round the rails we go

Tickets Please

2026-06-10T09:59:56.566+01:00

Nostalgia is a terrible disease that runs right through the railways. "Oooh, it was better in the old days!" is a curse. There is always someone to point at steam trains, or third class tickets, or British Rail, or train doors you have to hang out the window to open, and say "that's so much better than what we have now". You can sit on an air-conditioned, electric train, almost silent as it glides along, with power sockets and tables, and there will still be a railway fan who will say "I used to like it when you could open the window to hear the screech of the rails and choke on the diesel fumes. Bring that back!"

This post is going to come with a tinge of nostalgia, and I apologise in advance. But I'm using that nostalgia as a way of asking a question about Merseyrail's future. My question is: what happened to all the ticket collectors?

When I first moved to the north - bloody hell - thirty odd years ago, I lived in Ormskirk. Every time a train pulled onto the platform there, a man would appear at the exit and politely collect your ticket.

When I first started visiting the BF via Birkenhead Park - bloody hell - twenty-nine years ago, a man would appear at the top of the ramp and collect your ticket as you passed.

It was a simple and effective way of enforcing ticket sales. I remember distinctly seeing scallies turn round and get on the next train out of Birkenhead Park because they couldn't produce a little orange card.

Last Bank Holiday Monday, I went to New Brighton, and at the exit there were some ticket enforcement officers who stopped everyone as we went through. And they were managing to collect a fair few dodgers in the process. So it is still possible to do it. There seems to be no appetite, however.

You can, basically, ride Merseyrail for free. You're gambling on there not being inspectors on the train but I very rarely get my ticket checked. I'd guess about once every ten journeys. If you're not going to Liverpool, Birkenhead (Conway Park and Hamilton Square) or Southport - where there are barriers - you can get away with not paying. How is this still a thing? Why aren't there barriers everywhere?

I get that they're expensive, of course, and some stations would need a major reconfigure to be able to accommodate them. There's also the issue of having a member of staff there to assist. Other railway companies across the world have managed it. San Francisco's Bart has recently finished installing them, and they've discovered that not only has revenue been protected, but also vandalism and anti-social behaviour at the stations and on the trains has gone down. The network has become a sealed unit only for people with a ticket.

And if you're not going to put barriers in, well, how about bringing back the bloke at the exit? It was actually a good idea. It actually worked. It might also stop me and other law-abiding citizens feeling like a mug when we pay for our ticket and never get checked.

(Yes the bloke at Birkenhead Park was a bit fit and it was always a pleasure to see him but that's not what this is about ok? Besides he'll be pushing sixty by now).

Notes On Camp

2026-06-04T17:11:30.930+01:00

With the new stations of the Wolverhampton-Walsall line behind me (the WolWal Line? Wolvall?) I shifted from one side of New Street to the other. It was in a state of low-level chaos; a problem with the lines going south had caused a huge backlog of delays and cancellations. Dejected passengers lined the platforms waiting for trains that wouldn't come. My own, tiny, local train was delayed by twenty minutes, and as it passed the losers standing by I sank down in my seat so it wouldn't look like I was revelling in my good fortune.

We rose up out of the tunnel, giving us a great view of the HS2 station slowly coming together at Curzon Street. That exact same day Heidi Alexander had stood up and announced that everything would be late and expensive and also, not as good as it was meant to be, and I looked at that vast swathe of concrete and workmen and trucks and diggers and wondered exactly when I'd be able to stand outside it and take a sign selfie. If, indeed, I could still stand at that point. Perhaps my carer will take the picture for me.

The train pulled onto the Camp Hill Line, Birmingham's newest suburban route. I wondered how the people in the houses lining the track felt about this sudden uptick in noise; a rarely used freight line transformed into a commuter line. I bet there's a lot less nude sunbathing in the back gardens now.

The most distinctive part of Moseley Village station isn't anything to do with what's been built; that's all distinctly perfunctory. Metal walls, orange lampposts, all the same playbook. The thing that draws your eye is the entrance to the tunnel beyond the platforms.

Is it just me or is there something vaguely... vulva-like about that? It's the keystone at the top, poking over the splayed curves of the tunnel. It's a little bit dirty. Obviously I'm no expert in this matter but you don't have to be Sigmund Freud to see the symbolism of a train sliding into that.

I politely averted my eyes and went up the stairs to the newly laid out plaza on top. It's a large, bare stretch of block paving that's been clearly designed as an event space. I could see the shadows of artisan soap makers, organic candle stalls and expensive streetfood yet to come scattered across the pavement. It's certainly a cut above Willenhall's cycle lane and zebra crossing.

It quickly became obvious why Moseley Village got the full town square treatment. It turned out this place was posh. Right outside the station was an M&S Food Hall, and it very much continued on that theme. Restaurants and beauty salons cascaded down the hill towards the main road. Estate agents with expensive listings. An old church high on a mound above us. At the junction, a dual carriageway had a vague air of boulevard with tall trees and benches to relax on. The original station here, closed during the war, had been called simply Moseley; you could hear the letters from the residents' associations demanding that Village suffix to show they were a cut above.

This sounds like reverse snobbery, and it is a bit, but it didn't stop me finding Moseley charming. It was certainly an improvement on the grim industrial backstreets of Darleston. I turned up a hill, where a pub poster advertised a forthcoming appearance from drag queen Harley La Rue. Where Class Meets Sass it promised, which I puzzled over for a while until I realised my Southern accent was standing in the way of the rhyme (Where Clarse Meets Sass). I wonder where the dividing line is for that long A. Perhaps the Watford Gap.

The road gently rose up the hill and I realised once again that I should really check out the gradient lines on the OS Map before I plan these journeys. It went up and up, past lines of neat villas and new shiny cars parked close to the kerb. The Moseley Dovecot, a remnant of a great house that was once in the area, stood behind a fence on a patch of green.

I passed a Jewish primary school and a cul de sac of identical terraced homes that was choked with cars. A builder's yard and then, on a whitewashed wall, a picture of an eggman raising his hat to passers by; beneath him, the road sign had been adorned with the Prince symbol. I couldn't decide which was more incongruous.

Blocks of flats now intruded on the street, new and old, while the big mansions had multiple buzzers and concreted fronts. A funeral home had a large stained glass window presiding over passers by, and I found myself humming Slumber Inc without even thinking about it. I am nothing if not predictable.

At a curve in the road my second station appeared, Kings Heath (no, there isn't an apostrophe; yes, it is annoying). There are only three new stations on the Camp Hill line; it terminates at Kings Norton, an already existing station that lacks an apostrophe. It's amazing that this new, exciting transport link in England's second largest city is three stations and two trains an hour in each direction but there it is; we settle for what we can get.

At some point, the trains will go into Moor Street, where there is more capacity than the ridiculously overcrowded New Street, but before that happens Bordesley station needs to close so that new chords can be built. The proposal to close it is already out there, though there isn't a suggestion of a replacement on the Camp Hill route once the new lines are built (the Metro's newest extension will take over the slack). When this will happen is, as always, entirely guesswork.

Kings Heath also has a small pedestrian space outside, though it's more of an infill between the curve and the road and the straight front of the footbridge; I can't see anyone holding a craft fair there.

I took a seat on the platform. There was another man there who also carried a camera. I imagine Men Who Like Railway Stations have been swarming all over the line for the last couple of months; there are probably dozens of YouTube videos about it all in deep detail. This is probably all old news to you. But you get it when I write it, so tough.

The final station is the jewel, the one that everyone likes: Pineapple Road. What a lovely, evocative, fun name. It's the kind of whimsical station name you wouldn't think would pass muster in the boring old 21st century; after all, for most of the 20th century it was called Hazelwell. Pineapple Road is a great fun name, one that calls to you.

It is, of course, nothing special on the ground. If a kidnapper dumped me on a platform on the Camp Hill line and ran off with my glasses so I couldn't read the sign I wouldn't be able to tell them apart. Two platforms, metal awnings and stairs, lifts and footbridge.

Still, I hoped Pineapple Road, of all the stations, would offer a little bit of artistic licence. A moment of character. I was excited to spot some metal fretwork and I stopped for a good look.

I'm afraid to say it depicted random wild flowers. There wasn't a single pineapple to be seen, which simply isn't on. It's called Pineapple Road. It's on the Camp Hill line. It's begging for a level of flamboyant extravagance hitherto unseen in the West Midlands. There should be small pineapples on top of every pillar, lamp post and help sign. There should be pineapple murals and pineapple brickwork. You shouldn't be able to move for the pineapples.

When I win the EuroMillions on Friday (£137 million, watch this space) I will personally pay for a two metre high golden pineapple statue to be erected outside the station. I will give the station the campery, the whimsy, the sheer delightful personality it deserves. I will make it the destination it should be.

Small Wins

2026-05-27T12:05:30.058+01:00

It's very easy, at this moment in British history, to allow yourself to become despondent about the state of the nation. About the inability of government, media and thought leaders to advocate for change. About the failure to deliver any world changing projects or schemes. About the general attitude of "will this do?"

It's easy, in all of this, to miss when something good actually happens. When there is a change that will directly improve the lives of people in the country.

Which is why I went to the Midlands.

In the last few weeks the West Midlands Railway has acquired two new lines, long orange streaks across the map on routes that weren't previously open to passengers (at least, not in this century). Those railway lines gifted a total of five new stations to the map. Five new chances for travel, regeneration and opportunity. Obviously I had to visit them.

My first port of call was Willenhall, on the new line between Wolverhampton and Walsall. It's a former freight line that now lets you travel between two major conurbations without having to go into Birmingham city centre first. It doesn't sound much, but that's the kind of small link that makes a big difference. Any chance to avoid New Street is surely a plus.

Willenhall will not be confused for one of Europe's great termini. It has two platforms, two shelters, and some seats. There is no ticket office, but there is a ticket machine. It's been decked out in bland grey with some splashes of corporate orange here and there.

It was already being well used when I arrived, with a dozen people disembarking with me (and one girl rushing down to the platform a full minute after the train had left; she tried to style it out, pulling her phone up and leaning on a wall, like she really wanted to hang out on a railway station for an hour).

I went up to the road bridge, which has been gifted with a cycle lane and plenty of pedestrian space. It turned out the town centre of Willenhall was less than a minute's walk from the new station; it could not have been more convenient. I would've been pretty annoyed if I'd lived there in 1965 when it originally closed, removing a handy link, but there are so many reasons I'm glad I wasn't around in 1965 (grrr, Beeching!).

I didn't go into the town, instead turning right past a memorial and the library. There was some lovely Festival of Britain font going on over the old entrance - there's a new glass one to the side, with disabled access - and the "flag of Willenhall" on a gatepost. It was designed in 2014 and references the town's history as the home of lockmaking - it was the site of Yale's factory for decades. I am, officially, over flags in any way shape or form right now; the discourse has ground me down. Sure, you want a flag, stick it up. Stick up all the flags you like. It won't make your wife come back.

The road twisted and turned, past a church tower and a half-dozen pubs - some open, some not. Drinking culture has changed so much in the last couple of centuries as we've realised that (a) getting lashed on your lunch break probably isn't a good thing and (b) getting lashed in general isn't great for your health and certainly won't give you washboard abs. It's sad seeing these former pleasure palaces laden with "for sale" signs but Britain is changing. It's a new world, and that world involves protein shakes and gyms. And also, let's be honest, quite a lot of cocaine. It's a world I'll quietly absent myself from, and I'll be over here, resting a pint glass on my beer gut.

As I walked, it became clear that Willenhall was crying out for a fast, direct link into the city. There were the occasional signs of regeneration - blocks of flats, new town houses - but mostly what I saw was post-industrial collapse. Empty buildings. Debris. Sadness. Small homes with peeling paint and grass growing out of their roofs.

I passed The Meat Shop - a woman was emerging with a bulging white carrier bag, filled with who knew what - and a bus stop with a pair of giggling sixth formers flirting with one another. TLC Bargains had a slogan of SMACK WHACK BANG and an astonishing Instagram account featuring "the Black Country Del Boy". Please do check out the video where he extols the virtues of a spice grinder while wearing a pair of fake breasts. I don't know why.

I turned right at the Sikh Gurdwara, as always enjoying the little bit of exoticism that had crashed landed into boring old England, and descended past a delicious-smelling McDonalds (it was lunchtime after all) towards the railway bridge. The Robin Hood pub, judging by the cards on the back of the bench in the window, was hosting a birthday party. Two elderly people came round from the car park, peered inside, then went in.

The A454 quickly followed, passing over my head while the railway had gone underneath (there was a canal a bit further on, too; a rare one-two-three of transport). In a layby, a truck driver sat in his cab and ate his lunch; a second van backed into the space next to him and the driver similarly pulled out a sandwich. I was leaving the residential streets behind and moving into the industrial.

