Limes and Lemons

Way back in December, I promised to keep you updated with regular missives on the redevelopment of Lime Street station. It sort of didn't happen, for two reasons:

(a) I couldn't be arsed; and
(b) see (a).

I did take a few photos as the works continued, but they never came out right, or I never got round to writing about them, or I accidentally deleted them from my phone before I got a chance to do anything with them. So now the workmen have largely finished, I took a trip under the river to check it all out.

The new constructions occupy the old Cab Road for the station, and the area has been nicely tiled with limestone-esque flooring. Platforms 7 and 8 have also been blocked off with glass fencing; this leaves Platform 9 as the only one at Lime Street which is still accessible without some sort of potential ticket check (though there was no-one from Virgin checking the morning I was there).

In between 7 and 8 we've got a Virgin customer service centre, a first class lounge and a waiting room (well, they call it a "standard class lounge", but we all know what it is really). Sneaky Network Rail has also shifted the cash machines to right at the end of platform 7, so if you need some money, you're going to have to walk back past the three or four brand new retail units to get there.

All the units are ready for letting; there doesn't seem to be any sign of occupiers yet, and I haven't heard on the grapevine any rumours about potential occupiers, but it's early days. Lime Street has the problem, as a terminus station, that there aren't a lot of people hanging around with nothing to do between trains, so the market for retail is reduced. Manchester Piccadilly's like an Arndale Centre now. It took me twenty minutes to find a platform last time I was there, and even then I'm not entirely sure it wasn't a railway-themed retail experience. Those purple Northern Rail trains look like they could be selling pick 'n' mix on the sly.

I'm hoping for a Starbucks, because I like pretentious coffee, and maybe a Pret a Manger, because I like pretentious sandwiches. Basically I like anywhere that has at least one black and white close up photograph of a mug on the wall and rocket in the paninis. However the last time a new retailer opened in the station it was a Ladbrokes, so I'm not holding my breath.

It's a nice development, well done - nothing too exciting, but it fits the location and doesn't jar with its surroundings (cf Chester, for example). My only complaint is that platform 8 gets the back view of all the shops and their metallic gubbins. There are a few doorways there, but these looked like staff entrances. Poor platform 8 people. I snapped a few photos of the empty shops, no doubt triggering a couple of alarms in the CCTV rooms.

I was at the station with the Bf, as he had to go to London for work and therefore actually got to use the facilities (I'm not jealous). He insisted on taking a pic of me in the station, which I'm putting on the blog even though I'm awkwardly posed so you can see my New York Subway J Line t-shirt. Yup, I even wear metro-related clothing (I'd left my Merseyrail badge and flip flops at home). It's actually the logo for the J line which, as the t-shirt says, is "Queens to Manhattan", a camp little pun which amused me when I bought it in the MTA store at Grand Central Station a couple of years ago. (For a train station buff like myself, Grand Central Station is beyond hallowed ground; I had to be refrained from dropping to my knees and kissing the marble floor, like the Pope).

At the end of the Cab Road development, replacing the old Virgin Customer Service cabin, is the piece de resistance, the crowning glory, the climax. A new sculpture was commissioned to act as a greeting for new arrivals from That London. Entitled Chance Meeting, and sculpted by Tom Murphy, it depicts an encounter between legendary Liverpudlian comic Ken Dodd and firebrand MP Bessie Braddock. Let's have a look at it, shall we?

Oh dear.

It is, not to put too fine a point on it, arse. I stood in front of it, slack-jawed, unable to conceive the circumstances under which this piece of "art" was approved, paid for and made. Ken Dodd is an unusual looking person at the best of times, and even Michaelangelo would have struggled to make him look, well, human. The best you can hope for is that children don't cower behind their mothers. But this statue makes Ken look like an over-enthusiastic janitor, proudly displaying the loo brush he just used to dislodge a particularly stubborn blockage in the third floor gents. And Beryl Reid Bessie Braddock is trying to stop him going into details about what was causing the blockage by showing him that party trick where you try breaking an egg by pushing on the top and bottom. It's a bizarre meeting of characters - I'd love to have heard left-winger Bessie's opinions on Ken's tax indiscretions - in thoroughly odd poses. I mean, the egg.

