces to breathe in. I sort of wished I had more time to look round; in the museum, there was a feature on Fishergate's shops, which showed the kind of fantasy bookstore all bibliophiles wish they owned (second hand novels piled as high as you can see) but I couldn't hunt it down in time. I had a train to catch - off into the wilds of Lancashire...

A Little Bit Loopy

The Liverpool Loop – that wonder of engineering that sweeps under the city’s streets, from James Street to Moorfields to Lime Street to Central and James Street again – is closed right now, and will be for a few weeks.  Network Rail are doing some major track maintenance, so for this period, passengers from the Wirral have to get off at James Street, whether they like it or not.

This has caused some consternation and anger on the Peninsula side.  Last week’s Wirral Globe shouted “RETURN TO RAIL CHAOS” and got vox pops from various disgruntled locals.  Mum of two Samantha Risdale, 32, of Town Lane, Bebington, said “Journeys just take so much longer.  It’s the worst time to do this kind of work, there’s so many people wanting to travel over the Bank Holiday weekend and take advantage of the days off”.

As I am a cynical, miserable, glass half empty kind of person , you’d expect me to join in with her groans.  I’m not going to though, because, frankly, this is the price you pay if you want a railway that works and is safe.  Complaining about track maintenance is just a dumb thing to do, as far as I’m concerned.  I’d like Network Rail to say, “fair enough, we won’t maintain the track.  Remember this when the train derails.”  And Samantha, when would be a good time to do this?  If you rule out Bank Holidays, then you have to do it when people are going to work; if you do it at the weekend, it’s when people are going shopping.  I think what you meant was, “It’s the worst time to do this kind of work, as I had planned on using the train.  Can Network Rail consult me on my travel plans next time?”  I find it so depressing when people’s default setting is “complain”.  Yes, it’s inconvenient.  I now have to get an earlier train in the morning, so I can get my connection to Crewe.  I can no longer carry on reading my book in transit between the over and underground stations.  I work up a bit of a sweat as I pound across town.

But… now I get nights like Friday night.  I got off at Lime Street, and wandered across town in balmy sunshine.  I walked past the mighty, beautiful St George’s Hall.  I cut through Queen’s Square, where people were sat at tables drinking wine and chatting.  Then down Whitechapel, which looks so much better since the Met Quarter opened, and onto the junction with Church Street.  A hen party had appropriated the services of a busker there, and the bride was belting out “When You Say Nothing At All” to encouraging cheers from the shoppers.  There was a lad getting arrested outside Debenhams, and getting into a police car; I don’t know what he was being arrested for, but he looked pretty sheepish about it.  At Derby Square, I crossed by the road works, as the Big Dig is turning its attention to the paving here; Queen Victoria’s going to get some decent stone surroundings, and an outline of the old Liverpool castle will be inlaid into the ground.  Hopefully it’ll cheer up the miserable old bag, but I doubt it.  And finally I was into the station itself, now finished and gleaming.  A train was waiting on the platform, and I was whisked under the river, home to Birkenhead Park, where I got to walk home through the sunshine and trees.

It’s exciting and different.  If I had to do it every day, forever, the novelty would probably wear off, but it’s just for six weeks.  Six weeks where I get to have a wander through the city centre, which is great, because Liverpool looks bloody marvellous now.  Sorry Samantha from Bebington.  You’re on your own there, love.

Art on the Underground

This rather natty, rather interesting, poster was waiting at Birkenhead Park for me the other day. I quote:

Merseytravel is offering residents the chance to be involved in enhancing the journey experience by creating your very own piece of art to go on display at Merseytravel’s facilities near you.

What a fantastic idea! I’m a big supporter of the transport networks putting funding into the arts. The London Underground – my first love when it comes to urban rail networks (sorry Merseyrail) – has a long and distinguished history of design and graphic excellence. It’s more than just the iconic Diagram; it’s also the unified corporate world, the innovative posters, the elegant architecture, and of course the Art on the Underground project. Not only is it a great idea to have publicly funded bodies providing support for day to day beauty in people’s lives, but it also gives bored commuters something to stare at.

Big, big problem with Liverpool’s scheme though.

For more information and to download your entry form check out our website www.merseytravel.gov.uk.

Well Merseytravel, it’s five days since I first saw the poster, and there’s not a sign of this project on your website. Admittedly, it’s had a redesign since I was last there, so perhaps you’re all sweating buckets over a pile of hot HTML, but putting posters up to advertise a resource, and then forgetting the resource? CORPORATE FAIL.

