Heat and Brick Dust

Crikey blimey O'Reilly, it's been hot lately hasn't it? The constant humidity is causing me to sweat in a most ungentlemanly fashion; in fact, I've lately been taking to my bed to perspire, like a fading Southern belle in a Tennessee Williams play.

Life goes on however, and to stop me from turning into Blanche duBois, the Bf insisted we go over to Liverpool to hunt for garden furniture. We're in the middle of a landscaping project that would turn Charlie Dimmock white with fear, and so we'd like to get some decent chairs in the hope that at some point we'll be able to sit outside before the summer disappears.

While we were over there, I insisted we take a gander at the ongoing works at Liverpool Central. This was not a tart, as we had driven to the city and so I never actually used the station's facilities, but it did give me an idea of what's going on.

In the main, the ticket office has been torn out and there's a wall of metal sheeting taking up half of the booking hall. Behind this a new ticket office is taking shape. Tickets are now being sold within the mall itself, from the old Stationery Box, and as a matter of fact just that is an improvement on the old one. Bit of a shame for the poor old sod who used to flog papers and Mars bars from the kiosk, but it's all in the name of progress.

I've never been keen on Liverpool Central, always choosing Moorfields instead. Partly this is sentiment - in the days when I used to go out drinking of an evening, Moorfields was convenient for the bars of Cavern Walks. On top of that, Central is always, always too crowded (Merseyrail's busiest station, Central gets more passengers a year than even Lime Street). It's something that Network Rail has finally noticed, and in their Merseyside Route Utilisation Strategy, they've said that the situation can't continue as it is. The Northern Line pours all of its passengers onto a single island platform that was built in the 19th Century, and is becoming ludicrously - and dangerously - overcrowded. In the short term, they're going to be altering platform furniture and escalator access to try and improve the situation, but going forward they're going to need either a second platform (as at Moorfields) or even a brand new station, constructed beneath Church Street. The ticket hall refurbishment ties in with all this. One part that I'm aware of is that there'll be more ticket gates for a quicker throughput of passengers - hurray! The gates will also be capable of being fitted with Oyster card type readers for that magical, mythical day when Liverpool's commuters can chuck away their laminated Trio passes and enter the 21st Century.

I've scoured the net for a bit more info, but sadly I can't find definite plans. What I have found is this render, taken from an architecture forum, which purportedly shows the future of the station. It's very much a long term proposal, as it also shows the links from the station to the new Central Village development on the former railway lands behind (which is why there are all those escalators). Cynical types will, however, also note that the render contains not only M-to-Go and Merseytravel branding, but also a sign for Four Land Ends - a station on the Tyne & Wear Metro. So the render's a bit of a hodge podge, in other words, and should probably be taken with a cellar of salt.

Looking on the bright side though, it's a bit marvelous, and I thoroughly approve. More news as and when it arrives.

And in a final, heart warming gesture, at the entrance to the station is a letter from my mate Bart Schmeink, apologising personally for the recent derailment and flooding which made the Northern Line into a bit of a nightmare. Bless his little Dutch cotton socks.

(Tracy Jacks) Got On The First Train To Walton

I'm currently experiencing an adrenaline rush thanks to Blur's TRULY EPIC Glastonbury set, so I shall take advantage of this burst of energy to make a public service announcement. It's now possible to use Twitter to be informed of any Merseyrail travel alerts: follow them here. This can tell you that the Northern Line is buggered right now, thanks to a spot of flooding in the St Michaels area. Shame. I hope they use it to spread good news too, like "Orrell Park has just won best kept station" or something.

While you're at it you could follow me too; it'd make a change from spambots.

I'm off to bed now. I get up when I want, except on Wednesdays when I get rudely awakened by the dustmen. Etc.

From Our Correspondent

The BF is many wonderful things. Chief among his good points is that he's extremely well trained. Years of being quietly crushed under my jackboot have got him working well, and so when he went to work this morning and saw something interesting at Birkenhead Park station, he immediately took a photo and sent it to me.

Hmmm. I have to admit, from that angle I wasn't entirely sure what I was looking at, so I e-mailed him for a better description. He replied:

"The art is on the poles in that area that was cordoned off by the metal screens. It looks like cast iron images that have bee stuck to the top of the poles. At least I think it's art."