It's just not very good at all. In fact, it's so not very good, I'm actually embarrassed it's there. This is the first piece of art people are going to see when they step off the Pendolino. This is going to be their first impression of Liverpool: a city that celebrates its finest sons and daughters by making them look like idiots on train station concourses. I'm tempted to sneak in one day and chuck a sheet over it. Or perhaps I should pay for a permanent advert on that massive screen you can see from inside the station: "WE HAVE GOOD PUBLIC ART HERE TOO. JUST PRETEND IT'S NOT THERE".

Still, at least it's not the bloody Beatles again.

A Moment in the Sun

Gratuitous plug alert! I've had a little profile over at Liverpool Blogs, a sort of clearing house for Scouse bloggers. If you really want to find out why I like living on Merseyside, nip over there and check it out, and also some of the other Liverpudlian writers out there.

Treasure Map

There's a secret map, lurking on the streets of Merseyside. It appears fleetingly, hiding at selected bus stops, cowering on the back of a few shelters, quivering behind Travel Centres. It's hidden from view in amongst Saveaway ads and that really gross poster about DNA spit tests. It doesn't appear on the Merseytravel website unless you really know where to look.

And it's great.

That's the worst part. It's a great, useful, multi-modal diagram which shows the interactions between Merseyside's different public transport forms: bus, train, ferry. It covers the whole of Merseytravel's area of influence. It's simple and easy to understand. And for some, unfathomable reason, it's hidden away.

This particular example is featured on the top of page 6 of the "Welcome to Merseyside" leaflet provided in Travel Centres for tourists, though it's a little out of date: below is a more modern one from outside the Paradise Street Interchange, which also has an index. It's not featured on any other leaflet, that I can find (even though it would be as valuable for residents as visitors), and it only seems to be on certain bus stops. An unscientific poll of the dozen or so stops closest to my home didn't produce a single example (though I did find out that Kayleigh loves Stu, and doesn't care who knows it). I don't remember seeing it at any railway stations.

It's a great map for a few reasons. Highlighting the Merseyrail and City Lines gives the map a structure, and emphasises the importance of the rail links to the city. They're also the easiest way to get around. Note that the Wirral Line is presented as a loop in Liverpool, by the way. The purple line for the Airport Link is a key feature, and combines with the Loop to emphasise the city centre itself (the newer map goes even further and shows the new shuttle bus from Liverpool South Parkway).

Considering the amount of detail presented here, it's surprisingly clear and well thought out. What's important here is letting the tourist know that there is a bus for them. It also shows how well connected the Merseyrail network is to the bus network, though there is a bit of poetic licence - showing Liverpool Central and the Paradise Street Interchange as three interlinked circles when they're actually a good ten minutes away from one another is a bit naughty.

In some ways, this is more accurate, geographically, than the proper Merseyrail map. The Mersey is correctly shown running at a diagonal between the Wirral and Otterspool, and the Northern Line is one straight run all the way to Southport. And I like the nice triangle of the Mersey Ferry.

Complaints? Not showing the full extent of the rail services seems like a mistake; perhaps not the Borderlands Line or Kirkby to Wigan, but including Chester, Ellesmere Port and Ormskirk would show the full extent of the Merseyrail services (especially as Chester is a major destination in itself). I'd have perhaps included zone boundaries, if they could be accommodated tidily, as this map is aimed at people who are using Saveaways. And a separate colour (brown?) showing the Night Bus network would be a good addition.

But my biggest complaint is that this map is hidden away. It should be on display at every bus stop and every railway station, much like Tim Demuth's London Connections map is displayed alongside the London Underground diagram in Tube stations. Remember, famous, important Liverpool districts like Anfield, Knotty Ash and Woolton don't appear on the Merseyrail map at all. I'd like be able to stand outside, say, Moreton station, and be able to roughly work out a route to Gateacre (Wirral Line to Lime Street, City Line to Huyton, then a bus). It'd be a valuable service.

So: 9/10 for the map, Merseytravel. 2/10 for the implementation.

Things That Make You Go "Oooh!"

A few days ago, I was sarcastic about Merseytravel because they wouldn't send me any nice pictures but they were happy to plaster them all over the walls of Liverpool Central. Sarcasm really is the lowest form of wit, and I should have risen above it. Besides, the jokes weren't really that good.

Anyway, I'd like to make it clear that my beef was with Merseytravel, not Merseyrail. Merseyrail were lovely; their Customer Relations lady replied quickly, personally and was very very nice.