It’s so disappointing when you try to be nice about someone and they let you down. To cheer us all up, let’s look at some nice horses:

Merseytravel have commissioned artist Janet Shearer to paint this to commemorate the Grand National, and there are posters of it in the subway to Lime Street. The design is taken from a 9 x 5m original at Liverpool South Parkway, which is bonkers for a couple of reasons: (1) 45 square metres of painting is just mad, and (2) there will be approximately 3 people using LSP as a means of getting to Aintree, so its value as a promotional device is pretty non-existent. Still, as I say, big thumbs up to Merseytravel for commissioning it in the first place, when they could have spent the money on a bus shelter or something. I might have to get off the train a stop early next week when I’m on the trip home so I can see it in all its mad, oversized glory.

EDIT: Robert has found the entry form - not through the website (heaven forfend!) but through a Google search. Which is fucking GENIUS, obviously. Anyway, here it is - if any reader wins, I want a credit!

Take that, Colour Tsars!

I have referred to the Colour Tsars many times in my posts. These are the men at Merseytravel who have issued a diktat that everything on the network must be grey and yellow. Benches, signs, staircases; all in the corporate colours, whether it's appropriate or not.

So I was amused to spot that someone at the Highways Department hasn't had the memo, and has put up a very wrong sign right on Moorfield's doorstep. You're getting a black and yellow M, and to hell with your Corporate Identity! Ha!

Thameslink loses a leg

Nothing to do with Merseyrail whatsoever; but as a former Lutonian, and regular user of Thameslink, I can't let the last Moorgate service pass without comment. I remember boarding a Thameslink train for the first time, and being shocked by how clean and modern it was, with its posh toilets and its outline diagrams of St Paul's on the wall. It became an intrinsic part of my life when I used to go up to London of a Friday afternoon to go to Old Compton Street. Sorry, did I say Old Compton Street? I meant the West End cinemas to watch frightfully intelligent films. With subtitles.

Anyway, the gist is: goodbye Moorgate and Barbican, and even though I'll miss you on the Thameslink map, I'm glad you're being sacrificed for a better world.

Being Boring

International Supertart! Well, sort of. Today's trip not only took me and the Bf out of our Merseyside comfort zone, but actually out of England: over the border into Wales. Well, I say, "our" comfort zone. In fact, the Bf was returning to his roots. We were headed for Deeside, where he grew up, and so this was a Tart for me, and a nostalgia trip for him.

To get there, we naturally had to take a train, so it was off to Bidston for a non-Merseyrail train. In fact, this is the first trip where I never once set foot on one of Merseyrail's finest - we drove to the station (lazy, but after last time we didn't want to risk it) and proceeded from there onto an Arriva train. It was eight thirty on a Saturday morning, ridiculously early for a weekend, but sadly necessary, as our first stop is only rarely served. Hawarden Bridge only gets four trains on Monday to Saturday, two in the morning and two in the evening, and none on a Sunday. In fact, it's so rarely served, you have to specifically ask for the train to stop. I've never been on a "request only" train before. It's a bit of an unusual experience, and, because I'm utterly neurotic, made me tense up. I was afraid the guard would forget, and we'd miss it altogether.

Fortunately he didn't. The Bf and I were the only people to alight at Hawarden Bridge, and when the train disappeared off over the river, we were left on the deserted platform. It was like we'd been given a train station to play with. We crossed the tracks, by literally walking over them - another first for me, and a bit unnerving. When I was at school we used to get the British Transport Police visiting what seemed like every other week to lecture us on the hazards of wandering on railway lines, and particularly the dangerous third rail. It's drilled into my head that if you go anywhere near a railway line 200,000 volts are likely to arc straight through the air, right up your trouser leg, and convert you into a charcoal briquette. Here, they were positively encouraging you to dance across the tracks. It enabled me to stand in the middle of the tracks and take a pic of the bridge itself. It was once a swing bridge, with the first, larger arch pivoting to allow ships past, but this is a feature which has long since fallen out of use.


Arriva Train Wales run an "Adopt a Station" scheme, encouraging local groups to join in with their community by caring for their local stations. Or alternatively, saving themselves a few bob by getting local pensioners and teenagers to do all the tidying up for them. Anyway, Frank Buxton is the Angelina Jolie of Hawarden Bridge station, and I'm mentioning this here because all I can say is, well done sir, and a mention in a barely-frequented blog in the corner of the internet is your reward.