Yup, Brian Sewell is quaking in his boots. Turning away from Newsnight Review, I did a bit of net scouring and found that yes, it is indeed art. The work's been commissioned from artist Stephen Hitchin by Merseytravel, and I've found out some more details at the artist's website. His most familiar work to people in Liverpool is probably the relief panels at Queen Square, though his commissions are also in the Women's Hospital and the University. Below is the artist's impression of the completed piece, which will "look to view both the well and lesser known areas of the Wirral and Liverpool all of which are connected from Birkenhead Park railway station." Constructed from steel, the pieces are over five metres high.

(Picture is (c) Stephen Hitchin).

This looks great, and is a real bonus for Birkenhead Park station. The park itself has been renovated, and is really beautiful now, a definite asset for the town and the area, and I'm pleased that more is being made of the station to welcome visitors. It's received a minor makeover recently, with automatic doors and a new tiled floor, and the great looking artwork is certainly a bonus. Harking back to my previous post, the station would be ideal for an M to Go: the station's in a commercial area already, and the building is little more than a box as it is (the original was destroyed in the war). Unfortunately, tourists will still have to walk past Marleys, which sells "ornamental" bongs, Rizlas and air rifles, which you don't get outside the British Museum. Give it time though.

When the work's finished I'll have a wander down there myself to see it in the flesh (not that it has flesh, but you get my gist).

Hitchin's website also says that a second piece of work is to be installed at Bootle Oriel Road. This is an absolute bonus as a piece of quality artwork would make that station look around 2000% better. I realise that sounds like I'm damning with faint praise, but I mean it. And it's yet another pat on the back for Merseytravel and their continued commitment to public art across the area.

Bi-Curious

Today is the 2nd anniversary of this blog.  Yay blog!  Frankly I didn’t think it’d still be here two years later.  I thought either I’d have lost interest and found something else to do with my time, or else I’d have collected the whole of the Merseyrail map and have started a new blog (I’m thinking Round the Maldives We Go – two years trying out the various beaches). 

Instead I’m still plodding along, and I’m pleased.  Pleased I had the staying power to blog all this time, and for that I have to thank you, Faithful Readers.  There’s a lot of pleasure in writing, but there’s just as much pleasure in being read, and I’m always happy when people comment, praise and correct my railway terminology (yes Robert, I mean you).  So thank you.

I’m also pleased that the project isn’t complete yet, because I’m really enjoying it, as both a physical and a metaphorical journey.  It’s been fun, and it’s been fascinating, and at times it’s just been bloody bizarre.  And there’s still more to come!

I’ll stop now, before this turns into a Halle Berry Oscar speech.  I was thinking I’d celebrate the biannual birthday with a bit of tarting but, as I mentioned in my last post, I’m actually off work sick at the moment, so I couldn’t get out there.  Instead I’m going to celebrate with a list of five Merseyrail related things I have enjoyed over the past two years.  These are mainly oddities that I’ve wanted to mention previously, and haven’t been able to slot into the blog. 

1)  Judgemental Religious Posters

I’m a committed atheist, and have been for years.  I have absolutely no problem with religious people, of whatever faith, so long as they don’t try and convert me or condemn me to the pits of damnation or anything.  Whatever floats your boat.

However this has left a little void within me.  The problem with being an atheist is you don’t get any theatre: no christenings, no weddings, no Nativity of the Theotokos.  As a result I’ve developed an unhealthy obsession with certain bits of the religious world.  Nuns, for example; there is nothing which cannot be improved through the addition of a nun – no street scene, tv programme, or film.  Nuns are great.  I also love crucifixion statues, particularly very bad ones; and I like religious posters.  There’s a particularly magnificent one at Leicester Square tube station which I could stare at for hours.  Merseyrail can’t compare with that glorious insanity, but fortunately the Trinitarian Bible Society give us the next best thing.

Love it.  I like a bit of wrath of God on my commute; this was on the Wirral Line at Liverpool Central. 

This one – slightly blurred, thanks to Beezlebub jogging my arm as I took it – was at Lime Street underground, and cheered me every morning, though it’s a bit wishy washy.  I might write to them and request a REPENT SINNERS OR WE’LL DELAY THE ELLESMERE PORT TRAIN at Moorfields.  That would be ace.