Also, they sent me stuff. Yay! I didn't expect it at all, and I certainly wouldn't have dreamt of asking for it, but those lovely people at Merseyrail sent me some little gifts which I'm presenting here for you, to try and make you jealous. I know that's a bit childish but screw it: I got Merseygifts and you didn't, so nur-nur-nur.

First up, we have a marvelous mouse mat and a couple of pens. This isn't the mouse mat that they use in the stations (one of which recently turned up on eBay; I'm not saying it was stolen or anything by an unscrupulous member of the station staff, just mentioning it in passing) but is instead a corporate mouse mat with the aims and aspirations of the company on it. There's a whole branch for customers, you'll be glad to hear; more excitingly, under "service" it lists "new rolling stock", "M to Go" and "Smart Card", all of which make me do a little happy dance. Something to look forward to. And you can never have enough pens.

Next, is a lovely Merseyrail train key ring, here displayed with the mass of metal I have to carry round with me. Trainspotters: it's number 508110, and I now have a sub-mission to find this train somewhere on the network, and possibly photograph it, or even better, me in front of it holding the key ring up and beaming. If that isn't crossing too far into anorak territory. Oh, who am I kidding? I crossed that line years ago.

Yes, that is a Lego Catwoman key ring beside it. It's Lego and it's Catwoman: two of the greatest things in humanity combined in one key ring. Awesome.

From here, we move on to the travel mug, which is absolutely lovely. Lovingly embossed with "Merseyrail" on one said, and "M to Go" on the other, this will be the perfect vessel for my lattes next time I'm out and about on the rails. Do Starbucks still do that thing where you get money off if you provide your own mug? Caramel macchiatos on the move sounds good to me.

The final item is the real doozy, I have to say. In fact, it's so good, it inspired me to break out the shorts and do my best Man at C&A modeling. Here's my attempt at Miss Tyra, America's Next Model posing: if I'd had more time I'd have broken out a fierce weave and a finger snap as well.

Look past my hairy shins and you'll see that I am, in fact, wearing Merseyrail flip-flops. How amazing is that? Not just that I have a pair of them, but that there was someone in Rail House who sat down and said, "you know what we need to do? What we haven't done so far? Combined the world of rail franchises with leisure footwear. That would be amazing."

Frankly this little parcel is the best gift I've received all year, and certainly better than any of the crap I got for my birthday and most appreciated. It's so nice when a corporate behemoth turns out to be human and, more importantly, so human it gives me stuff. It's really made me smile.

For future reference: I am very, very easily bought. Know this now. If there's anyone out there who fancies currying my favour, send me stuff. I have no shame. No scruples. I'll do anything. I am a corporate whore, and proud of it!

The Merseytart vs. Friendship

After my Ormskirk opening, I found myself taking a bus to Parbold. I'd promised to go and see my friend Jennie, who lives there, and my original plan had been to take the train to Burscough Junction, walking to Burscough Bridge and getting the train from there. Another couple of stations off the list.

The scrum at Ormskirk made me want to get out of there as quick as I could, though, so I dashed to the Bus Station. The Council rather grandly calls this a Bus-Rail Interchange, because there's a path connecting the two, which I think is stretching it a bit. The path actually used to be a siding; until the rationalisation of the station, when it was cut down to a single track, the pathway was where the electric trains would end up. In the original 70s plans for the Link and Loop, planning permission was granted for a brand new station which would have actually connected directly with the buses and been right in the centre of town; like so much else to do with the grand plans, it went out the window when budgets were slashed.

Still, a bus! Woo-woo! Bit of variation there. I can't remember the last time I bought a bus ticket. When it turned up, it was one of those little minibuses, which was a let down. No shiny double-decker or bendy-bus for me. Worse still, it was run by a company with the unfortunately spelt name Cumfy Bus. It rolled through the lanes of West Lancashire at a frankly alarming pace. The driver didn't seem at all keen on stopping. There were people at stops on the way past, but he just whizzed by, as though they were street furniture.

I was miles away, enjoying the scenery, when there was a ding! from the bell and we started cruising to a halt. With a jolt, I realised that we were actually stopping outside Burscough Bridge station itself. Instinct took over: I sprang off the bus, right behind a pencil thin student with an air that could only be described as "waspish".