A company proudly celebrating its 29th anniversary with a special badge on the side of its unit - that's not how anniversaries work - and an ad for Darlaston Gym Boxing hung on a green fence. At the traffic lights, a crane towered over my head, as I turned left to follow the long brick wall of the Imperial Works. Once a nuts and bolt factory, it had become home to various engineering businesses over the years, but now seemed derelict.

It was obvious to me how Darlaston station would help this area. It was thick with industry - trucks were constantly passing me or reversing - but there was still a lot of blank, vacant space that was crying out for a rebuild. Offices, homes - you could slip them in here now, with a canal view and a local station. It needed a bit of ambition and a lot of money but it could be done.

I avoided being run over by a self-drive hire van - they were still getting used to the controls, clearly, and were very apologetic as they lurched out of a side entrance - and passed a rack of traffic trapped in a four-way roadwork. There were so many different businesses around, so many names I'd never heard of, doing work I'd never know about. Receiving deliveries of who knew what, processing invoices from other small anonymous companies, making a nice little profit that bought the owner a decent car and paid for a Christmas party.

Houses returned with a crash: a sudden block of old people flats and a row of 1970s houses. One of them had torn up their lawn to replace it with a large, fake stone fountain, about two metres high. Sadly the water wasn't turned on, otherwise I'd have nipped over to drop in a few coins and make a wish.

The new station isn't on Station Street; road changes have left this as a cut-through lined with a terrace on one side and garages on the other. At the end, there was a vast self-storage unit. The only business that seems to be expanding everywhere is storage, as we own more and more things but live in smaller and smaller homes.

On top of the railway bridge I got a glimpse of the station below. The embankments were still scarred from construction, bare and yet to be turfed, while a team of men with a tanker and a hose were doing some pumping on the newly laid drain - not a great sign, let's be honest. They blocked the way for me to get a decent sign picture with their equipment so I'm afraid this is the best you'll get. It does say Darlaston, I promise.

Actually getting into the station involved a walk up a long road that provided access to the neighbouring cemetery. I got the feeling that TfWM didn't expect many people to walk to this stop, a suspicion confirmed when I rounded the corner and saw an acre of bare tarmac laid out for parking. It was, I'd say, about 10% full, but it was early days. I'm sure in a few months you'll find it hard to get a spot.

Like its brother at Willenhall, Darlaston station is no looker. It gets the job done. There are lifts to get you over the tracks, seats, a roof to hold off the rain.

Darlaston station won't change the world. But it will improve a little part of it. Get your wins where you can.

Class

2026-05-13T18:51:43.299+01:00

When I disembarked at Blundellsands & Crosby, there was a girl ahead of me. She was about seventeen or eighteen, wearing a loose thin shirt over a crop top and tiny white shorts. In the crook of her right arm was a cooler. She peered into the window of the waiting room and then, when she couldn't see whoever she was meeting, she pulled out her phone and began hastily tapping.

I guessed that she was on study leave from her A-levels and was using the opportunity to go to the beach with her mates. I didn't blame her. It was an incredibly beautiful day. The blue sky seemed to reach up and over us, a huge dome of bright.

Blundellsands Road West, the route to the beach, is a parade of elegant Victorian mansions and classy villas set behind long gardens. Some of them have been converted to flats, but a lot haven't; large cars with personalised number plates park on block paved driveways. In between them are prep schools and junior schools and kindergartens. It meant that I heard, in the mid morning air, nothing but the joyous sound of children playing.

The road ended in a merger between land and nature, a no man's land where the grass and the sand butted right up against the tarmac. There was a sign indicating where the nearest toilets were in both directions, and then, a little way behind it, a memorial bench for someone I never met but none the less mourned.

Seb Patrick was a writer and podcaster who grew up on Merseyside, moved down to London for work, then returned in his thirties with his wife and daughter so that he could give them a better standard of living. I knew him through his podcast, Cinematic Universe, and we followed each other on Twitter. It was a social media relationship, where we would interact, swap jokes, but didn't actually know anything about one another. I found him funny and interesting and the updates on his readjustment to living in Liverpool were charming.

Seb died suddenly in 2020. He was 37. All deaths are tragic, of course, but there was a real loss to this one. He was too young, had too many responsibilities, had too much going on in his life.

Social media is a strange phenomenon. Every day I get small moments from people's lives sent to my phone. Every day I quietly build up a picture of a person, a figure behind an avatar, a real human being with a cat and a house and a job. I don't know them. In many cases I don't even know their real name. But I've been getting these little nuggets of their existence in my world for years now. I've never met them but they are in some ways more real to me than actual relatives. I have cousins I've not seen for thirty years and have no idea what they're doing now, while there are people I've never met at the other end of the country where I could probably write their autobiography for them.

Are these people friends? No, not really. But they do become a valuable marker in your life. Humans are social animals and that social interaction can come from a million different ways. It's why I get annoyed when people talk about the "importance" of social media, of Twitter and Bluesky as agents of change and political forces. Yes that happens, but also, some people are watching a television programme and laughing and want to share it. That's properly important to me.

The path rose up, slowly, over a ridge of dunes, as though it's holding off the view until the very last moment. Then you see the long expanse of wide sandy beach and rolling tides and in amongst them, the Iron Men.

Another Place by Anthony Gormley is 100 iron men, based on his own body, and scattered across the beach staring out to sea. The tide washes over them, deposits barnacles and sand on them, and they remain impassive throughout. It was originally a travelling artwork, with Crosby Beach the third place to host it, but Merseyside fell in love with it. After a good deal of campaigning - and despite resistance from the council - it became a permanent part of the landscape in 2007.

It still unnerves you, to see them staring out to sea, but there's also something hopeful and pleasing about them. Certainly the beach users that day were enjoying playing around them. Small children ran up and stared at them while dogs danced around them. It's a massive draw for the area and really, the best kind of public art; wanted, loved, cherished.

I followed the promenade south, taking in the view. Crosby Beach has a strange mix of idyll and practicality. The sands are long and glowing, but behind them are wind turbines, and oil tankers, and the red cranes of the Liverpool docks are constantly in sight. It's a holiday but there's a reminder of work at all times. It's probably done them a favour. Anywhere else in the country and this stretch of uninterrupted sands would be a major destination. Instead it's a secret Scousers keep to themselves.

Sand had swamped the path at some points, a bone of contention between the locals and the council. They argue that the sand stops access to the promenade, which is true, but the council is forced to point at the sea and say "you know how this works, right?" Sefton Borough Council is not King Cnut, and it can't stop the waves. The beach wants to join the dunes behind it and it's not going to let a strip of paving get in the way.

The path opened up to real the frankly gob-smacking form of Crosby Leisure Centre. It's a scifi vehicle that somehow arrived in suburban Liverpool; you expect a woman with a suspiciously large beehive hairdo to come sashaying out. The architects claimed that the roof is to allow the sands to blow over the top without impediment. I believe this is architect speak for "it looks really cool".

I followed the path round the edge, able to see inside to the swimming pool where people larked about in the water. Sadly the building is not a full flying saucer. Only the front half has the amazing sloped roof; at the back it's a brick block, tucked away from the sea where you can't spot it. Still, what a front that is.

I walked onto Bridge Road, a strip between the railway and the beach that was showing signs of being gentrified. It had a mix of industrial units and shops, garages and cafes. The micropub was alongside an electrical wholesaler; the cash-only Chinese takeaway with the racially suspect cartoon in the window was over the road from a cafe offering breakfast-lunch-gelato.

A roadsign welcomed me to Brighton-le-Sands; I choose to believe they added "le-Sands" as a deliberate two fingers to the more famous Brighton's pebbly beach. (It never fails to astonish me that Brighton's nudist beach is shingle. You must be pulling stones out of crevices for days). Squat office blocks were headquarters to engineering firms and vaguely maritime industries. At some point people are going to spot that you can get a three bed semi a two minute walk from the sea for under £300,000 and suddenly the cash and carry will be a nightclub and the chippy will become a coffee shop but until then it's a nice mix of people.

I turned inland, past a row of neat new houses built with electric chargers and double driveways, and a missing cat poster ("Diddy"). I was approaching the railway line, and a cynical part of me thought that a missing cat within one street of an electrified rail probably isn't coming back. I hope I'm wrong.

The other side of the line counts as Crosby, if not technically than certainly in the minds of the residents, and as such it has no need to be gentrified; it was always like that.

Now we were in a world of elevated chicken shops with expensive burgers, of restaurants designed to be featured on the 'Gram, of "CAMRA Pub of the Year 2025". Women in snatched outfits pushed babies in designer onesies. Salons offered "natural facial rejuvenation". And then, in the middle of it, a football ground.

Marine AFC play in the Northern League North, which, as far as I can work out, is the bit below what in my head is still the Vauxhall Conference. I tried reading the Wikipedia page on it but my brain started closing down through sheer boredom. They're below the proper football teams who play in the four divisions that I'm vaguely aware of, let's put it that way.

They've played here since 1903, but that could all change quite soon: they announced plans for a new stadium in Thornton last year. I'm not sure what's happening there, but Rossett Park will supposedly be retained as a "community resource". A great ambition, if it happens; not to be too cynical but a large space in a sought-after residential area that's no longer being used for its primary purpose screams "flogged to a property developer for a huge profit". Fair play to them either way.

I crossed the road with two yummy mummies to where a Carnegie Library occupied a triangular site. The actual library closed in 2013, in the early days of austerity (ah, the memories of when we were told it was a bit of temporary belt-tightening) but because it's one of the marvellous gifts to the nation from Andrew Carnegie, it sat empty awaiting someone who could treat it with a bit of sympathy to restore it.

That new occupier is going to be Moose Coffee, the local breakfast chain that has people queuing around the block for their food. I have a slight resentment towards Moose because their very first branch was round the corner from me in our village; however, that one rebranded as Home and Moose went on to become a Liverpool phenomenon. It's a bit like seeing a really popular band in their early days. I'm wandering around going "I was having Moose Coffee before they even opened a branch in Dale Street" but unsurprisingly it doesn't have the same cache as the Pistols at the Free Trade Hall.

I darted across the road and into a small oblong of park. It was thick with trees and dog walkers. I paused for a moment and had a drink of water. I realised how much I was enjoying myself. This is going to out me as a terrible snob - well, this and everything I've ever written on this blog - but it was nice to be wandering around an area without worrying a drug dealer was going to leap out and accost me. The run of Leasowe-Kirkby-Walton wasn't exactly showing the city region at its best. Now I was in a nice area with nice shops and parks and it was nice.

I followed Coronation Road into the centre of Great Crosby, another string of cafes and old-fashioned businesses that were somehow clinging on. A carpet shop, a solicitors, a decorator's centre that ironically could've done with a lick of paint.

The centre of the village proper is a Y-shaped section of pedestrianisation. Shops and bars line the pavement, tables spilling out for sunny days like today. Even the Greggs had space outside for your al fresco steak bake. A couple of new developments had inserted blocks of apartments into the centre, with more being constructed further down; a pleasing dose of densification where you'd expect the locals to fight against it.

I wandered through its impeccably clean streets, wondering where to have my lunch. I was tempted to go to Greggs and have one of its chicken sausage rolls in solidarity now that it's become a front in the culture wars (they only introduced them to get Muslims to shop there!!1!!1) but that felt a bit vulgar. Besides I got distracted when I spotted a bookshop.

I need to stop buying books. No, really, I do. It's becoming a terrible, terrible burden. I can't wander past a bookshop without getting the urge to run in and buy another novel I can add to the "unread" pile. It's a total waste of money. I walked round Pritchards, desperately trying to find something to buy, and at the same time, resisting every fibre in my body that said I should. After a full circuit I was able to leave, empty handed, breathing heavily but relieved that I'd spent absolutely nothing. (I have since bought two more books from other shops).

A walk back to the head of the pedestrian area, where there's a Sainsbury's, and I was able to spot a changing of the guard. A phone box had been loaded onto the back of a flatbed truck and the workmen were preparing the way for a flatscreen advertising board - sorry, I mean a BT Street Hub, because you can technically still use them to make a telephone call, not that anyone ever will. I'd never seen a phone box being carted off to the knacker's yard before and it gave me a momentary pang of sadness. Then I tried to remember the last time I'd used one and I don't think it was this side of the millennium.

I'd done a full circuit now and was still no closer to finding somewhere for lunch. I mean, there were obviously a lot of options, but most of them fell between "too posh" or "too generic" (yes, there was a Costa). Finally I realised where to go, where I should've gone right from the start.

My thanks to The George for giving me the lunch I needed.

This trip - and also the pint of beer - was funded by your contributions to my Ko-fi. Thanks once again!