2)  Neurotic next train indicators that blatantly lie

“Oh dear, I’ve said that the next train at Birkenhead Park will be in three minutes, and it’s late.  That will annoy everyone on the platform when I change to say five minutes.  What I’ll do is tick down to two minutes, and just leave it there.  I won’t count down any further.  Then, after it’s said ‘two minutes’ for ages, and the people are getting antsy, I’ll change it to ‘Here’ just as the train comes round the curve.  They’ll all be so pleased to see the train, they’ll completely forget my fib.”

3)  The new line diagrams

These have showed up on the walls at the underground stations, along with a load of attractive grey and yellow signs, and they’re something I’ve been dying for Merseyrail to have for years: a simple diagram showing the stations the train will call at.  Merseyrail have actually improved on the London Underground model though, by showing you how many minutes it’ll take to get to your destination.

When they first appeared, the Bf, deeply cynical soul that he is, doubted the timings on the poster.  I’m pleased to say that they were spot on, and our trip from James Street to Birkenhead Park did in fact take seven minutes.  I’m even more pleased because he was then forced to buy chips for doubting me (I can be very harsh).

4)  M to Go

I’m guessing these haven’t gone down as well as the bosses at Merseyrail would have liked: combined shops and ticket counters at Moorfields, Hamilton Square and Southport.  This is apparently common on Dutch railways, but the trial must have been a failure as NedRail’s idea to roll it out over “15 to 30” stations seems to be a thing of the past.  Maghull and Hooton are, as far as I’m aware, still without the shops. 

Still, it’s a good, innovative idea, the shops are clean and presentable, and it’s nice to buy a ticket, a Coronation Chicken sandwich and a Solero from a person without yelling through 20 inches of plexiglass.  It’s a bit of humanity.  I’d like to see a few more.  

5) Bart Schmeink

Bart is the managing director of Merseyrail, and I’m mentioning him here for two reasons.  Firstly, that’s a fabulous name.  It’s so Dutch it’s practically orange, and I’ve been trying to think of a way to crowbar it into the blog for ages.  Secondly, he’s doing a very good job.  I really like Merseyrail: it’s a great network, run by efficient, clean trains that you can pretty much always rely on.  The staff are usually smiley and polite in their blue and yellow uniforms (though there aren’t enough hot young gay men working for them.  A bit of eye candy is always appreciated).  The stations are (mostly) staffed from dawn till dusk, and have heritage features restored with modern adaptations.  Things have certainly improved since Serco/NedRail took over the franchise, and now we can just draw a quiet veil over the whole A***a period.  I whinge about them through this blog, but it’s always said with love, like when you complain about your mother (well, maybe not my mother).  Thank you Bart, thank you Merseyrail, and thank you readers for making the last two years pretty darn great.     

Orpheus in the Underworld

The loop is closed again: the circle is complete. Network Rail have finished their maintenance work, and have thanked us for our patience with a poster of that fit bloke in the Henleys t-shirt from the Railpass ad. Which is the gift that keeps on giving, if you ask me. I can't say I've noticed an enormous amount of difference in my ride quality, but I'm writing this while off work sick, so it may be I just haven't been round the loop enough. Anyway, the gist is: we're back to normal.

What it does mean is that Platform 2 at James Street returns to its ghostly state. Up until the 1970s, this was the platform that trains from the Wirral called at. However, the construction of the loop line meant that a new running tunnel had to be constructed to send the trains Moorfields' way, and so Platform 2 was rendered redundant. It wasn't refurbished in the brown plastic style of Hamilton Square and the other underground stations, and was instead left to rot in its original 19th century state. It receives only the bare minimum of maintenance to keep it up to code for emergencies and closures.

The opportunity to finally use Platform 2 was the high point of the loop closure, as far as I was concerned. It's been attacked by the Colour Tsars, of course, and there are a few incongruous seats and help points, but it's mostly a Victorian underground station, and a little gem. The walls are tiled in that great way that went out of style, then came back in again when people realised how practical it was. It's very similar to the stuff that Yerkes did on the London Underground, and which is now being restored rather than covered up. Of course, the combination of decades of neglect with thirty years of disuse means that the tiles aren't exactly gleaming. The mould and decay is somehow picturesque; it adds to the impression that you're in some deep underground hole. It's all very Neverwhere.