Again, this isn't just your bog standard railway station: heaven forbid. This is the Burscough Bridge INTERCHANGE, because stations are so 20th Century, man. Stick a bus stop outside and suddenly it's a multi-modal hub.

Funnily enough, if various people get their way, it might end up being a proper interchange again. The Ormskirk Branch Line crosses the Manchester to Southport Line in Burscough, but there's no interconnection between the two: the tracks were lifted decades ago. However, the path of the tracks has never been built on (as you can see on Google Maps), and so could be reinstated at some point in the future. Lancashire County Council and West Lancs District Council are both keen for them to be restored; same goes for Merseytravel, but to a lesser extent. Reinstating the curves would mean having to electrify beyond Ormskirk, to Burscough Bridge at the very least and possibly even on to Southport, and who's going to pay for that? Once you cross the county border, things start getting complicated - it's to Lancashire's advantage to rebuild the curves, but Merseyrail are going to be running the trains over it, and they've already got a line to Southport, ta. Maybe, one day, but don't hold your breath. (If it were up to me, I'd electrify to Preston instead of Southport, and build a brand new station at the point where the two rails cross with a car park for commuters, but that's just because I've played too much SimCity 4).

There are two station buildings here. The current station building is a modern, glass and brick affair, which has a delightful retail park Pizza Hut vibe. Inside there's room for a cafe, but it looked like it was closed for good. This isn't surprising, as right behind the station is a Tesco superstore with a cafe of its own. I'm guessing that planning permission for the superstore was conditional on them providing a new station building.

On the opposite platform is the original station building, converted to a house and now up for sale. A poster in the window with a floorplan showed that it was "spacious", but since your front window is regularly used as somewhere for people to rest their arses while they wait for their train, it's not perfect.

And also on the platform: after all this time, an Attractive Local Feature board! Well, a quasi-ALF, but it's been so long since I saw one I was quite happy to snap a shot. It could do with a bigger, more interesting bird though. I texted Jennie that I was at the station and would be in Parbold in about fifteen minutes.

The train arrived, and travelled through the flat plains of this part of Lancashire towards Manchester. There are two trains that run this route, the fast one and the slow one which stops at all the stations en route, and as we slowed down outside Hoscar I realised I was on the slow one. I had an agonising few moments. I'd promised my dearest closest friend, and her delightful child, my Godson, that I'd be at her house in fifteen minutes time. On the other hand, I could jump off the train here and collect the as yet untarted Hoscar station, then walk the mile or so through the country lanes to Parbold. I had my OS map with me so I could easily find my way. What to do? What to do?

You thought I'd get off the train didn't you? For shame. I'm disappointed in you. It was very, very close, and to be perfectly honest, if I hadn't had that anxiety attack in Ormskirk I probably would be showing you a picture of my beaming mug under the Hoscar station sign. But I was tired, and what I needed was a cup of tea and a sit down. So I stayed on the train and continued to Parbold.

For this violation of the rules, the Gods of Merseytarting threw down a punishment, and made me look like an arse in front of the station sign. The problem with the screen on a mobile is you can't quite see the details until you get home and download it. Next time I go, I'll try and get a proper one.

Parbold, incidentally, is a lovely little village. It's the point where the railway and the Leeds & Liverpool canal coincide, and this means that it's popular with walkers and cyclists, as well as commuters for Manchester and Southport. There's an interesting mix of old and new buildings, including a windmill (without any sails) and a couple of good pubs. Even though it's fairly large, it still has that villagey feel, and I always enjoy coming here. Go and visit on a Sunday, and take a stroll by the canal. Be sure to visit Yours Is The Earth, the cafe there; it's run by someone I was at college with and his girlfriend, and the food and coffee there is delicious.

The village is bisected by the railway, and so grinds to a halt whenever a train goes through the level crossing. There's a subway for pedestrians, and again, kudos to Lancashire County Council: this too has been refurbished in recent years, as has the station building.

There's also still an old fashioned signal cabin here, which only adds to the olde-worlde village atmosphere, particularly since nearby is a Women's Institute.

I trotted off to Jennie's, where I was fed with home-made chocolate cakes and tea and we shared scurrilous gossip. Her son Adam and I also built this amazing Lego construction, as you can see. It's a house, with a bridge over the road to allow cars to pass underneath. To be honest, the main reason I go round to visit is for the Lego. The rest is just a bonus.