5. Blundellsands & Crosby

2026-05-06T12:11:09.611+01:00

Opened: 24th July 1848 as Crosby. Renamed Blundellsands for Crosby in 1865, then Blundellsands & Crosby in November that year.

Line electrified: 1904

Number of platforms: Two, with a waiting room on each.

Points of interest: Quite a few, actually. On the northbound platform is a blue bench, built by a local schoolboy, and dedicated to Brian Boggild. He was the ticket man at Crosby for many years but sadly died of Covid in 2020. I'm guessing he was an Everton fan.

Running under the end of the platforms is a small pedestrian underpass to allow people to continue on their way without the need for a level crossing. It connects Blundellsands Road East with Blundellsands Road West.

The subway has been decorated with a cheery mural of children playing to celebrate Sefton Council's fiftieth anniversary. I'm not quite sure what the connection with this underpass is beyond it being in Sefton but it's nice anyway.

It certainly makes what could be a pretty dark space that little bit jollier.

On the southbound platform there's another piece of art in the form of a mosaic depicting local points of interest.

I can't seem to find any information about who created the artwork, or when. If you know, please get in touch and I'll happily update this page. (Remember when Merseytravel had an entire Art on the Network programme? Ah, the good old days before austerity). The mosaic could do with a little bit of care, though, because it's been protected by a clear plastic screen, presumably chosen over glass because it's less likely to be damaged. Which would be fine except the plastic has turned yellow in the sun.

There's also a small coffee shop, The Green Kiosk, which serves reasonably priced beverages from a tiny shed right outside the station entrance.

Attractive Local Feature sign: Considering all the other points of interest, and its proximity to Crosby Beach, it's a surprise to find there isn't one.

Original blog post: 19th December 2007

What's changed since then? I've aged considerably.

Proof of visit:

Let Me Count The Ways

2026-05-01T17:24:57.743+01:00

Patchway looks a lot more modern than it actually is. A station first opened in the 19th century, it has upgraded lifts and a footbridge, as though someone actually cares about it as a destination. The reason for all this up to date tech is simple: electrification. The Great Western Main Line got wired in the 2010s, meaning that the footbridge here had to be rebuilt higher up, and inadvertently making it a much nicer place to visit. It's yet another argument for electric trains across the entire nation, which is why it isn't happening. Making sense isn't a good enough reason I'm afraid.

The station's main claim to fame is that it serves the Rolls-Royce manufacturing complex, and they even have their own entrance from the platform. Looking at the acres of vacant land I wondered if this was going to be another part of the Brabazon new town, but apparently not. Rolls-Royce are still doing well here, producing aircraft components, and probably also some terrifying murder machines that we'd rather not think about.

I left the station by the car park, where a group of men in their sixties were meeting up for a trip into town, manfully shaking hands and being polite to one another. Absolutely no hugs here. Station Road is a small, narrow country-esque lane which, judging by the speed of the drivers who passed me, is used as a rat run. There's an estate the other side of the trees, but they're weirdly kept separate, in case they go mad and decide to use public transport.

At the end is Gypsy Patch Lane. Is that okay? I don't know if that's okay. It's a wide road that forms part of a chain crossing the top of the city, lined with corporation homes set back behind gardens and front gates. I followed an elderly man returning home; he absent-mindedly picked a piece of litter out of his hedge before going into his home.

Across the way was a pub called Stokers which, unlike a lot of estate pubs, still seemed to be thriving. A quick look at their Facebook page revealed the reason for this:

SCOTCH EGG FRIDAY. I repeat: SCOTCH EGG FRIDAY. What a concept. While other pubs are branching out into gourmet eats or tapas, Stokers is slapping down eighty scotch eggs and doing a roaring trade. That's what you want with your pint, not some padron peppers or a croqueta or two: an egg wrapped in meat with maybe a bit of pickle chucked in as well. I'm writing this from nearly two hundred miles away, and I'm furious I'm not there. Admittedly, I'd probably get my head kicked in - it doesn't look like the kind of pub that welcomes fat train station spotters - but so long as I got one of those cheese and cracked black pepper bites first I'd be happy.

Stokers also had a bonus claim to fame in the car park. Computer, zoom and enhance.

Waiting to feed the students later that day was the legendary Jason Donervan. I felt quite starstruck seeing it across the road, like when I went to Sunderland and saw Amy's Winehouse. Also Jason Donervan never sued anyone for saying it was gay so it's already one-up on the Aussie soap star.

I was quite happily wandering around, hoping that those clouds wouldn't get any darker or more rainy, when I saw a bus stop. The problem was, this bus stop was so good, I actually told it to fuck off. Out loud. Look at it.

It would appear that Bristol has a network called metrobus (no caps needed, it's the future). This is an actual Bus Rapid Transit network, with four express services running around the city.

The bus stops themselves incorporate dispense the tickets, so you can buy before you board, plus seating and a next bus indicator.

Obviously buses are rubbish, in the main. However, part of the reason they're rubbish is they're easy to get rid of - how many "this stop is not in use" signs have you noticed? - plus they're slow and get caught up in traffic. If you give them their own dedicated lanes and busways and modern vehicles that are easy to use and understand, people will be all over them. I was wildly impressed (although a bit of reading up has shown me that they're not necessarily all they should be; bus lane provision has been spotty, meaning the vehicles get caught up in the traffic with everything else).

It's not the only bit of Bristol's transport planning that surprised me. While I was reading up on the stations I discovered that there are actual local government plans for an underground railway service.

Obviously this is all heavily caveated. They're talking about it being possibly a mix of over- and underground services, so it might be a tram network with a couple of tunnels rather than a full metro. The proposal came from Bristol Mayor Marvin Rees, who's now in the House of Lords and his position has been abolished entirely (there's a Metro Mayor for the West of England instead). Funding was allocated to look into the proposals, with a suggestion of four lines, each of which costs one billion pounds. That sounds like far too low an amount to me (Line 4 of the Milan Metro, which opened in 2024, cost €1.7 billion) and the amount will be rising every moment there aren't spades in the ground.

None the less, I'm thrilled by the optimism. This is exactly what the regional mayors should be doing. Not monkeying around with the odd station or new bendy buses; big, transformative projects that will comprehensively change the city. Even Andy Burnham - perhaps the most powerful city leader in the country - only tentatively talks about an underground system for Manchester, even though Manchester should've got one about, oooh, a hundred years ago. The idea that there is a city in the United Kingdom actually pushing for modern, transformative public transport is thrilling, and gives me a little bit of hope for the future. I look forward to riding on the Bristol Tube one day. I'll probably be in an oxygen tent by then but that's not the point.

I turned off Gipsy Patch Lane - nope, still not okay - and onto a fast road running between parkland. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I started to spot rooftops appearing behind the trees, as a housing estate quietly surrounded me. Unlike the corporation works I'd been walking by before now, this was very private, a network of cul-de-sacs hidden away. It turned its back on the main roads, showing them blank walls. It didn't feel welcoming at all; it viewed strangers with suspicion.

I negotiated another roundabout, and paused in the Tesco Express for a bottle of Coke; the staff were loudly complaining about a fellow worker and his laziness, shouting across the aisles. Beyond that was another pub, though this one was extemely closed. They clearly hadn't got the memo about Scotch Egg Fridays.

The road sloped down and there was the entrance to what was, in its own way, one of the most significant railway stations in the UK.

Motorways were springing up all over the UK in the 1960s and 70s. While they had ordinary, boring official numbers, they also often acquired other names in planning, names designed to capture the imagination of the locals and distract them from the six lanes of viaduct crashing through their neighbourhoods. Linguists looked to America, because in the 1970s everyone wanted Britain to me more like thrusting, exciting, everyone driving everywhere America, and they alit on the term "parkway" - a term for a fast road that is usually scenic and surrounded by trees. It might be a lie - if you've ever got a cab from JFK into Manhattan you will have travelled along a series of Parkways, and it's about as scenic as the bottom of a wheelie bin - but it sounds nice, particularly to naive British people who didn't know much about these new roads and heard the word "park" and thought of ducks and lakes and grass. As such, the M32 motorway, which goes from the M4 into the centre of the city, was dubbed the "Bristol Parkway" and then, a few years later, when a new station was opened quite close to junction one, it was also called "Bristol Parkway," to let people know that it was conveniently located for that great motorway.

Something strange then happened. People forgot that the M32 was called the Bristol Parkway at all, and instead associated the name with the station. They thought that Parkway meant there was a place to park, because the new station had, in fact, been built with a large car park to enable commuting. In a rare example of 1970s British Rail actually capitalising on some good publicity, they started using Parkway as a generic term meaning "we've got a large car park you know". Hence Liverpool South Parkway, Tiverton Parkway, Oxford Parkway, and a load of other stations across the UK that don't have a big motorway next door. It's a strange story of the British public being told a word means one thing and deciding, comprehensively, that it absolutely doesn't. I still think Parkway is an incredibly boring thing to stick on the end of a railway station name, and I object to it every time I see it, but that's not Bristol Parkway's fault.

The station has proved so popular it's been repeatedly expanded over the years, with the latest rebuild coming in 2001 and looking very turn of the millennium. A metal roof and plenty of circulation space, though not many actual seats, plus the obligatory branch of Costa. There were originally two platforms - there's now four - and the car park has been upgraded to a multi-storey, with a further satellite car park up the road. It's a roaring success, so I shouldn't be sniffy about it, but I have to admit I'm not a fan.

It might be that it felt a bit tired. Twenty-five years is usually about the length of time railway companies can go without doing any maintenance to a station - "it's still new!" - and the building and public areas all felt cluttered and in need of a good scrub. It needed to be stripped back of all the extras that had arrived over the years and restored to its clean lines.

I went down to the platform, where I learned that Bristol Parkway is Home of UWE Bristol, and got on a train to Temple Meads. There were still a couple of stations left in the city for me to visit, on the south side, but I didn't like the look of those clouds, and I didn't have a coat. Plus I fancied a pint. You're a great city Bristol. I hope to revisit you very soon.

Brizzle Kicks

2026-04-26T17:41:56.304+01:00

For reasons far too dull to go into here, I found myself in Bristol with some hours to kill. How many hours? I didn't really know. It could be two, it could be four, it all depended on when I got a phone call. I needed something to keep me busy but not an extreme voyage of discovery.

Readers with long memories might remember that I've been to Bristol before, back in 2016, when I was thinking of turning this blog into a book of some kind. That didn't happen. I did travel round the country, though, and one of the lines I visited was the Severn Beach Line, which goes from Temple Meads along the coast. This is what the line diagram looked when I visited:

And this is what it looks like now:

Why, there's a whole new station on there! (And also Weston-Super-Mare, but for the purposes of this blog, we're ignoring that). Portway Park & Ride opened in 2023, which meant if I visited there, I'd complete the whole line once again. (I repeat: ignore Weston-Super-Mare. It's got a thinner green line, if you notice, because it doesn't count. I decided.)

This meant travelling from Bristol Temple Meads, which I've never really got on board with. I know it's an extremely important station, both from an engineering perspective and architecturally, but it doesn't fly for me. It may be because it's largely a through station. A terminus has a grand feeling of arrival, of being a destination in itself, while a through station is simply a stop on the way to somewhere else. It also makes the station lopsided; the facilities all end up to the side.

Big fan of the Isambard Kingdom Brunel statue outside though. I had no idea he was so dinky, barely scraping five feet. He looks like he should be playing the Artful Dodger. We love a Short King.

It was fun catching up with stations out the window of the train, remembering where I'd gone and what I'd done. I have a strangely powerful memory about railway stations - I get a glimpse and I can remember the day, the weather, where I went and what I did. This doesn't extend to railway station names, by the way. Those all blur together. Show me a platform though and I can tell you some stupid fact about my visit, every time.

Portway won't win any architecture awards, not least because there's nothing there you could really call architecture. A single platform, an off the shelf shelter, some lamp posts. The line's single track here so there isn't even a need for a footbridge. It's the most perfunctory of new developments.

Its real purpose is clear once you've followed a pathway lined with pictures of newts drawn by local schoolchildren. Apparently this is to commemorate the newt crossing that was installed when they built the station. As with all children's art on the railways, I have no time for it. Pay a proper artist. Still, I suppose we are now entering an era of AI art, and soon there will be illustrations of chubby cartoon characters with a yellow piss-wash to distract us all over the network. Then I'll be desperate for a poorly scrawled daubing by Candace, age 9.

Portway has been gifted with a wide car park and a bus exchange, both of which were well used when I visited. In fact, there was a double decker waiting at the top of the footpath as I approached from the station, only to pull away when I got within a few metres; I imagine that amused him greatly for the rest of the day, thinking that he had deprived a commuter of a bus ride. What larks.