Adding to the otherworld atmosphere is Dream Passage, a piece of artwork by Tim Chalk and Paul Grime on the platform wall. Fragmented images are suspended on the tiles, giving the impression of figures breaking through, or the remnants of another civilisation. It looks great from the opposite (Wirral-bound) platform, but when I got the chance to look up close, I really appreciated the details in it.

The work was commissioned in 1992 to celebrate the hundreth anniversary of the Mersey Railway (though in fact the tunnel was opened in 1886: 1892 was when the tunnel was extended to Liverpool Central). I found a great interview with the artists at the BBC's website; however, for some reason, it's only compatible with mobile phones, so stick that link into your mobile to download it. According to them, their brief was to do anything, so long as it had nothing to do with trains or the Beatles.

It's the city's subconscious, its below surface ideas and thoughts and wants. We've travelled under the ground and under the world to find faces, figures, dreams: winged creatures and babies, and, intermingled with them, elements of the real world. St George's Plateau is there, and so is the Albert Dock, concealed within hieroglyphics and surreal imagery. It's strange and fascinating. The three dimensional work begs to be touched, and over the weeks of the closure I often saw commuters doing that - running their fingers over the grooves and the faces as though trying to understand the weird mix of shapes.

It's another world down there. There's a stark contrast between the gloomy netherworld of the platform and its brightly it 70s cousin across the way, like a fracture runs through time along the tunnel.

Normally this is the point where I complain about the art being rendered inaccessible; a quick whinge about it being hidden away. But actually I prefer it this way. It becomes even more mysterious and curious. It'll remain this strange, unknowable entity across the tracks, something to admire from a distance and to speculate about.

The Past Is A Bucket of Ashes

The third and final leg of the Preston-Ormskirk line; apologies for taking so long to write all this up - nearly a month! Trust me, I have a very good excuse, and as soon as I think of it, I'll let you all know.

Burscough Junction wasn't just another tart for me - it was an exorcism. (Cue wibbly FLASHBACK effects). I'd been here once before, at a very bad, very unhappy point in my life, and now I was coming back to see it again.

It was towards the end of my first year at Edge Hill, and the whole college had wound down. We were in that nothing period before exams, where people were meant to be revising, but in fact they were using the time as a pre-holiday holiday. Certainly my friends were taking advantage. Most of them had gone home for family visits (i.e. to empty Mum's fridge and have their clothes washed), some had gone to stay with boyfriends and girlfriends, and at least one of them went to stay with some bloke she'd talked to on the internet and had never met.

I was 200 miles away from my mum's, so a visit was a bit of an expensive trip, and the grant and the student loan were almost gone. So I was left in my flat at Forest Court, the halls of residence, with my insufferably laddish flatmates who I'd barely spoken to since Christmas because, well, they were insufferably laddish.

On top of that, I was in the middle of a long distance romance with a guy who lived just south of London. Our relationship had gone from the "intense" stage, to the "indifferent" and was currently in the "unavailable" part - well, it was for him, anyway. I was 19 and still not savvy enough to notice that I'd basically been dumped. Instead, I pined, and left messages, and hoped for a call that never came. There was no-one for me to talk to on campus, and so I slipped into one of those dark, lonely times that sometimes creeps up behind you and engulfs you. I felt abandoned and alone. I actually went a couple of days without talking to anyone - not a deliberate silence, just never encountering a person I could talk to. Finally I snapped. And I walked.

I walked right out of town with no idea of where I was going. Looking back, a third of a life away, I can't help thinking, "were you mad? Where the hell were you going?" Actually I think I did have a mad moment then, a time where I wanted to take myself out of the world. So I just marched out of Ormskirk, on a road I'd never been down before, and I kept going. I am sure I was an extremely attractive sight that day, wandering down country roads, locked in a world of self-pity. Especially as I had Hugh Grant-esque floppy hair at the time.

Eventually, some tiny, tiny voice in the back of my head must have told me I couldn't do this all day, and before I wandered to Wigan, I somehow contrived to end up on the platform at Burscough Junction. A rare moment of sanity that day, which was subsequently lost as I sat on the bench on the platform and blubbed for half an hour until the train came. Just sobbed, like a housewife watching Beaches for the first time, thick, wet tears of unhappiness and misery.

And then the train came and I went home. And friends started drifting back, and we started going to the pub again, and hanging out in each other's rooms and listening to Blur and getting drunk. But Burscough Junction retained that echo for me, and stayed as a black mark on my mental Merseyrail map.