Really, to get the proper value out of my Day Ranger, I should have gone home via Wigan or something. It was six o'clock though, and it was raining, and I'd had a long, exhausting day (I spent most of Saturday in bed recovering from my exertions). So Jennie dropped me off at Ormskirk station, and I Merseyrailed my way home, breathing in the pungent aftershave of the men headed for a night out in the city. I presume their plan is just to stun the females into submission, like mustard gas in the First World War.

A strange day; a day of memorials to the past and celebration of futures, of building new stations and building Lego houses, a day where I'd gone from an absolute low to a chocolate cake-fuelled high. Another two stations down though, and my first on the Manchester to Southport line - a good start.

Pomp and Circumstance

It's never a good sign when the woman on the counter looks at you with confusion after you ask for a ticket. "A what?", she asked.

"A Lancashire Day Ranger ticket," I repeated, turning another shade of crimson.

"Can we do those here?" she asked her colleague, who was busy sticking down a date stamp on a Trio ticket. Two thoughts ran through my head. The first was righteous indignation: yes you can, woman, you can buy them from any station, and if you turned your eye to that computerised screen and turned on a couple more brain cells I'm sure you'd be able to find it. The other thought, running parallel with the first and occasionally overwhelming it, was: Oh God, maybe you can't get it from here. Maybe I'll have to go to Lime Street. Can I just slip away without anyone in the queue noticing? Oh God.

Fortunately her colleague had in fact received training on the computerised ticketing screen, and was able to find the Lancashire Day Ranger ticket and sell it to me. I was able to finally advance into Liverpool Central.

I'm going to pause now, for a bit of background. Over the last week I've sent out a few e-mails to some local organisations, explaining about the blog and asking for info on various different projects. One e-mail went to Merseyrail asking what was going on at Central, and if there were any artists impressions or diagrams that I could have to put up here as a point of interest. I got a lovely e-mail back from a lady in Customer Relations, saying she was going to speak to Merseytravel and get back to me (I also got something else, but I'll cover that in another post sometime). A day later, on the Thursday, she forwarded me some information that Merseytravel had provided for her, a Word document clarifying the details of the Central project. Unfortunately, Merseytravel couldn't provide her with any illustrations for "commercial reasons". Fair enough, I thought.

So I was a bit surprised to walk into Liverpool Central the next day to find this poster:

...that is, a poster explaining about the building work at Liverpool Central and featuring artist's impressions of the MtoGo shop and an overhead plan. If you can't quite see it in that picture, here's a couple of snaps I took of the five foot high renditions on the fences round the building work:

I'm glad Merseytravel overcame their fears about sending these diagrams to an interested blogger somewhere on the internet, and seized the opportunity to instead show this commercially sensitive material to the several thousand people who go through Liverpool Central every week. Bravo!

Anyway. I boarded the train to Ormskirk, and got in there about eleven-thirty. There's always been a ticket inspector here, but today, presumably in honour of the esteemed visitors to come, they were out in force - half a dozen of them, in fact. I managed to get by and headed into the town centre itself.

Ormskirk was experiencing that brief sigh of collective relief it gets for the period when the students are on holiday. I used to work with disabled children on the playscheme here in the summer, and so I knew Ormskirk out of term time is a completely different place. It's like the town is dusting itself down after a particularly rigorous boxing match, and is tending to its wounds, ready for the next round. I bet the pubs hate it.

I had a bit of a mawkish wander round, letting out a sigh of sadness at the empty Woolworths where I had bought GoldenEye on video, and trying to remember what used to be where there is now a Costa coffee. Mawkishness leads to melancholy, which leads to, in my current state of fragile mental health, a sudden precipitous drop into depression, insecurity and fear.

I was gripped with panic. What on earth was I thinking of, coming all this way to gate crash an official event? I'm criminally, painfully shy; I don't go to parties and talk to strange people, I stay at home and watch Coronation Street. I've been this way since I was a child, and most of the time I can just about get by, but here I was trying to introduce myself into a social situation all on my own with no-one to hide behind. I felt scared and alone, and the depression that I've been fighting the last few weeks swept over me until I was drowning in self-loathing.

I found a bench outside the registry office and phoned the Bf in work, to express my terror and to try and get some words of consolation. He was supportive, of course, and he said to me: "You don't have to go. You can turn round and come home and it won't matter."