It's interesting to note that the actual name of the station is Portway Park & Ride. Firstly, urgh. How demeaning. Secondly, I'm not sure I've ever seen the words Park & Ride actually incorporated into the name before (I'm sure I'm wrong). The usual format would be to call this a Parkway, which would then make it Portway Parkway, which I think is brilliant but I'm sure the council thought was unnecessarily flippant for a major transport investment.

The reason for the station's existence can be seen soaring over your head: the M5 viaduct over the River Avon. Junction 18 is down the road, and the hope is this station will pull some people away from driving directly into the city. The car park looked busy so it must be working.

I left the station through a scrappy back exit that took me directly under the bridge, to a level crossing that blocked access to a section of industry. I stood politely at the closed gate, trying not to catch the eye of the driver in the car waiting with me, trying to quiet the voice in my head that said look, you can nip right across, it's only single track and you can see if the train's coming.

Eventually the Bristol-bound train passed through and we were allowed to cross. I diverted to the side, into a small patch of gravel and through a gate into the Lamplighter's Marsh, a stretch of open country on a bend in the river cut off from the town by the railway. Above me, the trucks on the viaduct made a tinny, metallic sound as they crossed.

I was almost immediately assaulted from all sides. I'm not sure what's happening this year, but I have been suffering with the worst hay fever of my life. I can't take a stroll past a single bush without sneezing, and as I walked across the marsh my eyes were streaming and my nose was running. Nature seems to be particularly vindictive this spring and I'm not a fan.

I bravely pushed on, passing joggers and dog walkers, taking in the sunshine and the clear blue sky. It was wonderful to be out on my own, strolling without a jacket, feeling the sun on me. It was a slow rejuvenation. I absolutely felt as though I was sloughing off my winter burdens.

The Lamplighter's Inn was still there, and seemingly still open, which pleased me. Ten years later that's not a guarantee with a pub. As with my previous visit, I was too early for a pint, but that's good in a way - a decade long piece of symmetry. I climbed up through the village, where the houses were painted; I remembered them as being gentle pastels before but now they were stark primary colours. I much preferred this colour scheme, particularly the purple one; brave and bold, shaming the boring semis over the road.

Shirehampton station was still tucked under the railway bridge, opposite the Daisy Field, and I took another sign pic. It's a GWR station now, not First Great Western, but while the font may have changed my dopey expression remains the same.

The question was, where to next, and I decided to take a trip to another new (to me) station, Ashley Down. This opened on the line north out of Temple Meads in September 2024, barely 18 months after construction started, which may be some kind of record. I've never known a railway station project go so smoothly. (How's Liverpool Baltic coming along Steve? Never mind).

It's not a looker, I'll give you that; two platforms, a bridge, lifts. No sign of a ticket office. But it's been neatly done, with a bit of landscaping outside and easy access to a cycle path. A perfectly decent suburban station in a district that could do with fast efficient transport into town, forcing you to once again wonder why there was that sixty year gap between the closing of the old Ashley Hill station and the new one opening.

There was now a steep walk uphill to the main road. I'd forgotten how hilly Bristol is. While Sheffield, say, has a reputation as a slog to get round, Bristol has a breezy, happy vibe to it that belies the absolute nightmare that is getting from one district to another. I pushed up the slope to the top, where a block of new build flats barely concealed the floodlighting rig for Gloucestershire County Cricket ground. Bristol Rovers' home ground is also within a mile of here; I repeat, why wasn't the station opened before?

It was bin day, apparently, and in Bristol there seems to be a mix of wheelies, crates and bags for their recycling and rubbish. I looked at it with a slight feeling of dread. At the moment Wirral has one wheelie for rubbish and one for recycling, but there's a promise to introduce food caddies at some point, and I imagine our free and easy days of chucking paper and glass all in the one bin will soon be over. Our neighbours once wandered off with one of our bins, which we had to reclaim when they put it out again a couple of weeks later, so I get anxious about disappearing receptacles. Surely the wind will blow a bag away? Or those crates will prove tempting for teenagers to chuck about?

That was an awful lot of Bin Chat. This is how you know you're a middle aged man. The bins assume an importance entirely out of step with reality.

Up and round the block, descending to a pair of retail parks with a Lidl and an Aldi side by side; I didn't think that was allowed. It feels slightly dangerous. Maybe they all roll out at eight o'clock for rumbles in the car park, with the staff of Home and Bargain coming between them shouting "no, it's not worth it!".

A neat row of hire scooters were parked by a greenspace; unlike in Liverpool, where you are never more than eight seconds from being mown down by a student recklessly weaving on one, even though the city centre is about eight foot wide and entirely flat, I could actually see the point of them in steep Bristol. It also helped that the scooter users seemed much more considerate, and there were plenty of cycle lanes for them to be segregated from the traffic.

In case you can't read that, it's a picture of Jesus under the slogan, When all hope is lost, remember some people still support Bristol Rovers. One thing I dislike about Bristol is that Banksy has seemingly given graffiti artists carte blanche to fill every piece of wall with their nonsense. We get it, you're an alternative city - I have never seen so many people with coloured dye jobs in my life - but 98% of the scrawl on the walls isn't art, it's just names and letters and the odd bit of swearing. I'm not really a Banksy fan - oh, the police aren't necessarily on the side of the populace? Please, deliver more astonishing truth to power, sir - but at least his stencil work has a certain amount of class and talent to it. It's like the council are afraid to power wash away Holly McManus Is A Big Fat Slag And Nobody Will Touch Her With A Bargepoll - Donna in case Donna later uses her spraypainting skills to portray, I don't know, Gemma Collins as the Mona Lisa, and her "Treatise against Holly McManus, 2026" is suddenly worth eight hundred thousand pounds and the city can flog it to fund a library for another six months.

The road continued up and up, long stretches of semis, a lot of them undergoing building works to take away pesky front drives and add loft conversions. A delivery driver did a frankly terrifying u-turn across both lanes of traffic, causing cars to slam on their brakes in both directions, and I don't think his cheery wave of thanks placated them. I remember reading once that DHL's delivery programme in America never makes the vans do a left hand turn, preferring to send them round the block on the much easier right turn; clearly Amazon or Evri or whoever don't extend the same software to their UK drivers.

A crossroads and I was passing the Bristol Civil Service Social Club and a bus shelter filled with expectant riders. Houses were To Let from the unfortunately named CJ Hole estate agency. A small row of local shops, with the owners stood outside having a chat, then a clothes recycling bin surrounded by bags and bric-a-brac.

More shops, mainly takeaways and beauty salons, the only businesses that can't go completely online. A pub had been converted into a Tesco Express, while a restaurant promised English breakfasts and Indian meals, which I believe is the only food any British person ever needs. Further up, a regeneration project had filled the back roads with new avenues of homes named after writers. Shakespeare Avenue and Wordsworth Road? Fine. Beatrix Place? Disrespectful; no surname, just because she's a woman? (And all three Brontës get one Walk between them.) Amis Walk and Dahl Walk? Problematic.

Still, it was better than the next bunch of streets that were all simply given numbers - Seventh Avenue and so on. I imagine the intention was to give it a glamorous, American air, but it actually came off as unimaginative and impersonal.

I'd left the city of Bristol at some point, into one of its neighbouring boroughs, and there'd been a definite social slide. Filton had once been home to aircraft manufacturing, but it had been downsized over the years. The Bristol Brabazon and Concorde were built here, but now the runway is being turned into a new town, also called Brabazon; there will be thousands of homes, offices, a new arena and a railway station on a former freight line to serve it all.

Filton Abbey Wood station, meanwhile, has slowly grown over the years from a couple of platforms to four, though its facilities remain minimal - long ramps and stairs and a footbridge.

I'd gone to the local Asda to get a bit of lunch - in a masterpiece of planning, even though it's right next door, there's no way to access it from the station, and it involved a twenty minute detour. I bought three things, for the meal deal, and all three items were wrong. I picked up Cherry Coke Zero: vile. I got what I thought was a steak slice but turned out to be steak, cheese and Marmite - in the bin with that. And the only wrap they had left was a disgusting "Southern Fried Chicken" concoction, that dripped a radioactive sauce on my jeans that stained them a frankly disturbing shade of brown. I only managed one of the wraps before my gag reflex kicked in.

Still no phone call. I guess a couple more stations wouldn't hurt?

Home Run

2026-03-20T11:36:17.501+00:00

The first thing you see when you step out of Walton station is a wall. Five metres high, with a rounded top. The distinctive exterior of a prison. This is Liverpool Prison, or, as it was known before the modern world decided to suck all charm out of everything, Walton Gaol. The main prison for the Merseyside region, famous and infamous, home to 1300 people and not somewhere I ever hope to see the inside of.

Prison frightens me, as I think it does for anyone who's never so much as shoplifted a Mars Bar. One of my most persistent fears is that I'll be accused of something I didn't do and end up serving time for it. A friend of a friend was once accused of molesting some kids he'd babysat for as a teen. It got all the way to trial before being thrown out by a judge who was baffled by the lack of evidence; he was entirely innocent, of course, and it turned out his accusers had made similar allegations about other people in the hope of getting compensation. Still, imagine getting that close to being locked away, tarred as a criminal, put in the nonce wing; vulnerable, scared, and entirely innocent. At least if you've done the crime there's a slight edge of "it's a fair cop". I shuddered slightly as I walked by.

The traditional, Victorian, HMP Slade gates are now hidden behind the wall, and a new entrance has been built in the corner of the complex. Colourful images of the city skyline welcome visitors like it's a theme park; in reality, it's an awful place to be, regularly condemned for its conditions, overcrowded, and in need of comprehensive redevelopment, if not demolition. There's a real problem with drug use and the small signs pinned to the walls advising that flying drones is illegal don't seem to be as off putting as you'd expect, strangely.

I turned south onto the Southport Road, one of those fine avenues that are all over Liverpool. Long straight lanes constructed to allow trams to run with ease, but completely devoid of them in the 21st century. Semis with paved over lawns were the norm, with the households' other cars parked on the pavement.

A side road took me between two expanses of municipal green. The Stuart Road Playing Fields straddled the road, wide lengths of playing fields laid out for the betterment of the residents. There probably should've been a leisure centre here, but instead there was an "Activity for All" building. It seems to be a sort of indoor football pitch with a cafe attached. Looking at their website, it's a community interest company, doing stuff the council used to, which is the modern way I suppose. My main objection is that it uses the American spelling of centre on its exterior.

I walked round the side of it to get access to a leisure facility I've never seen before in the UK. The playing fields are home to the Liverpool Trojans who proudly proclaim they're the oldest baseball team in Britain. As such, they've got a diamond laid out behind the "center".

That's an actual baseball diamond, sitting in a park in Bootle. It's fascinating to think that there are leagues and games going on for these sports all over the UK with a small but loyal following. I actually don't mind baseball; it's the most tolerable of America's big sports, with a proper history and style to it, and like all the best sports you don't need hundreds of dollars of equipment to play it - just a bat and a ball. It also helps that it's basically Posh Rounders, and we've all played rounders at school, so it's that little bit more comprehensible than whatever nonsense happens during an American Football game. Also, and this is very gay indeed, but I really like baseball shirts. They're very appealing.

I took the opportunity to stand on the Home Plate like I was [quickly googles "famous baseball player" here - who was the one who was married to Marilyn Monroe?] Joe DiMaggio and take a selfie. Look at me, I'm doing a sports. Then I turned back and walked through the car park to the street, attracting the attention of a wiry gentleman and his mate in a car with the engine running. They watched me as I left, examining me for possible narc giveaways, but then concluded I was simply a fat loser and left me to it.

The houses along Stuart Road get a great view of the playing fields, and it was clear that many of the owners had spruced up their homes with extensions and attic conversions and the like. One household had left a pair of unwanted bar stools on the pavement for any passers by to claim, so if you like black leatherette, head there now. A carpet van was parked on the lower stretch, hazards flickering, while the workmen manfully carried an enormous length into a house that didn't look big enough to accommodate it.

On the back streets behind, there were terraces of Victorian redbricks, two up two downs. Occasional new builds gave away the locations of bomb sites. Outside a sheltered housing development, there were two workmen, one in his forties merrily carrying a single bag to his van, while behind his teenage apprentice staggered under the weight of a load of tools. He helpfully opened the back of the van and waited for his protégé to catch up.

The Breeze Pub is, per Google, "temporarily closed;" the Facebook site hasn't been updated since January last year and half the sign is missing, so expect it to be converted to bedsits any day now. It's a terrible shame when a pub closes of course but looking around it was a miracle it had lasted this long. A real back street boozer, no gastropub menu, reliant only on local patronage, not a destination in any way. Society has changed, as has what we want to spend our disposable income on, and for all the trumpeting about "save the British pub!" if nobody wants to use it then is it really good to preserve it? If it were up to me I'd have put all the WH Smiths under preservation orders and insisted on government money to force them to go back to the orange cube logo and selling records but this is the problem with capitalism; the market dictates.