Hawarden Bridge needs all the help it can get. Its purpose is to serve the massive Shotton steelworks, which spread all along the bank of the river here, but as you may have guessed from the somewhat erratic service patterns, there just isn't the demand anymore. At one point in the Sixties, 13,000 people worked in the steelworks; now it's less than a thousand. Obscure fact which bears only the slightest relation to the word "interesting": the Anderson Air Raid shelter was made here.



We crossed over the bridge, and wandered round in the grasses. There was a pillbox, which I immediately clambered onto. I have this compulsion that whenever I see a pillbox I have to stand on the roof - it's a sickness. I'd have been useless in the war. It formed a podium beneath me, and so naturally my thoughts turned to the massive statue of me which will be built once I have conquered the planet. I posed to allow the Bf to get the model right, ready to give to the thousands of slave workers to carve out of solid onyx; unfortunately, while in my head I was Lenin bringing the joys of socialism to the huddled masses, in reality I looked like Wayne Sleep calling for a taxi. I decided to postpone my reign of terror for a little bit longer until I could get the arms right.



I've always wondered whether pillboxes would be much use anyway. If a fleet of German battlecruisers were floating down the Dee, intent on capturing Saltney Ferry, would a bloke in a concrete bunker fragging them from a distance have been anything more than an irritation?

The pathways were surprisingly busy, considering it was silly o'clock on a Saturday morning. Dog walkers, cyclists, walking couples. But no fat people, because the local council wants to restrict their access to the footbridge - causing the peasants to revolt:

I have this terribly cruel, but terribly amusing image of a Billy Bunteresque schoolboy, sobbing as he scrawls his fevered protest, the bag of chips dripping vinegar down his sleeve and causing him to forget to put the "R" in government. Perhaps this is the first assault from a new outsized radical group? Like Fathers 4 Justice, only less likely to climb on a rooftop, for obvious reasons.



Back over the bridge again (the north bank is a more interesting walk than the south) and we passed the run down former HQ of John Summers & Son - the company that ran the steelworks before they were nationalised (and then privatised again). It was a fine example of Victorian braggardry, ornately tiled, with a beautiful entrance - and of course it was completely barred and unused. I imagine the admin offices for the steelworks are now in a bland cabin somewhere amongst the mills. They certainly don't swagger on the riverbank, the landmark clock tower reminding the locals that the steelworks even set the time round here. All gone. All that industry, just vanished. What have we replaced it with? A whole load of businesses that are intangible and barely there, things like shopping and finance, stuff that, as we are finding out, are only worth anything in the good times. Once it gets tough, you need skills and resources, and suddenly we don't seem to have any. (Insert "Bloody Thatcher" reference here).

Anyway, that's an extremely woolly unfocused lefty political point, which isn't really what I should be talking about. It's just the kind of thing that comes into your head when you see great things reduced to a shadow of their former selves.

The path along the river is on an embankment, high above the waterline, because we were on reclaimed land now. Back in the 18th Century, the Dee was silting up hopelessly, and the panic stricken men of the Port of Chester shipped in some Dutch engineers to try and sort it out. They carved a long, straight canal from the estuary into the city (with just a little kink round the rocks at Handbridge) to make the Dee navigable again. Behind it, they reclaimed the area now known as Sealand (clue's in the name).

It didn't do them any good. The river carried on silting up, and the port facilities progressed further and further up the Wirral coast until they ended up at West Kirby and realised there wasn't anywhere left to go. The shipping traffic transferred to the other side of the peninsula - over to Liverpool.

The legacy, though, was the tidal phenomenon of the Dee Bore. The Bf has been banging on about this for years - he was a Dee Bore about the Dee Bore, to be honest - and so I'd finally relented and suggested we see it on this trip. If I'm completely honest it was a sweetener to get him to come out with me in the first place, as I knew a 9 am weekend visit to Hawarden Bridge would be a hard sell.

The Dee Bore is the effect the waters take when the tide turns. This happens all the time, all around the world of course, but usually it's almost imperceptible. Where the volume turning is channelled into a small space, very quickly, then a bore is formed: a strong ridge of water that sweeps down the river. It's a pretty rare phenomenon, with perhaps the most famous one being the Severn Bore. Those Dutch engineers, in narrowing the river for their canal, created an environment where a bore could appear and flourish.