Yes, I thought. I can do that. My legs were weak with the emotional barracking, but I managed to get up and stagger round the corner to see the station with, blessedly, a train waiting on the platform. It was 12:25, so I'd be able to slip onto the train and off before the distinguished guests arrived.

I was halfway down Station Approach, being pleasantly surprised by the new look of the station building when a whole load of photographers, dignitaries and a town crier came out for some official snaps. They were early! I froze outside, then gingerly crept forward. I could take a couple of photos from a distance, I thought, and I snapped one.

The official opening, by Sir William McAlpine, chairman of the Railway Heritage Trust, had already taken place, alongside other local notables - the Mayor of Ormskirk, and so on. Once the paparazzi shots were done, everyone went back inside to press the flesh. I carried on past the station, pretending to be terribly interested in the new cycle racks so no-one would spot me, and so that I could take a picture of the new glass porch over the entrance.

"Scott? I recognised you from your blog." It was Keith Lumley, Network Rail's Media Relations Manager, and the man who had told me about the event in the first place. I blustered a hello, and he explained that the opening had been brought forward as Sir William had to leave early. "Do you want to come inside and have a look round?"

I was still scared, I can't pretend otherwise. But Keith was friendly and open, and he took me inside the new look ticket office. I have to say I was gobsmacked by the transformation. Previously, the station had consisted of two halves. On the one side was the ticket office, and on the other was a news stand. The passenger area consisted of a corridor between the two, which lead to cramped conditions and at busy times (such as on a Saturday night), queues out the door and into the road.

The whole area has now been opened up, and feels light and beautifully spaced. Yes, the Colour Tsars have been in, and there's a distinct yellow and grey tone to the building, but it's not as in your face as at other stations. The station successfully manages to marry its 19th century roots with 21st century needs. I particularly like the large, glass fronted ticket office. There's even a toilet now, and space for a vending machine.

Keith showed me the plaque unveiled by Sir William, then pressganged the Town Crier into having his photo taken with me. Please remember, when you see this photo, that I was recovering from an anxiety attack, was extremely embarrassed, and was slightly scared to be stood next to a man with a moustache last seen in the Coleherne c.1978:

I said to Keith that I was surprised there wasn't a retail area in the station, given that there used to be a newsagent. He took me next door, to what used to be a waiting area. I'd never been in it before, as it had always been either locked up or occupied by bored teens, but now it had been stripped out and refurbished to form new commercial space. Keith explained that this space was to be rented out for what ever business wanted it: a cafe or a bar would be ideal, especially as you can be waiting for a couple of hours if you miss a Preston train. At that moment, however, it was being used for the catering, and the dignitaries were scrabbling for sandwiches and cups of tea. I felt even more out of place and gatecrasher-y, so I thanked Keith for all his help and made a getaway. (Sorry if I seemed brusque Keith - it was nothing personal, I promise you!).

The platform area has also been refurbished, and slightly ambitiously renumbered into Platforms 1 & 2: in actual fact it's one long platform with buffers in the middle separating the electrified from the non-electrified lines. The distinctive yellow and grey Merseyrail signs are fully in evidence here, and inside the station, there are "cactus" line diagrams showing the stations available - one for the Northern Line, and one for the Preston route and connecting services. Also inside the station is a distinctive piece of wooden rafting under the roof, which makes it feel almost Scandinavian.

I took one last photo outside of the new, vastly improved Ormskirk station: the glass portico's new as well. It's a worthy project, done well, and all the stakeholders in the project - Network Rail, Merseytravel, Merseyrail and Lancashire County Council - should be proud of their achievement. I suspect if this had been Ormskirk station when I lived here, I'd have started Merseytarting a lot sooner.

It was only as I walked away that I realised the man stood outside the station was Councillor Mark Dowd, Chair of Merseytravel: I briefly considered turning round and accosting him. But I couldn't think of any pertinent questions to ask him, and I didn't want to seem like a drippy fanboy, so I carried on. Besides, I had a bus to catch. Yes, you read that right. A BUS.

Huskisson!

Friday the 31st July, and it was the day of Ormskirk station's grand reopening following its refurbishment. Keith Lumley from Network Rail had told me when the ceremony was going to be, so I thought I'd nip over to Liverpool with the Bf in the morning and then slowly make my way there to have a look.