A series of bollards across the road discreetly demarcated the old city from a new development. Walton Hospital was a famous neurology centre on Rice Lane for a century, but consolidation of the services in the area plus a need to expand saw it move to Fazakerley - sorry, Aintree - Hospital in the 90s. The empty site has since been converted into a twist of cul-de-sacs and town houses with neat little driveways and Ring doorbells.

The railway line ran across the back here. A couple of bridges crossed it, taking you to undeveloped scrubland, ready for enterprising homebuilders to sweep in at some point, but also the site of a never-was station.

The plans for the Link and the Loop back in the 70s were incredibly ambitious, with underground loops meeting at a new six platform station called Rocket, a below ground University stop, and new halts all over Merseyside. One proposal was a new station called Breeze Hill, between Kirkdale and Walton. It shows up on some early "proposal" maps, sometimes as a replacement for Walton and Rice Lane - allowing interchange between the branches - and sometimes as an extra station to fill the gap.

It never happened, of course, and I can't really see it ever having had much demand; it would've cannibalised the stations either side if it was an infill. It's not really a huge gap, and there's not a density around there to justify it.

It is, however, fun to imagine where it might have been, and this cutting behind the old hospital seemed like a prime candidate. No expensive tunnelling necessary, next to a useful amenity, space to encourage new development. I wandered onto the bridge and snapped a photo of what might have been in a world where Merseyside got everything it ever wanted.

Back onto the road, and round the front of the Walton Hospital, now converted into apartments of course. It's still a prominent local landmark and pleasingly preserved, even if the clock is wrong.

There's still some medical provision on the site. Clock View Hospital is a mental health centre, catering for acute cases, and housed in a pleasing modern building. I shuffled past, once again hoping never to see the inside of it. Next door was a block of housing association apartments with inset balconies. Strangely, each balcony had a glass screen at the top and bottom, with only a narrow gap around it to let fresh air in. It negated the principal of a balcony, to me, and if anything reminded me of Hannibal Lecter's cell in The Silence of the Lambs, with its perspex front and air holes to let you smell Jodie Foster's L'Air du Temps. It's an unfortunate association given the building across the way.

I was on Rice Lane proper now, a road that gives its name to a station I'll be visiting another time. There's a huge Sainsbury's, and a former pub, and a small curved building which houses a pizza delivery firm. It's a surprisingly elaborate building, considering its humble occupant, and that's because it was originally built as the entrance booth to the Liverpool Zoological Gardens.

Where there's now a housing estate and car park was, for a period in the 19th century, a space for chimpanzees and elephants. It was a disaster almost from the start, with the owners constantly adding new attractions to try and pump up visitor numbers (a concert hall! a camera obscura!). It gained a reputation for prostitutes, though, which meant it definitely wasn't a place to take the family on a quiet afternoon, and finally closed in 1865 after thirty two years. The pizza place is the only remnant of the old zoo.

The road's lined with retail units with flats above, though more and more were being converted into ground floor residences too. The Revival 7 tea room carried the Royal coat of arms over its door, though the wording underneath was Recognised by HRH, a delightfully vague term. I'm imagining the Queen being driven along the road in her limo on the way to Aintree Racecourse and pointing at the shop out the window - "oh a tea room, how nice" - and that was it, Royal patronage.

I turned off into a side road. Victorian villas that would be getting high six figures elsewhere in the city looked dirty and unloved; multiple bells by the door told the story of their conversion. As I rounded the corner, a man was hefting a wardrobe down his driveway to his waiting car. I felt like I should've offered to help him, but I've recently been suffering from terrible back spasms - I spend way too much time slapping on Deep Heat patches and grimacing at the dinner table. Don't get old, folks.

Between the side walls of two houses was a tiny public footpath, which I eagerly took. I love delving into the backs, the off grid routes. This one takes you over the top of the Kirkby branch of Merseyrail...

...and drops you neatly at the back of Walton station in time for your train. I'd completed a loop, or, if we're going to use baseball terminology, I'd rounded all the bases. I think. I don't actually care enough to check if that's right.

This entire trip was paid for by Ko-fi donations. Once again, thank you for your support!

4. Walton

2026-03-13T16:52:00.000+00:00

Opened: 2nd April 1849 as Walton Junction; this is the first station after the split between the Ormskirk and Kirkby lines. This was renamed to Walton in 1970 but they have to add (Merseyside) in official references so it's not confused for Walton-on-the-Naze or Walton-on-Thames.

Line electrified: 1913

Number of platforms: Two

Points of interest: There's one road into the station. About halfway down, it splits in two; one goes down to a small car park and the Liverpool platform, while the other branch goes upwards to the station building at the top. The Ormskirk bound platform is accessed through the ticket office and across the footbridge. That's not very interesting, is it? Ok, how about there used to be some railway cottages on the Liverpool platform, wedged in the V of the junction to Kirkby. They're gone now, so that's not very interesting either.

Attractive Local Feature (ALF) Sign: None.

Original blog post: 24th July 2007

What's changed since then? Nothing much, so far as I could tell. This was the very early days of the blog so I wasn't really taking pictures of the stations, relying on my "amusing" commentary instead, but aside from the flat station sign being replaced for a cube and possibly the new shelters I couldn't see anything that would've changed in twenty, or maybe fifty, years.

Proof of visit:

Everything Old Is New Again

2026-03-03T22:05:00.000+00:00

I'd been to Kirkby exactly twice before in my life. The first time was at the turn of the Millennium, when I came here for a job interview at Knowsley Borough Council; I didn't get the job, and my main memory of the place is the bus exchange, where I loitered while I waited for my appointment. The other time was when I collected the station, and back then I walked out, took a photo, and walked back in.

This was the first time I was walking to the town centre without being a bag of nerves, and it meant I could look around and see Kirkby properly. I imagine there's a certain amount of sniggering going on out there among local readers, something along the lines of why would you want to?, but I was open-minded, and to be honest, it looked like one of a hundred other English towns I've visited over the past couple of decades. Rows of houses, semis and terraced, small blocks of flats, the odd cottage that pre-dated the construction of the estate and now looked out of place.

I was walking along one of those "shared spaces" they have for pedestrians and cyclists. I hate those. A white line down the middle of the pavement to divide you from people on bikes, but nothing to say who should be on the left or the right. It's not infrastructure, it's paint. Dig up the pavement and put in a proper cycle lane with a kerb either side - there was certainly enough room. Of course that costs money, but at least people might use it.

I passed a woman walking an incredibly odd looking dog - it was like a black labrador, except it had the legs of an Irish Wolfhound; it looked like it was on stilts - and a house with a Liverpool FC themed number plate. Five stars were arranged neatly across the top line, and then, above the Liver Bird, they'd added a sixth, slightly off centre.

Millbrook Park - sorry, Millbrook Park Millennium Green - appeared on my left, a long stretch of lawn and trees curving around a small brook. There was a helpful notice board to welcome you to the park, but I'm afraid it was covered with bollocks - not graffiti, nonsensical copy that actively irritated me. There were Tips to make the most of Millbrook Park Millennium Green which included:

TALK: this is a great place to meet friends

as well as

DAYDREAM: this parks [sic] offer a perfect setting to rest, unwind or enjoy a picnic

Thanks for the hints, guys! I wouldn't know how to use a park without them. Perhaps you could advise me on how to use the paths - I put one foot in front of the other, right?

St Chad's Church, one of those older buildings that dated from the 19th century (though there's been a church here for hundreds of years more) sat amidst a neatly landscaped park, and then there was a huge roundabout to signal the entrance to the town centre. This gave me my first look at the All-New Kirkby. Originally built after the war, Kirkby was a place for Liverpool residents who'd lived in slums to move to; it was a New Town, even if the Government refused to designate it as such. It carried with it that hope of a new, healthy, exciting future, a 20th century where people can live somewhere designed for them. Town planners tried to make it a place where the residents would thrive.

The problems started almost immediately. People were moved here before facilities were opened. Communities were broken up and scattered. Kirkby became the home of Z Cars, the slightly dodgy northern town riddled with crime, and then the 1970s crashed into Merseyside. Joblessness rose, drug addictions followed, poverty swept across the town and kneecapped all of those hopes that the city had imbued in its child-estate when it built it after the war.

For years, the town has been undergoing regeneration of one kind or another. The 2000s have, however, brought real concerted efforts to remake Kirkby. At first this involved a new stadium for Everton alongside a Tesco superstore. There was considerable opposition to this, both from the locals and from Everton fans, who noted that it would mean moving the club outside the City of Liverpool. Kirkby is Liverpool, to me, the same way Bootle or Birkenhead or New Brighton are, but that's because I'm an outsider who doesn't understand the passionate disdain each part of the city region has for one another. All the Merseyside boroughs count as Liverpool as far as I'm concerned, the way Tower Hamlets and Brent and Enfield are all London. Those plans failed when the Government refused to support them, so Everton, eventually went off to the docks, while Tesco simply wandered off.

The council joined up with a different developer, who helped to construct a new retail offering on the north side of the town centre, while the local authority demolished an office block and a swimming pool and a library, moving them to newer facilities elsewhere. Then that developer partnership went south, and it's only now that a huge patch of land just south of the main precinct is getting developed - though I'm not sure what they're building. There was going to be a Lidl and a cinema as well as new houses, but looking around I can only find evidence that the houses are going ahead; the Lidl will almost certainly appear at some point, but it all seems to have gone quiet on the cinema front.

On the plus side, the bus exchange has been vastly improved since I last saw it, so there's that. It now backs onto a new Civic Square, constructed on what was a car park for the council, which has some large Instagram friendly chairs with wings positioned around for tourists to use as backdrops in their photos. Kirkby being overwhelmed with tourists, of course. Still, you can't argue that it's not an improvement on a car park.

I was headed for the Kirkby Centre, the replacement for the civic centre that sat on one edge of the square. It's home to the library and the Kirkby Gallery, which the website informs me is "one of the best contemporary art galleries in Merseyside and the North West of England" - a bold claim, given that Merseyside is also home to the actual Tate Gallery. I scampered up the stairs and found a pair of closed doors to the gallery, but a helpful sign informed me that this was because they were keeping the heat in. That wasn't all they were keeping in. I pushed it open a couple of inches and was confronted with the noise of over-excited primary school children in the middle of some kind of art experience. Everywhere I looked there were red jumpers. I backed away.

Instead I went into the library next door, which does have a piece of art of its own: a fibreglass and resin sculpture by William George Mitchell. It was commissioned for the original library and then ported over to this one. Its 1960s aesthetic doesn't quite fit with the more pared down practicality of 21st century municipal - it's like wandering into an Amazon distribution warehouse and finding a Chagall on the wall. It needs to be surrounded by architecture as brave and interesting as it is. At least they kept it, though; it would've been easy to chuck it in a skip for being outdated.

I checked the stacks for James Bond books - not a single Ian Fleming, shame on you Knowsley Libraries - then walked back out and into the shopping precinct. Like High Streets all across Britain it had seen better days. A central square was surrounded by Iceland, Max Spielman, B&M, and a closed Sayers with a logo they haven't used for at least thirty years. Charity shops and vaguely council-looking outlets occupied many of the storefronts.

There was also, though closed now, a Benetton. A bit of scouting around on the internet revealed it lasted three whole years, from 2022 to 2025, and I am absolutely astonished. Benetton is one of those brands I thought was high-class and expensive - I always think of Victoria Wood saying "I don't always buy anything in there but I do like to go in and unfold things" - so the idea of it being in one of the poorest parts of Merseyside next door to a Pound Bakery is baffling. Mind you, the only branch in the Liverpool city region is in Allerton, not Liverpool One as you'd expect, so who knows what's going on there.

The shopping centre reminded me a little of Coventry. The same Fifties/Sixties aesthetics, the same long straight lines of construction, the simple yet clean look. It was a precinct built for an era of small local shops and mum walking into town a daily run for groceries, before fridges and supermarkets and cars changed everything.

The market was a similar story, now mainly mobile phone unlocking services and vape shops, though Martin's Deli did advertise itself as "the home of the famous Kirkby sausage". I can't actually find what a Kirkby sausage is; even the Echo wrote a piece entitled Have you heard of the "famous" Kirkby sausage? and they're always claiming that some minor shop on a back street is "iconic" or "unique" and has a queue of people out the door every morning. The recipe must be a closely guarded secret because I can't find anyone who's talking about what's in it. If I was a proper travel writer I'd have bought one and eaten it there and then - raw so I could taste the flavour - and then waxed lyrical about its stunning taste, but I'm not, so I didn't. The Kirkby Sausage remains a mystery to me, unless you count that lad I once met who [that's quite enough of that].