Returning here brought everything back, a great big wash of horrible emotions. It really hadn't changed. There was a bit of peppy purple Northern rail corporate identity, instead of the previous British Rail red, but otherwise it was all there. A bare platform, a scrubby car park, an abandoned station building hidden in the trees. It was all staggeringly familiar. The only thing that had changed was my fringe.

Except, now I was in a much better place in my life. Yes, bits of it suck pretty royally, and yes, I do still have problems and dark days. But I have good friends, and a great relationship, and a sense of belonging and contentment I didn't have then. The fact that I was going to now do the same journey in reverse - getting off a train at Burscough Junction, instead of boarding one, and walking into Ormskirk instead of out of it - well, the OCD part of my personality sort of liked the parallel.

Walking to Ormskirk hadn't been in my original plan: I'd collected it months ago. I'd planned on walking to Burscough Bridge, the little town's other station, and heading home via Southport or Wigan. But having come this far, I felt that I had to finish the journey properly. Besides, if I went to Ormskirk, I would achieve a first: I would visit every single station on a line in one trip. (Ok, there's only five of them, but work with me, people).

Out came the Ordnance Survey. Burscough Junction is right at the bottom end of the town, and I left through one of those 1940s council estates - all red brick and grass verges and little gates. I love these types of houses, probably because they remind me of my Nana's house in Luton. Nice wide open streets with grass central reservations some miserable Council has signposted "NO BALL GAMES".

The OS map had shown me that it was possible to get to Ormskirk through a variety of public footpaths, and I thought that would be a much more interesting route than just following the roads. I turned off the main street and down a little industrial estate, where a stile was signposted as being the right of way. Fair enough.

At this point I should state I'm not a born rambler. I do admire Janet Street-Porter and all those Right to Roam people: I do. But when I found myself wandering between farmer's fields, with not a single other soul about, I started to get a bit dubious. This felt an awful lot like trespassing. I was following a track, and it looked like it was on the map too, but there was no-one else around. I was waiting for the farmer to turn up and slur "Gerrorf moi land!" (because even in rural Lancashire, farmers speak with a comedy West Country accent).

Things got worse when I hit a copse of trees, and the path I was following branched, and branched again, without a single signpost. It was a miserable nest of a wood, tangled bitter trees and broken twigs. Through sheer luck I found the bridge over the miserable stream at the wood's heart, and I squeezed myself along a narrow path between a brick wall and a ditch. The mud beneath me was rutted and torn by what looked like motorbike tracks. A new worry arose: bikers, tearing along the track towards me, forcing me to leap out of their way and into the rancid ditch. Did I mention I'm a bit neurotic?

Eventually I hit road, which should have been the end of my worries. Except I still couldn't relax, as there was no pavement, and in my head I couldn't quite work out which side of the road I should have been on (into the oncoming traffic? Away from it?). I ended up sort of leaping into the bushes every time a car approached, then poking my head out afterwards to make sure it was gone.

This game of hide and seek with the cars rapidly lost its appeal, and the OS map came out again. Aha. A pretty looking path, clearly marked, clearly signposted, beside a river. That will do.

I'd been walking for what seemed like an age, and I just wanted to go home now. The novelty had worn off. Fields of bare earth rapidly lose their appeal. I trudged along the footpath, and once again hit a copse of trees. No matter: there was a stile, and a green arrow pointing the way. Sorted. I climbed the stile, went through the trees, climbed another one on the other side, and ended up in someone's garden.

Oh.

As back gardens go, it was very nice: there was a neatly mown lawn, and tennis courts, and a large house at the end of a drive. But the fact of the matter was, it was someone's back garden, and I was quite clearly now in it. I didn't want to turn and go back the way I came, because just the thought of it was disheartening, so I decided to get out of there as quickly as possible. I ran for the driveway, barreled down the gravel, and headed for the gates. The very locked gates.

Fuck.

I was now officially trespassing on locked and barred territory. I clung to my Ordnance Survey map, so I could prove that I was only following orders if challenged, and I wished I had taken photos of the arrows that had pointed me here. I really didn't want to go back now, because that would mean another sprint across the lawn, right in front of the house; but they were very high gates, and I just don't do "clambering". I wasn't one of those boys who climbed the ropes in P.E. I sat on the bench and criticised the techniques of others.