The ceremony wasn't until 12:30 though, which left me with a morning in the city. I wanted to test my endurance levels, really. As I've said, ad nauseum, I've been weakened from the half a dozen antidepressants I've been taking, and so I thought a stride around the city centre would be a perfect test to see if I was getting any better. After a bracing latte in Caffe Nero to give me a valuable caffeine rush, I started my morning's job: Huskisson Hunting.

You may remember William Huskisson from this time last year, when I visited the area around Newton-le-Willows. The former MP for Liverpool went down in history as the first man to get run over by a train, when Stephenson's Rocket drove over his leg on the very first passenger train service. Huskisson was rushed to Eccles, but passed away from his injuries. His last action as he fell under the wheels was to shout his own name, and this is possibly my favourite "last words" ever.

As you can imagine, losing your MP in such a fashion makes an impression on a city, so I thought I'd have a scout around to find some of the signs of his legacy. The centrepiece of this trip would be his mausoleum, in St James's Gardens beside the Cathedral; but my first stop was the top of Duke Street. Well, actually, if I'm honest, my first stop was the seating in Campbell Square, because I was already exhausted after half an hour of walking. The morning was hot and I was dripping with sweat.

Huskisson's widow commissioned a statue to stand in the mausoleum, but it was considered too fine a piece of statuary to stay there. The design of the mausoleum means that it was only visible from one angle, and so it was moved to a more prominent position outside the Custom House. That was bombed to pieces during the war, so the statue was moved again, to a site on Princes Avenue in Toxteth.

Then the Toxteth riots happened. Somehow, word got round that Huskisson had been a slave trader (which he wasn't) and the statue was torn from its plinth. It was rescued from the rubble a second time, and given to the National Museums & Galleries on Merseyside for restoration.

I found the new, resited statue inside a private development of apartments at the top of Duke Street. It's technically not a public space, but the gates were open so I had a wander in and snapped a shot. From war time destruction, through the Toxteth riots, through long and painful restoration, to finally being secured away in a privatised apartment development: it's like the last sixty years of Liverpool within a statue.

There is, incidentally, some debate as to whether it's meant to be Huskisson at all. Some sources say that he has been dressed in the Roman toga as part of the classical trend of the time; others say that the statue is meant to represent a guardian standing over the tomb. Either way, the plaque on the bottom now names him as William Huskisson, and I was impressed by it as a piece of art.

I continued up Duke Street, into Chinatown, and headed towards the Georgian terraces that surround the cathedral. I love Georgian architecture; it's a much cherished dream of mine that I will one day live in a tall Georgian house overlooking a leafy square, with one of those huge staircases running up the centre. There I can sip coffees in the window seat, reading a novel, while a soft breeze drifts into the room. Then Russell Tovey walks in, wearing only a towel, and... sorry. Wrong dream.

The streets around the cathedral were already starting to get touristy, and it was only just gone nine o'clock. A coachload of Americans, three Japanese people, a Spanish couple trying to get a photo through the railings; it was lovely to hear all the different accents and languages. I turned into Hope Street, walking parallel with the cathedral itself, and once again got a stab of envy at the lucky people of Gambier Terrace, who wake up in their 19th century homes to that view.

Huskisson Street, which runs at right angles away from Hope Street, was already under construction when William took his plunge under the train. It's just a coincidence that you can see his mausoleum from the corner. Whitewashed, elegantly proportioned buildings stretch along the length of the street; sadly, almost every single building had a entry buzzer with four or five buttons, showing that it had been subdivided into flats and bedsits. It's a shame there aren't any good, large homes for families in city centres any more, only apartments.

Down onto Upper Parliament Street, and then I was round and plunging into the dark green hole that is St James' Gardens & Cemetery. I had never been here before. Originally a quarry, the site was turned into the city's cemetery in the 19th Century, and then, when it became too full, it was converted into parkland. It's acquired an unfortunate reputation as a place where society's darker elements have congregated. I first heard of it when I was at college, as the place where an acquaintance would go to find prostitutes; it was also known as a hangout for drug dealers and users. In recent years there's been a concerted effort to clean the place up; a Friends society has been established, and the City Council has also put more effort into its maintenance.

The morning of my visit, the only upsetting sight was a man jogging in lycra shorts. Without wanting to sound like a raddled old Goth, I do love old Victorian cemeteries, with their air of quiet respect and awe for the departed. St James had a similar feel, enhanced by the high rocky walls of the old quarry; it was as though I had descended down beneath ground to where the dead lay. The only sound was the grinding of a lawnmower.