A closed up bank building continued the 1950s look, no doubt soon to be demolished because nobody would want a shop that looked like that, while to the side two women rolled out of a different marble-clad former bank that had been converted into a pub. It was ten past eleven in the morning.

I'd reached the new part of Kirkby town centre, the bit that they were especially proud of. It consisted of a health centre, a vast Morrisons, and a few drive in takeaway restaurants - McDonalds, Taco Bell, KFC. Surrounding it was a huge car park. It was not the model of regeneration I think anyone should aspire to.

I understand that hard-up councils get a supermarket offering to build in their town and leap at the chance of jobs and opportunities. What it then does, however, is stop anyone from going anywhere else. Birkenhead did something similar when it allowed a huge Asda to open on Grange Road - there was suddenly no reason to wander any further into the town, so nobody did, and everything started closing. It's a massive Trojan Horse. I found it profoundly depressing. The precinct had been human-sized and pleasant - walk to a shop, walk to another shop. Here you could park ten yards from the front door then get your dinner from Maccy D's on the way home without even leaving your car.

Kirkby pleased me in many ways. It had self-evidently had its struggles but the recent regeneration did actually feel transformative - it was more than a few new lampposts and some bushes, it was comprehensive. I liked the Kirkby Centre, and I'll have to go back to see the artwork some time when it's not swarming with six year olds. I hope that the new development on the former college site will bring housing and people and bustle to the town centre. It's just a shame that there was that massive supermarket leeching off the hope to one side. It didn't help that the Morrisons looked away from the precinct, showed it its back. I do hope that the town gets back on its feet. I want it to succeed.

3. Kirkby

2026-02-25T08:13:00.001+00:00

Opened: 1848. (Weirdly, despite owning half a dozen books about Merseyside's railways, I've not found a more precise date than that. Kirkby was a tiny hamlet then so maybe nobody really cared.)

EDITED TO ADD: per a tip from Anonymous in the comments, the opening date was apparently the 20th November 1848, making Kirkby station a Scorpio.

Line electrified: 2nd May 1977

Number of platforms: One. There were two until 1970, when the platform towards Wigan was taken out of service to save a few bob. This caused problems when the diesel services were replaced by electric ones, so a second platform was built the other side of the buffers and people wanting to get from Liverpool to Wigan trains walked down and under the bridge to board it.

This then caused even more problems when the line was extended to Headbolt Lane. The Wigan service was cut back to there and now there's a stretch of single track after Fazakerley and before Headbolt Lane. For the time being that's not too bad, but if the line is ever extended any further - to Skelmersdale, for example - that's a bottleneck. The plus side is there's very little chance of that ever happening because this is the United Kingdom. (Moral of the story: don't single track anything).

Points of interest: None. Sorry.

Attractive Local Feature (ALF) Sign: None.

Original blog post: 21st November 2007

What's changed since then? Kirkby's had a bit of a makeover to get some parking spaces and better interchange with the buses. They also revamped the station building. Before it was a little brick triangle. It's been expanded and the ticket window moved to the exterior, meaning the station operative also gets a good view of the car park to help with security.

It's a marked improvement and makes the station feel a lot more like a place. It's out of the town centre so it could feel like an afterthought but this makes it far more of a destination.

Proof of visit:

Light In The Darkness

2026-01-25T21:08:00.002+00:00

When you turn out of Leasowe station, north of the level crossing, you pass between two large industrial concerns. To your right is BristolMyersSquibb, the multinational pharmaceutical company, where employees are working on medicines to cure and alleviate any number of ailments.

To your left, is Premier Foods, which, as large lettering on the front of the building clearly informs you, is the Home of the Mini Roll.

I will leave it to the reader to decide which business is providing the more valuable service to society. All I will say is that I have never needed an anti-diabetes medicine, but I have eaten a Cadbury's Mini Roll with a raspberry jam filling, so as far as I'm concerned the Moreton Bakery wins. They don't make Typhoo tea here any more, by the way, despite what that building says: various corporate takeovers and buyouts over the years led to Typhoo closing the factory in 2023. They went bust shortly after, so there's karma for you.

Reeds Lane continues for a while as a mix of open space and odd buildings. The Birket, a small river that empties into the Wallasey Docks, runs through here, and combined with the proximity to the top of the peninsula it means that the land round here is often marshy or prone to flooding. It'll seem like you're in a perfectly ordinary housing estate and then there's a patch of scrubland, unloved and unattended, though in the 21st century they're getting fewer and fewer as Wirral tries to build as many homes as possible. I'm very much of the opinion that if people have lived in this part of the world for a thousand years but haven't seen to build their home on that bit of land there's probably a very good reason for it but then I'm not willing to put up with a small amount of annual flooding in exchange for a three bed semi with its own parking space.

I passed a shopping corner, the Tesco Express (est. 2022) unable to compete with the glittering sign of the Leasowe Local Store over the road, a store that promised "tobacco-drinks-vapes-groceries", and I think it's very telling that "groceries" is fourth in that list. Beside it was a pharmacy without a branded sign, merely promising that it would "provide NHS services"; it used to be a Well, but given how pharmacy services in this country are constantly chopping and changing, it could be a Boots by the time you read this. I'm not even sure what company provides my drugs any more, I just go in and see what tabard the girl behind the counter is being made to wear this week.

Leasowe is a good, stout, old-fashioned council estate, and I absolutely mean that as a compliment. It was laid out by Wallasey Council starting in the 20s and 30s and it still carries the air of aspiration and hope. The roads are wide and straight, the houses large, with gardens at the front and back and enough room on the side return for a garage or a porch. There are grass verges, and greens. I crossed one diagonally, a wide square of grass with children's play equipment at its centre. It must be great to open your front door and let your kid go on the swings while you watch from a distance.

Of course, since this is 2026, most of the houses have been bought and sold many times. (Bloody Thatcher). Each home had its own distinct fencing, its own front wall, its own front door, as the new people sought to make their mark and make it a bit less... council. Now and then there were homes that looked like they must've done when they were built - unencumbered by a double glazed front entry, the garden a stretch of grass that hasn't been paved over, a lack of any boundary barrier at all. Everyone else was trying hard to be different, mainly by covering up the grass with tarmac and parking a couple of cars on it, though one house had a plastic lawn with a Mickey Mouse ears motif made out of white stones laid into it, so the imagination can take you anywhere.

St Chad's was opened in 1954, as a combination church hall and place for prayer, but it was quickly decided that this was undignified and money was raised for a proper church alongside it. It opened in 1967, reeking of Swinging Britain, all concrete and stained glass. It's lovely.

It's not ostentatious or over the top but it's just that bit special enough to be interesting. I particularly like the bell tower.

St Chad's sits alongside a long avenue that forms the spine of the estate, at the point where Castleway North becomes Castleway South. Again, it's a piece of elegant town planning, a central route lined with trees. It's a community area, which is something we've lost from new housing estates these days. Homes are rammed up against one another without room to breathe.

I continued along Twickenham Drive, past tight blocks of flats, three stories high with a central stairwell. The entrance was enclosed with a glass front door for security these days but I liked their symmetry and their politeness. They added bulk and density without being ugly. There was a leisure centre here, too, as the residents of Leasowe were gifted with all the community facilities they could need. (This sort of thing used to be a bone of contention for my mum when I was growing up less well-off on a private estate, while the council estate next door got multiple bus routes, a swimming pool, a market and a shopping precinct. They also used to regularly have riots and sex workers on the streets and dead drug addicts being found in bin stores but she was still annoyed that their library was so much bigger than ours just because they were local authority).

A noticeboard promised Unity in Our Community with flyers for energy saving advice and the name of the local housing association. A faded poster pushed the Leasowe Fun Day, back on the 21st August (Bouncy castles and assault courses, face painting with the Hive, entrance through the Addy) and behind it was the Millennium Centre, a building whose name was modern for exactly one year and now seems hopelessly dated. The Millennium Centre houses the library and council services and a Family Centre, one of those places for parents to get an hour's supervised contact with their children once a week to prove they're definitely not going to belt them any more. Behind it were some newer houses, built on top of a different, long-demolished Council building; that had once been home to the Wirral Incontinence Laundry Service, so I imagine it must've smelt lovely round here when they had the machines on the go.

I followed the road round, past a house with a flagpole in its garden flying both the Union Jack and the England flag. One good thing about living on Merseyside is we've been largely exempt from the flag-shagging madness which has gripped the nation over the past year. Liverpool is, after all, "Scouse, not English", a city whose football supporters boo the national anthem at Wembley. Nationalism gets a very short shrift round here, and its roundabouts and lampposts have been largely unadorned - the closest to home I've seen them is in Ellesmere Port, over the border in Cheshire. If you want to go for that sort of nonsense you have to put up your own flagpole in your own garden and even then I've seen way more flags flying to commemorate Liverpool's 20th league victory than a tribute to His Majesty.

There was a small parade of shops here, including a Sayers, the Merseyside bakery that was thoroughly tramped underfoot by the mighty Greggs. (For the record, I much prefer a Sayers sausage roll, though I admit there's a certain amount of nostalgia involved in that). Opposite, Heron Foods occupied what used to be the estate pub, the Oyster Catcher.

While the pub closed in 2016, it still lives on in a mural on the side wall, showing that nostalgia comes round quicker and quicker these days. Also there, somewhat incongruously, is a hovercraft. Scousers have long enjoyed trips to North Wales, spending holidays in Rhyl, Prestatyn and Talacre, but the Dee Estuary means that while it's an extremely short distance as the crow flies, you have to basically travel via Chester to get there.

The invention of the hovercraft suddenly opened up a new option. In 1962, a summer service from Leasowe to Rhyl opened, skipping across the water in a straight line and cutting travel time hugely. It's a brilliant idea, and hovercrafts will never not be exciting; I myself used the one from Portsmouth to the Isle of Wight a few years ago and it was like being in an episode of Thunderbirds. The wide beaches at Leasowe and Rhyl made them ideal spots to launch the service from.

Unfortunately, it was perhaps a little too soon to launch a hovercraft route. The technology was still new and so there were technical problems - the sand would get in the engines, putting the craft out of service, and if the weather was bad it couldn't run at all. The Irish Sea is famously short of millpond-like conditions, meaning it was an unreliable route to the seaside, so the passenger numbers weren't there on the days it did run - which turned out to be only 19 out of the scheduled 59. It would've been lovely if it had succeeded. To this day, it takes an hour to get from Leasowe to Rhyl by road, and even longer by train. Perhaps Rhyl wouldn't be quite as sad as it is today if the hovercraft was turning up on a regular basis.

I disappeared back into the streets of the estate, past more open green spaces and builders laying down paving slabs over grassy lawns. An electricity substation was accompanied by an abandoned fridge freezer and a shopping trolley; you don't really see shopping trollies outside of the supermarket car park these days, so it was somehow a delightful throwback.

I paused outside a block of flats and took a picture of the number of the block. The address is housed in a light box, with the numbers on the outside, and I find them very charming. I walked on, taking in the folding chairs around the front door, and the swing set in the garden. How nice, I thought. What a lovely little community.

Then I heard a strong, violent hammering. It caught my attention and I saw a man behind the window of one of the flats. He was pointing right at me and shouting. There's a certain kind of noise Scousers make when they're really annoyed, when all you can understand is vowels and s's, and he was in full flow. "uuuus AAAAY eeeee aaaarrrss DICKHEAD". I understood that last bit.

I put my head down and hurried on.

A few seconds later I heard the noise again, the mass of vowels and the scream, and I realised that this time it was outdoors. That he'd come outside and was in the street and hurling abuse at me. I assume this man didn't like having his block of flats photographed for some reason. He was taking it very personally.

I could've turned round and walked back to him. Said, "hey, I'm just an architecture fan, and I liked your home. If you're not happy having it photographed I'm fine with deleting it, that's no problem. Have a great day!" I did not do this. I kept my head down and carried on walking and didn't look back. In my pocket, my hand curled protectively round my phone. The third volley of indecipherable fury sounded like it was closer to me, and I was ready to hear running footsteps, and prepped myself to use my iPhone as a club if I had to. It would've been pathetic and I would've got my teeth kicked in and the phone would've been robbed but hey, you've got to have a plan.

He didn't chase after me any further. I made it to the Leasowe Road, a long dual carriageway that shadows the coast, and I dashed across to try and put some traffic between me and him. Only then did I pause and look back and make sure nobody was behind me.

I've gone to some very dodgy places over the years for this blog. Nationally infamous spots, both at home and abroad. But I think this was the first time I genuinely thought I was about to get lamped. I took a moment to swallow my heart and try and get it back into my chest then started walking again.