We took up our positions on the bank, under the Queensferry Bridge, and waited. Nothing was happening. The tide was still merrily going out, towards the sea. This wasn't meant to happen. We'd checked with the Proudman Laboratories website before setting out for the time the bore should have shown up, and it was late. I was unhappy with nature at this. It was cold, and grey, and I was stood on muddy grass; the least they could do was arrange for this natural phenomenon to arrive on time. Plus, the two of us looked like perverts. We looked like we'd clambered under the bridge with the express intent of committing some act of frottage, and the cyclists on the footpath kept giving us funny looks. I ensured there was a respectable distance between us.

Down in the river, a feather had stopped flowing with the tide, and was instead staying more or less still. The waters were shifting.

"There it is!" The Bf was suddenly pointing into the distance. I followed his finger, and saw what looked like a few waves bouncing off the base of the old swing bridge. Except, the waves formed a line, across the width of the river. On the bank, the waves turned into a white rolling mass, that scared a flock of seagulls into the air.



Full disclosure: I was initially disappointed. In my head, the bore had built up and up and up, until it resembled that tidal wave in The Day After Tomorrow that swamps the Statue of Liberty. I was expecting a full on, roaring beast of a tsunami, and this was just a wave with pretensions.


As it got closer, it impressed more and more. There was the noise, for one thing: a low, heavy grumble, like the ocean was reclaiming its territory and conquering the river. As it swept towards us, I began to feel a primitive instinct in me wanting to turn and run. I can only imagine what people made of the bore before they fully understood the tides; it must have seemed supernatural. It just kept coming, scaring the birds as it came.




In a Merseytart first, we have video!



It was on a cameraphone, alright? I have never been mistaken for Steven Spielberg (thankfully; having seen Temple of Doom, I don't think I could spend much time with Kate Capshaw without belting her in the jaw). It gives you an idea of what it looked like though, and I have to say, it's better in the flesh. You get that tingle of anticipation as it approaches, and this childish glee as it flows past you. The Bf told me that when he was growing up they would sit beside the river, waiting for it to come, and I can see why. The Famous Five would have done the same (in between patronising the working classes, foiling smugglers and telling people they were "jolly decent").

Finally the bore passed us, leaving whitewashed foam in its wake, crashing under the bridge and moving on. It finally dies at the weir in Chester, at the point where the freshwater meets the seawater. A cleverer man than me would find some symbolism in that.

All bored out, we scrambled back up the bank in a frankly undignified fashion, and walked into Queensferry. On the way I was able to get a quick snap of the entrance to the former Queensferry station, the victim of Beeching cuts in 1966. Just a couple of bricked up doorways, but it was good to mentally tick it off the list.



The road between Queensferry and Shotton was absolutely choked with traffic; we were actually walking faster than the cars. We passed the Bf's old high school, then Deeside Comp, now John Summers High School after the steelworks owner, and a massive B & Q. Shotton station was in the town centre. This is the point where the Borderlands Line between Wrexham and Bidston crosses the mainline between Chester and North Wales. It's a prime interchange point. Which is why the Beeching cuts took away the low level Chester line platforms and got rid of any interchange potential. Sometimes you wonder what was going through people's heads when they planned the cuts. Eventually after lobbying from the Council they were able to restore the lower level station, but because British Rail had physically demolished the platforms, they had to spend another shedload of money building it all again.

Shotton station is never going to win any beauty contests. The Borderlands platforms are up on the viaduct, and the ticket office is built in a building that looks like a down at heel public toilet. Once again it was underlined how much better off Merseyrail is, with its integrated transport system and long term franchise. Even the station signs looked like they'd been printed on MS Word and stuck on the side of a lamp post.

Still, it's got a nice big sign, which is handy for Merseytart purposes.



That's the Welsh leg of the Merseytart journey done, and I can't say I'll be breaking my neck to go back: neither station exactly wowed me with its inspiring architecture.

I know spending your morning staring at a river probably isn't most people's idea of fun. I doubt it would make it to many people's "things to do before you die" lists. I'm striking a blow against that perception though. Ok, I wouldn't advocate going wildly out of your way to see it, but the Dee Bore was fascinating to watch, and certainly better than Saturday morning tv. Try it. You might like it.