Huskisson's mausoleum lies at the centre of the gardens, surrounded by lawn and close to a natural spring found in the 18th century. It's recently been restored and, as temples to the dead go, it's not bad. It suffers, funnily enough, by being empty. I can understand the objections of the citizens back in Victorian times that you could only see his statue from the front. After all, they didn't have Total Wipeout to watch on a Saturday night, so staring at statues would be pretty good entertainment, and no-one likes to queue. Now though, you peer inside and all you see is an empty plinth. Perhaps it's time William was rescued from inside a yuppie development and restored to where he was intended.

By this point I was frankly dripping with perspiration, and feeling quite weak. I needed a sit down and a rest to recover. And where better to seek sanctuary than inside a Cathedral? With tired legs I mounted the steep tunnel in the rock to the entrance, and stepped inside the blessedly cool building. I tried to look as though I was there for some sort of theological reason as I collapsed into a pew.

I needn't have bothered trying to look penitent. I've said before that I'm a Godless soul, but even I can appreciate the beauty and the majesty of religious architecture. The walls soared above me, red sandstone with intricate carvings and lined with holy symbology. I stared up at the cross space above me and felt dizzy.

But it wasn't real. As my shirt dried and my head settled I became aware of other sensations beyond the religious. The signs asking for donations. The clink of coffee cups. The smell of toast from the "Mezzanine Cafe/Bar". My eyes rested on the seat in front, and the tiny plaque: Presented by Miss B Hasford. It may as well have said This seating experience is brought to you by nPower. It was obsolete as a place of God when they finished it in 1978; Britain had pretty much thrown away any pretence of being a Christian nation. So Liverpool Cathedral had to find a new purpose, and here it was: tourist mecca (well, maybe "mecca" is the wrong word). Alton Towers with crucifixes. Come in, look around, buy a souvenir key ring and a brochure and go home. Tick it off your Big I-Spy Book Of Liverpool Sights and head for the Beatles Story. The Cathedral swallows tourists, but still, the glass and steel bar seemed far more popular than the altar, all spending, spending, spending.

I mean, this is nothing new, I know; churches have always passed round the collection plate, held the annual fair, stuck a giant thermometer on the front door for the Roof Appeal. That's always had a sort of promise behind it, a quid pro quo; you give us fifty pee, we'll look into getting you through the Pearly Gates.

Now they've given up on the promise, because they know, and we know, that no-one believes it any more. The signs asking for donations do so "to maintain this wonderful building", not as alms for the poor. If you hand over your money now you won't get a pat on the head from a kindly vicar and a hint that he'll put in a good word upstairs: your gratification is now instant, because for £4.99 you can buy this lovely guide to the cathedral, or a double mocha, or an egg mayonnaise sandwich. The last great building of God built in this country, and even as it rose above the city, its purpose was dwindling. It's had to perform a paradigm shift, and really, they should just give up on all the religious stuff altogether and let the money lenders into the temple (they probably already have done; a poster near the entrance advises that the building is available for corporate events). They can't call it a House of God any longer. It's a net for catching money.

I love the Cathedral as a building and as an architectural masterpiece. I don't know if I love it still pretending to have any kind of authority. From what I could see, rather than turning to the Archbishop for spiritual guidance, we may as well ask Rafa Benitez; his particular house of worship seems to provoke far more reverence, and is better value for money too.

I'd dried off and recovered, so I nipped to the loo (I'd like to say this is the first time I've pissed in a house of worship, but apparently I mistook the font for a urinal at my christening) and then made my exit. It was getting on for 10:30; I needed to make tracks, literally, if I was going to get to Ormskirk by lunchtime.

I headed down Rodney Street towards the city centre, and paused at a traffic lights to wait for the green man. My eye was caught by one of those plaques the city has erected to commemorate its famous sons and daughters. Henry Booth, 1789-1869: Founder & Director, The Liverpool & Manchester Railway Company, Born Here. I was delighted. After a morning following William Huskisson, I had, entirely coincidentally, ended up outside the home of the man who indirectly caused his death. It was a strange sort of circle I'd walked there. I'd almost say it was divine intervention - but I don't believe in that sort of thing...