At last: salvation! As the sweat dripped off my chin I spotted it - a low part of the wall next to the gate, just enough for me to scramble over with something like dignity. I was over and out so fast I may have actually broken the sound barrier. Or maybe that boom I heard was just the pounding of the blood in my ears. I moved on a bit to put some distance between me and the tennis courts, then checked the map again. Not the OS one, which was now a beautiful figure of fear to me, but instead the Google Maps on my phone. I was about twenty minutes away from Ormskirk, and, blessedly, the roads here actually had pavements.

The afternoon was dying. The roads turned into commuter tracks, the workmen's vans giving way to school mum 4x4s and saloons. Then, just before I hit the town, a field of colour: poppies, stretching in rainbow bands into the distance. After the unending parade of scrub fields, it felt glorious. I was clearly not the only one to think so - a proper photographer, with a tripod and a non-cameraphone camera was packing up his equipment too. I snapped a surreptitious shot, then ploughed on, down a road that triggered those sense memories again, until finally I began to realise: I was back in Ormskirk.

So where to go for the final pint (because rest assured, by that point, I was desperate for one)? The Buck i' th' Vine, winner of the Most Northern Pub Name Competition five years running? The Railway, for thematic reasons? The Plough, my favourite pub when I lived here? In the end I went with Styles, because I figured it would be relatively quiet at this time of day. Plus, I could get nostalgic about that time we stuck a panty pad on the underside of a table, and were delighted to find it was still there on subsequent visits (my grown up, 32 year old self can only shudder at the bar's disturbing lack of cleanliness).

Pint supped, I went back to the station and made sure to get a proper, Merseytart shot of the station sign this time, as I'd only got the platform sign before. I also got a nice surprise. I reported last year about plans to revamp and rebuild Ormskirk station. Well, they're only doing it! I'd assumed that in these Difficult Economic Times the project would have been abandoned, but no: the station building was a wreck, and billboards were proclaiming the plans. Well done, folks. Of course this means I'll have to come back again to see it when it's completed. Sigh.

That was it: the whole Preston to Ormskirk line was folded away, crossed off the map. I'd spent all day out in the April sun, and I'd thoroughly enjoyed it. It had been relaxed at times - in Croston, for example - and fraught at others - legging it across lawns - but it had felt like a real journey. Since I expanded the project to take in the whole of the Merseyrail map, I've realised that I'm going to have to do an awful lot of country walking. This trip seemed like a good omen, a whole line gone in one go, and a sign of positive things to come. And almost as if it had come to say farewell, the Sprinter I'd been on that day was waiting on the platform. I raised a respectful hand of goodbye to the train*.

*I did no such thing, of course. It was a Sprinter, not Thomas the bloody Tank Engine. I just thought it would be a nice way to end.

Red Rose Country

I was on the train from Preston to Croston, and intrigued to find that the ladies across the aisle from me were Americans on a day trip to Ormskirk. Now, this may just be me, but the immediate questions raised in my mind are (a) if you have travelled 7000 miles across an ocean, why go to Preston? Did you take the wrong taxi at Manchester Airport? and (b) Given that you have found yourself in Preston, why did you decide to take a train to Ormskirk, as there are trains to other, more interesting towns from that station?

Naturally I didn't voice any of my questions. Instead I just sat there, earwigging on their interminable semi-flirtatious banter with the guard, and keeping an eye out for ostriches. Yes, ostriches. The only other time I had ridden this line, my friend Jennie and I had glanced out of the train window to see a flock of ostriches running alongside the train. It was the mid 90s; BSE was raging across the nation, and carnivores were turning to any meat they could to satisfy their bloodied desires (not that I am anti-carnivore, as anyone who's seen me consume a bloodied steak will tell you). The sight of a bit of African savannah beside our very British Rail train was a bit too much for Jennie and I, and I'm afraid we dissolved into hysterics and continued to use the term "ostriches!" as an exclamation afterwards. Indeed, when I mentioned my suggested route to her, she said, "Don't forget to look out for ostriches!". That's how HILARIOUS we are.

But there weren't any, which was a bit unsettling. There's always been a part of me that's suspected the ostriches were actually some sort of group hallucination. Given that I spent the years 1995-1998 in an almost permanent state of drunkenness, this is not such an inconceivable concept. I can only hope that the ostrich farmer was driven out of business and is destitute somewhere due to his failed avian dream. That would make me feel a lot better.