The Leasowe Road is a very long, very straight, very boring four-lane road that runs from Wallasey Village towards Moreton. The most exciting thing about it is that you can get up a fair old head of steam on it if you're a man with a small penis. There was one on the road that day, in a black car with tinted windows, who put his foot down and roared down the road as though it were Le Mans, the engine making a noise it almost certainly wasn't supposed to the whole time. I was, needless to say, incredibly impressed.

Further along I encountered a man digging around in the bushes. He was holding a gardening cane with a coat hook strapped to the end and pushing it at random into the greenery. I couldn't work out what was going on. Had he lost a gerbil down there and was hoping to trap it?

Past the golf course - this part of the Wirral is 20% bunker - I encountered the entrance to the Leasowe Castle Hotel. I have fond memories of this place, because one of my best friends was married here about twenty years ago, and I got astonishingly drunk and danced until my shirt was wet with sweat; there was also a buffet, and a buffet is the best food, and makes everything better.

Unfortunately the hotel closed suddenly last year, without warning, leaving staff unpaid and the building to rot. This seems to be the 2020s way to close businesses; every other week there's a report of a bar or a restaurant where the waitresses have turned up on Monday morning and found the windows boarded up. Like everything in the UK today the hospitality industry is on a knife edge and it's entirely down to fate which side you'll fall on.

I took a wander up the drive for a look and it was sad and derelict. Little memories of the hot day of the wedding came rushing back, the photos in the garden, the laughs in the bar, the picture I took of my friend Jennie smoking a fag where she looks ridiculously cool. It's not really a castle, just a manor house with ideas above its station, that has been occupied and abandoned over and over for five hundred years, extended then demolished, useful then a drain. It's currently on a downward slope but will no doubt swing back up again one day.

There was a sanatorium and hospital on the front here for decades, until medical science developed to the extent where a cure for tuberculosis was something better than "some sea air?" Flats fill the spot now, looking over the marshes and grasses of the North Wirral Country Park, a spot of open land between the road and the sea defences here which mean you can walk from New Brighton to West Kirby without ever leaving the coast. There are still concrete anti-landing craft defences on the shore.

I was heading for Leasowe Lighthouse, which is technically in Moreton, but I felt I had to visit to finish the area off. You can see it looming up at you as you walk along the road, the end point you're aiming for, a white column of brick rising up over the flat marshlands.

There was, for centuries, only one way to reach the port of Liverpool from the Irish Sea, and that was to follow the coast of the Wirral between often hidden sandbanks. As the port expanded, the chance of shipwreck expanded too, and so a system of lighthouses was built along the shore to warn off vessels. The one at Hoylake is now a private home; the one a little further downstream was washed away in a storm and replaced by one on Bidston Hill. The one at Leasowe was constructed in 1763 and originally had a brazier on the roof.

Leasowe lighthouse was the first in the world to receive a parabolic reflector behind the light, put there by the Liverpool dockmaster, William Hutchinson. He'd been experimenting with using mirrors to increase the visibility and he installed them here in 1772; suddenly the light was visible from 20 miles away, instead of five.

It is, undeniably, an incredibly important building, locally, nationally, and internationally; it helped change maritime navigation and helped turn Liverpool into the world's most important port. It's 2026, though, and nobody has any money for anything, so as a result it is cared for by dedicated volunteers, and only open a few times a year - the next one is on the 18th February, if you're in the area and have strong calf muscles that can carry you up to the top. Alternatively they host abseiling days, if you really want to hurl yourself off a monument; you do you.

I took a seat at the base and had a drink of water. When I'd last visited Leasowe I'd whizzed through, basing my entire visit around a very poor gag about Danger Lane. This revisit really showed me what I'd missed back in those days when the station sign was the important part and the rest was irrelevant. I'd experienced history, culture, and a little threat of physical violence. Not bad for a Friday morning.

2. Leasowe

2026-01-24T14:52:00.000+00:00

Opened: 5th May 1894 (there was a halt here for a couple of years in the 1870s called Leasowe Crossing but that was closed)

Line electrified: 13th March 1938

Number of platforms: Two

Points of interest: Leasowe was rebuilt ahead of electrification and given elegant Art Deco stylings in concrete. This means two waiting rooms with flat roofs jutting out over the platform, plus a footbridge connecting them which has a muscly charm.

The footbridge doesn't get much use because there's a level crossing at the end of the platforms, so it's quicker to cross on the flat - assuming the gates are open. If the gates are closed, please do not try to drive through them, as a man attempted in a stolen car a couple of months ago; this only works for James Bond.

Attractive Local Feature (ALF) sign: Two Eurasian Oystercatchers, stood in water, to plug the Wirral Coastal Park. It's technically called the North Wirral Coastal Park but there's only so much you can fit on a sign.

Original blog post: 11th August 2007

What's changed since then? Not much. The usual electronic updates - next train indicators, Tap & Go pads. I have a vague feeling that the waiting rooms weren't open back in 2007, but I can't say that with any certainty. They're certainly accessible now.

Proof of visit:

The sad thing is, I was listening to the GoldenEye soundtrack in that bottom picture, and there is a very high chance that I was listening to the GoldenEye soundtrack in 2007 as well. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

The Skyscraper Condemnation Affiliates

2026-01-16T17:50:00.000+00:00

There's only one place to go from Hooton station.

That's not true; there's a Network Rail depot, and a furniture shop, and an engineering works. And there's the village of Hooton itself, a mile or so away, straddling the New Chester Road. For the purposes of this blog, however, there's only one place to go, and that's the former railway line turned country park.

I descended the ramps down to the foot of the road bridge where the park begins. For decades this was a track bed, heading along the coast of the Wirral, but the villages it passed through en route were either too small or too far from the station to justify keeping it open.

Now it's a linear park stretching along the side of the Wirral, a long strip of path surrounded by trees, great for walkers and cyclists and horses. I've been along it many times over the years, in different moods, in different weathers. Today it was cold and wet. January at its finest. The skies never turned any colour other than gunmetal and the atmosphere clung to me, damp, perhaps rain, perhaps mist, perhaps something in between.

The section alongside the station pushes the railway theming, with fake-historic signage and a bench made out of a gantry. You can see the tracks through the fence, bright yellow Merseyrail trains trundling past every few minutes, a shaft of brightness out of nowhere. Then the path turns and I'm moving away from the railway tracks and into quieter, more distant territory.

It wasn't yet eleven am and so I was mainly accompanied by songbirds. Robins and sparrows dropped onto the path ahead of me, holding their nerve for a while as I approached before flapping onto a high branch. It felt good to be out and about, breaking out of the claustrophobia of Christmas and New Year. I'm a total homebody during the festive period; I close the door on December 23rd and try not to leave the house until at least January 2nd. I'm hibernating with too much food and drink and tv and it's the one time of the year I'm not judged for it.

Still, it was good to feel that fresh air, to hear nothing but nature, to be adrift. The chill of the icy rain woke me up. A man approached with his dog, a friendly black lab that leapt towards me excitedly until being called back, and then I was alone again.

At this time of year the Wirral Way is not exactly scenic. Nowhere is. One problem with living in the UK is that while we get the cold and the rain and the dying off of nature during winter, we don't get that lovely white snow to cover it up and make it look pretty. Instead all we have is varying shades of brown; brown trees, brown leaves, brown mud. Nothing is ever healthy looking, Everywhere is grimy. No wonder we lose our minds when we spot a snowdrop.

Coming towards me was a young woman, gripping her wrist, power walking and monitoring her vital signs and steps the whole time. She was wearing tight black lycra and her long hair was pulled back in the tightest of pony tails; any more of a yank and she'd have passed for a Scouse girl looking for a fight. Her general physique and absolute devotion to the stats on her wrist showed that she wasn't one of these New Year's Resolution nobodies, trying to burn off the Christmas ham with a bit of half-hearted jogging; no, she knew what she was doing. She pushed on the path, right down the centre, and I stepped aside to let her pass, sucking in my beer so I didn't disgust her too much.

This was where it got very lonely indeed; I didn't see another person for a long time. I was fine with it though. It was time with me and without obligation. I was walking around noticing things, paying attention to my surroundings. I wasn't trying to get somewhere. The Wirral Way never feels entirely isolated anyway. Perhaps its the single route, the lack of side quests, the straight down the middle purity of it. It is, and feels, man-made, like it could be taken back into use at any time.

It never will be, of course. Firstly because we don't build railways in this country, not unless you've had fifty years of begging and pleading and don't inconvenience anyone and also can get London involved somewhere. Secondly, even though the places along the route are larger and more populous than they were when the line closed, it's still not enough to make it worthwhile as a rail line. Heswall is the largest town on the Wirral without a Merseyrail connection, but the Hooton-West Kirby line runs by the river, far from the busy centre. The residents of Heswall would also never countenance something as common as a train in their town, especially one that went to Liverpool; the Borderlands Line station out on the edge is bad enough, and nobody uses it because they all have 4x4s that need ramming down country lanes. The problem with public transport is the public tend to use it.

The will-they-won't-they rain gauge shifted to "will" with a heavy shower that actually made me zip up my coat. For some reason, I never do my coat up, ever, unless I can't argue otherwise. It's a psychological block with me. This time I did it and immediately felt claustrophobic; I even tried the hood but that was too awful to tolerate. How do people manage hoods? Flapping around your ears, falling over your eyes, being irritating on every level. I'd rather get wet to be honest.

Hadlow Road is a preserved station on the Wirral Way; a fancy plaque on the wall says they've tried to keep it as if it was 1952 (Only travellers and staff are missing, it says, like it's an M R James). It's been beautifully done and there were plaques all over the walls congratulating the volunteers on their service.

The coffee shop was takeaway only on a Tuesday, but I was surprised to see that the preserved booking hall was open. You assume this sort of thing will be locked away unless there's a stern looking volunteer breathing down your neck but I was able to wander in and have a poke around.

The station master's office included a stuffed cat on a chair and a Christmas stocking persisting with festivities into mid-January. It was interesting to peer through the glass at the display, preserved as if the ticket man had nipped out for a moment.

Had to be done.

What was Bovril's advertising budget like in the old days? You can't go to a single preserved railway or living history museum without seeing a big tin sign for beef extract on the wall. It's even more weird when you consider that you don't see ads for it at all these days, not even when there was that craze for "bone broth" (i.e. Bovril) a few years back. Mind you, you don't get adverts for anything real any more, only betting sites and insurance and maybe the odd car. There was a time when you'd get commercials for biscuits and shirts and Hamlets, stuff you could actually buy, not a website with a quirky name to get to the top of the SEO rankings. And those ads would have a jingle you could hum, and the stuff would be about fifty pee, and you'd have enough money left to get a tram home. Oh no, this blog is turning into a Facebook group.

It was easy to be nostalgic because I was in Willaston now, which is a nostalgic place. (The station was called Hadlow Road, by the way, because there was another Willaston station in Cheshire already, halfway between Crewe and Nantwich). It is a stout little English village that has everything Americans love to coo over.

A village green with a giant tree stood at its centre, surrounded by Tudor-esque homes. There were shops - a hairdresser, a cafe, a Spar - and other little businesses too: a garage, a dog grooming parlour, a physiotherapist. There was a school and a surgery. It was a lively, attractive place, with a noticeboard covered in community notices - litter picks, exercise classes, even an e-mail to contact if you were new to the village and wanted a welcome pack.

I wandered down the street for a while, past the shops and avoiding being splashed by the cars. There was a lot of traffic, but at the same time, I doubt any of them would have traded them for a train from Hadlow Road; this didn't seem like that kind of place. At the end of the road I could see an arresting sight, and I had to get closer to see what it actually was, instead of what I thought it was.

That is a tooth outside the village dental surgery. But to me, it looked like a halter top filled with some saggy boobs. I can't unsee it. They really should've turned the sign the other way up, so the roots of the tooth pointed down.

I'm surprised someone didn't make them do just that, because as I wandered around, I began to notice the signs everywhere. The small, politely hectoring signs from this committee or that, from one volunteer group or another. It began to paint a picture of a clique at the centre of Willaston, the higher ups, who pushed Britain in Bloom and Cheshire's Best Kept Village. I imagined them knocking on my door in September - "we've noticed you don't have a scarecrow on your front wall as part of the village's autumn festival; justify yourself." I ducked past the allotments, and the playground, and the sports field, all of which were extremely well-kept and neat, with a vague feeling that I was being watched to make sure I didn't scuff up the pavement with my dirty shoes.