I got off at Croston, the first stop on the line between Preston and Ormskirk. There were only two of us who alighted there; me, and an elderly lady who was proudly wielding her tartan zip up shopping trolley, and who was clearly a regular on the route. There's no station building at Croston, just a car park with pretensions. There was a little community board, featuring the usual local events: line dancing, guitar lessons, and pleasingly, a little plug for the local rail user's group. (Here's another one).

Since we're out of Merseyrail's zone of influence, it's goodbye to the yellow and grey M's on the signs; instead we get the red rose of Lancashire. I approve.

When I plan one of my tarting escapades, I'm pretty casual about it. I usually have a backpack with me, into which I stuff the train timetables, an OS map and an A-Z. I also have a mooch round Google Maps and Wikipedia before I leave. But I don't have a strict schedule, just a vague idea of where I'm heading and how to get there.

This means that sometimes I can get distracted, sent off course, or occasionally, just plain lost. Croston was going to be a distraction. I knew, to stay en route, that I had a right turn somewhere; but as I wandered down into the heart of the village, I became increasingly impressed by the place. Nice, tidy workmen's cottages; some centuries-old farmhouses, sensitively restored; the odd, pleasingly in keeping new development. At a junction, I basically missed the correct turn, and carried on.

This should have destroyed my plans, but it was worth it. Croston's lovely. What's not to like? It was a crisp, spring day, and I was walking past a well-preserved village green with two pubs. There was a dinky post office, and a generally pleasing air of Middle England niceness. I rounded a corner and found a splashing river below a pretty church.

Lovely.

I carried on walking, through the centre and out the other side. The houses spoke of subtle affluence - entry gates, video intercoms, the occasional Range Rover. Well-preserved money all around. The people of Croston clearly like their village and take some pride in it. Some people like it a little too much - a jeep pulled up in front of one of the farm houses, and it had the registration plate "CR08TON". I. Kid. You. Not.

Eventually I ran out of village, and I was on a country lane. It finally dawned on me that I should have encountered a canal bridge at some point, and that I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. I turned round to retrace my steps, and stopped at a bench to consult my Ordnance Survey map.

[Swoon Interlude] How bloody amazing are Ordnance Survey maps, incidentally? They are one of those things that makes you proud to be British, somewhere between Helen Mirren and spelling "colour" with a "u". The detail, the design, the symbols (only the Ordnance Survey would differential between wind pumps and wind turbines) - they're beyond maps, into art, and I could stare at them for hours. [End of Swoon Interlude]

With a combination of the OS map and Google Maps on my phone - a 21st century procedure which I suspect would cause my Scout Patrol leader to revoke the Orienteering badge I earned aged 13 - I worked out where I should have turned, and plodded back the way I came. Until I was distracted again.

Come on. You can't expect me to walk past a pub twice and not partake, can you? My name's Scott and I'm an alcoholic. Besides, there's a definite pleasure to sitting outside, sipping a pint by a village green. It was the day after St George's Day, and there couldn't have been a more English experience.

The pint of Copper Dragon's Golden Pippin safely tucked away, I returned to my route. I have to say, if I'd stuck to it in the first place, I might not have been so entranced by Croston. The Westhead Road was all post-war overflow housing, and determinedly working class. There was even a working men's club, which I'm guessing didn't feature a guest ale from a small Yorkshire brewery like the Wheatsheaf.

The village faded away again, and I finally found the footpath I needed. To get to Rufford from Croston, you follow the A581 out to the main A59 Liverpool Road, turn south, and you should get there in plenty of time. But where's the fun in that? Instead, I stepped off the main carraiageway and onto the towpath of the Leeds and Liverpool Canal's Rufford Branch.

I have to say that up until this point, I've been a bit, well, gushy. I liked Preston, and I liked Croston, and so my usual patented sneery cynicism has been pretty much muted. Readers who have missed it will be happy to hear I'm about to unleash it again, because I was seriously disappointed by my canal walk. Seriously. I'd seen it on the maps, and my head was filled with visions of ruddy faced bargemen on painted barges, gentle undulating countryside, and the calm lapping of the water beside me.

None of that happened. I didn't see a single boat until I reached the marina at Rufford. The water didn't really lap unless a duck landed heavily. And as for the countryside... well, as you can see, it doesn't undulate at all. I hadn't realised that the canal was surrounded by reclaimed land, and was therefore flat and tedious. In addition, I found out halfway along that British Waterways had recently been doing embankment maintenance, so the grass was scrubby and thin from the works. Basically it was a big old let down.

Accentuate the positive, though! I wasn't in work, for starters. It was pleasingly warm, and though there was a grey film of clouds above me, I did realise when I got home that I'd acquired a very light dusting of suntan (anyone wanting to see my tan lines will have to visit my other, subscriber only website). I was far enough from the roads to experience a stillness of sound, where the only things I could hear were my breathing, my footsteps, and the birdsong.

There were the occasional distractions. A big pile of wood acquired landmark status in the flat fields. It was just a bonfire, but in my stimulus starved state, I began to conjecture if it was just a bonfire, or if it was in fact A FUNERAL PYRE FOR A PAGAN SACRIFICE. Told you I was a bit bored. Sometimes there was a swan or two. It occurred to me that if one of Her Majesty's swans did decide to go nuts and break my arm, I was miles from the road and no-one knew exactly where I was, so I'd probably lie by the side of the canal until it turned gangrenous. I checked my mobile reception so I could contact the authorities in case of bird-related trauma.

Finally I reached the halfway point, the Great Hanging Bridge. Google searches have failed to turn up the reason why it was called the Great Hanging Bridge, but I don't think you'd have to be Tony Robinson to guess.

Excitingly, I crossed from one side of the canal to the other, and continued on. To be fair, things got a little more interesting. The landscape became a bit more varied, with trees and fields, and the grass was thicker and more pleasant to walk on. Sheep started to appear, first in pens beside the embankment, then actually wandering across the path in front of me. Every single one went through the following procedure:

1) Stop eating grass and stare at the man coming towards them.
2) Stare at the man, hoping that their intense gaze will intimidate him into stopping, and they can go back to their grass.
3) Panic and leg it into the nearest copse.

Maximum amusement was derived from the sheep who were trapped between the canal and the embankment as I approached: they all did a sort of half-hearted panicky jog around before giving up and just looking away from me. There was a part of me that hoped they'd actually jump in the canal to get away.

Then I got bored again, and began to lose myself in an intense, loving fantasy (not involving sheep, I hasten to add). No, I was fantasising about the pint I was going to have at Rufford. If there's one thing that can be said about canal boatmen, it's that they like their ale, and I harboured intense visions of a frothy pint of heady brown beer.

Rufford is where the canal and railway meet, and as I passed under the bridge, the purple Sprinter went by, on its way to Preston. This signalled that I had about half an hour to find a pub and knock back the blessed pint.

And you know what? There wasn't a pub to be seen. Quite unbelievably, Rufford manages to have two canal marinas and can't scrape up a single pub between them. That's illegal, surely? I looked around, but all I could find were two tea rooms. I really, really love a nice cup of tea, but I was hot and sweaty and I'd been walking for several hours, so what I need was something cold and full of hops. I briefly considered giving in and having a Coke or something, until I saw how they'd spelt "holidays" on the sandwich board. My mild disinclination to visit the tea room instantly became a boycott on behalf of the English language, and I turned tail and left.

(I Twittered my frustration while I waited at the station, and Nat very helpfully tweeted a recommendation on Liverpool Road, away from the marinas. Unfortunately, I didn't see her reply for another couple of hours, but thanks anyway!).

Rufford station is the only spot on the line that has two platforms. The whole branch used to be twin tracked, until the inevitable cut backs saw half the tracks removed. Rufford was left as a passing place, so that if they decided to run trains more than once every blue moon they'd have room to manoeuvre. It has a level crossing at one end - always an annoyance for me - and a portakabin signal box. I installed myself in a little shelter and surfed the internet on my phone for a bit, letting my tired feet have a few moments of relaxation. What I'd seen of Rufford couldn't compare with Croston. While that had been a genuine destination, Rufford just seemed to be somewhere to stop. Even the marinas were a let down. I've done some pleasure boating in my time, on the Norfolk Broads, and the marinas have a sort of jocular charm. These two seemed more like car parks for boats, with all the glamour and romance that implies.

Ah well: the capturing of Rufford meant that nearly the whole branch was in my grasp. I just had one more untarted station to go...