Past the tennis courts was a small pond, surrounded by a fence and with a noticeboard informing me who the maintenance committee were and telling me that the bridge was called "Founder's Bridge" as a tribute to the original caretakers of the pond. By the time I saw a laminated sign saying there had been an increased incidence of dog fouling in the area and here was a phone number to call and grass people up I started suspecting that Willaston was trapped under the yoke of an elderly Stasi and that a revolution was needed.

I waled past the surprisingly ugly village church, a big red block without much to recommend it, and onto the high street again. The rain had let up to permit pedestrians to linger again, and a group of women chatted across the way while their dogs sniffed at one another. There was a red phone box, of course, though the phone was long gone and it didn't serve any purpose at all now, other than a canvas for the art of local teens; apparently "J*** S**** woz ere PS me brothers eyes touch" and I'm going to skip past the lack of an apostrophe and bring you the drawing which did actually make me let out a snort:

The bus shelter had been done up to commemorate its ninetieth birthday (1935-2025) with a clock and the words OMNIBUS SHELTER picked out along the top. Was that historically accurate, I wondered? Were people still writing "omnibus" on signs in 1935? Or was it another bit of twee nostalgia for nostalgia's sake?

I was back at the village green. The village's sole remaining pub, The Nags Head, wasn't yet open, but the smell of chip fat in the air said they were readying themselves for lunchtime. Homes for pensioners were grouped here and, while it would be lovely to live in a village like this, I wondered if it was not a little isolated when you're old? Once you'd visited all the shops what was there to do? I suppose you could get an omnibus to the station, but the service wasn't exactly frequent.

I was walking out of Willaston now, back towards the station, on a road lined with old houses set back from the road and smaller infill semis built on their land in the Sixties and Seventies. Cul-de-sacs had been squeezed in here and there.

I passed a motorhome specialist, and was shocked to see VW camper vans starting at £49,995. Fifty grand to live like Scooby-Doo! You wouldn't dare drive that to a remote beauty spot in case it got nicked. Admittedly, they do seem to have all mod-cons - fridges and cookers and, I don't know, stained-glass roofs and hot tubs - but still. Go and stay in a hotel where it's comfy and save yourself the money.

It was a largely uninspiring walk back to Hooton station, along a narrow pavement between bare hedgerows. The real excitement was how much had changed by the station itself. For years it was surrounded by a conglomeration of industrial units and workshops; the residential parts were a mile away in either direction.

That was changing, though, and a new development of houses had sprung up alongside the tracks, meaning that some people would actually be walking to the station for their commute for what must have been the first time in decades. This site had actually been an armaments factory during the war, giving the main road into the development a strange name:

Roften comes from Royal Ordnance Factory Ten, the name of the wartime works: other streets are named Sentry Grove and Vickers Crescent. Round the corner, the former Hooton Hotel - where I had occasionally waited for the BF to pick me up after work when the trains between Chester and Birkenhead were particularly nightmarish - has also been demolished in favour of some neat town houses.

I couldn't see a road sign for that development though, so I'm hoping the streets are named after the Hooton Hotel's legacy, with Sticky Carpets Lane and Disappointing Meal Grove. I carried on round the corner, past the surprisingly full car park (£1.50 a day!) and back to the station. It'd been a long time since I'd been to Hooton but I was pleased to explore it again. It was familiar but different. I hope the future stations have enough to keep me interested.

This entire trip was paid for out of donations to my Ko-fi. Thank you for your generosity!

1. Hooton

2026-01-14T19:04:00.000+00:00

I asked my glamorous assistant, the BF, to pick the first station out of the lunch box. (Obviously I also made him wear a spangly catsuit for this purpose). He managed to grab Hooton which, of course, isn't in Merseyside, so that was a great start. None the less, I got on the train and went out there. Each station I visit from now on will get two posts. The first will be like this one: a bare bones run down of the station itself, a bit of its history, what I saw, and what's changed. A second post will follow - hopefully tomorrow - with the more interesting wandering around I did. But first:

1. Hooton

Opened: 23rd September 1840

Line electrified: 30th September 1985 (to Liverpool); 7th October 1993 (to Chester); 29th May 1994 (to Ellesmere Port)

Number of platforms: Four. Sort of. There were once six platforms here but Beeching and lack of use have seen them cut back. Two are gone forever, and the Wirral Way is in their space. Two are dead ends, on the station side, used for storing trains. The platform by the station building doesn't have a number. The platform on one side of the island is platform 1, and rarely gets any use. The southbound platform is platform 2, also on the island, and the northbound platform is platform 3. So it has four platforms, three with numbers, and two that actually see passenger service on a regular basis.

Attractive Local Feature (ALF) sign: A pine cone, to represent the Wirral Country Park, and a green stripe. The entrance to the park is right next to the station.

Original Blog Post: 11th March 2008

What's changed since then? The biggest change is a massive footbridge which includes lift access. I thought this was pretty new, and then I saw a sign on the platform commemorating its opening on the 4th March 2011, and I realised time makes a fool of us all. It also explains why the bridge is starting to rust away.

An MtoGo shop was installed in the ticket office, back when that was a thing the Dutch owners of Merseyrail were trying to impress upon disinterested Brits. It's long gone now, and tickets are dispensed from a blank space that still had its Christmas lights up when I passed. No chance of getting a Twix there these days, although there is a vending machine on the platform.

There are also toilets, which are currently out of use because of drainage issues. One thing Hooton has become notorious for in the last few years is flooding, and it seems Network Rail is trying to address this, judging by the plethora of orange suited workers and long pipes running in and out of the area. Just beyond the road bridge, one of these pipes disappeared into a hatch, presumably pumping away.

This yellow and grey painted laurel is still above the ticket office door, however.

Proof of visit: Oh dear. This is where it gets depressing.

It seems Hooton's ALF isn't the only thing to have decayed considerably over the past eighteen years. On the plus side, I now know how to take a selfie without my thumb getting in the way.

First As Tragedy, Then As Farce

2026-01-04T15:42:00.000+00:00

You spoke, and I listened. That's democracy. I wrote a woolly end of year post about where the blog might go in 2026 and you replied in your thousands [ed: pls chk] to say that you would actually read about me fannying around in the back end of Merseyside. So it's back to where we started, back to Round The Merseyrail We Go. (I will not be changing the header again).

There are sixty-nine stations on the Merseyrail network (nice) and the plan is that I'll visit one, have a poke around it, then have a wander round the vicinity too. Merseytravel publishes Local Area Maps on its website, giving you a rough idea of what's worth checking out in the vicinity of a railway station, though in true Merseytravel style many of the links don't work and some stations don't have one. That should be a good guide for me. I won't be doing the City Line or any of the other stations on the map, because I need to draw a line somewhere, and I don't want to end up visiting the entire north all over again. This is a then and now, let's see what's changed, kind of thing.

After all, a lot has changed on Merseyrail in nineteen years. The trains are different. The ticketing's different. The city centre stations no longer have brown plastic seats, and they don't have that distinctive smell any more. The city region, in general, is in a much better place than it was back then, pre-Capital of Culture, pre-Liverpool One, pre-tourist mecca. No, it's not all perfect, and there are still regeneration projects, poverty, and a real need for investment and good jobs across the county, but it feels like a better place. Also, I'm now in my thirtieth year of living here; it's a lot more familiar to me.

I'll let the fates decide where I visit each time. I bought this lunchbox at Car & Kettle, in Settle; in fact, my blog post about that trip actually mentions me buying it. I've not really used it much over the years - for most of the time it's been in a cupboard full of tupperware - but it's finally got a new purpose.

Each of those bits of paper is a Merseyrail station, and each time I go out I'll pick one at random. Who knows where it could be? Hillside? Aigburth? The prospects are endless! Well, not exactly endless. Not even slightly endless in fact.

You watch the very first one be Birkenhead Park.

Not Dull At All

2026-01-02T13:27:00.002+00:00

Thanks to Amy Lou in the really delightful Dull Men's Club on Facebook for pointing this out. If you track your train on the Wirral Line as it travels under the Mersey, the train symbol changes into a yellow submarine in the water...

...then back to a train once it hits land.

What a delightful little touch to put a smile on your face More of this sort of thing!

Closing Remarks

2025-12-28T12:38:00.000+00:00

When it came to 2025 on the blog, the main phrase is "completion". I completed the Amsterdam metro map, two years after almost doing it. I completed the Stockholm metro map, one year after actually visiting every station but forgetting to take a picture at one, so that was more a way of satisfying my particular brand of OCD. And finally, after six whole years, I finished the West Midlands Railway map.

That last one is pretty bittersweet. A lot of the enthusiasm for it was wrecked by Covid. A period of not being able to travel anywhere, at all, meant that I got out of the habit of going round the rails. I got out of the habit of leaving the house, to be frank, and I've still not properly recovered. It became hard work. It wasn't helped by the West Midlands not being Britain's most scenic area; it's difficult to motivate yourself to travel two hours to pootle around the back of industrial estates overlooked by gasholders and motorway flyovers. There were undoubtably highlights - I will go on at length about Coventry to anyone who asks me - but I'm glad it's over.

I will still have to go back. The Severn Valley Railway reopened its line, following the landslip that cut off the end, so Bridgnorth is once again collectable. What I'm really waiting for is the two new lines to open - the Camp Hill and Wolverhampton-Walsall routes - but they seem to be existing in a strange limbo state where they're sort of finished, but also not finished.

The highlight of the year was obviously my trip to Helsinki, which was great fun, and makes me wish I could travel all over Europe visiting stations. I can't, of course, but I can dream, and I do have a spreadsheet all ready with how to do it. If funds are available in 2026, I have two potential cities in mind, but really, if an eccentric billionaire wants to send me to Istanbul or Beijing or Sydney I'll happily do it.

The question is: what happens next? I have a couple of ideas going forward. One is hyper-local: a revisit of Merseyrail's stations and their surroundings in a bit more depth. I started this blog in 2007 and some of those early entries are really basic, not exploring the local area, not really doing much in fact. I thought that maybe it'd be interesting to have another look and see what's changed. Not least my decrepit old face. Unfortunately I did run this idea past one person and he responded very much in the negative, so that's sat in the back of my head.

My other thought was the Tyne and Wear Metro. This is one of the few Metros in the UK and, apart from a little pootle about it when I stayed in Newcastle, I've not really touched it. It's sixty stations, it's a lot of big city but also great scenery, and it would enable me to visit both Horden, which opened during lockdown and still remains unvisited, and the newly opened Ashington line.

What puts me off is that four hour trip across the north every time. It'd be tiring and, as I discovered heading to Birmingham every time, it can get boring taking the same train over and over. I'm in two minds.

I'd love to continue with this blog. It's kept me going in many ways over the years and I love having a project on the go; the last six months without one have felt a little bit empty. Obviously I'd love to go all over the UK, visit every station, go to every nook and cranny, but that's both impractical and expensive. That'd involve hotels and passes and a level of commitment that'd be a struggle. A boy can dream, eh?

As usual, I thank you for reading. It's an increasingly dwindling readership in the 21st century, with most people doing videos or going over to other projects, but I am at heart a writer, and I can't sit there in front of a camera and push my ugly mug at you. Thanks again.

Yuletide Felicitations

2025-12-23T10:06:00.003+00:00

Here are some baubles on a tree on the platform at St Michaels station.

Happy Christmas!

Integration. Integration. Integration, that's what you need.

2025-11-28T11:26:00.000+00:00

Tap & Go is here!

Get your MetroCard, link it to your bank details, and voila! All you need to board a Merseyrail train is a tap at the platform validators at the start and finish of your journey. I've had a card for a couple of months now and I have to say it's transformative. Wandering up to the barriers at Hamilton Square and simply tapping to get through. Dabbing on the way out and knowing that the fare will be correctly calculated and capped. No more queuing. No more "pay at your destination" when the ticket office staff are on a break. No more finding the ticket machine on the car park side at Birkenhead North isn't working so you go up and over the bridge to the booking office only to discover someone is trying to plan a journey to Woking via Swansea or something (this has happened and yes I'm still bitter).

It's a marvelous step into the 21st century at last from Merseytravel. Even more excitingly, you can Tap & Go on buses too:

Oh no, hang on: that's a different Tap & Go. You don't need a MetroCard for that one; simply use your debit or credit card and it'll go through. Bus fares are fixed at £2 but if you use the same card the cap will still apply and you won't pay any more than the day pass rate. It also means you don't have to talk to the driver any more, which is great, because bus drivers are almost always twats. I've tapped and gone a few times on local buses and it's brilliant.

Oh no, hang on: it's not totally brilliant, because it turns out it only works on one bus company, Arriva, as I discovered yesterday when I futilely hammered my iPhone on the payment slot on a Stagecoach bus. The driver - who was, in fact, a twat - covered it with his hand and said "We don't do Tap & Go. What ticket do you want?".

To recap, then. If you live in the Merseytravel area and use Stagecoach, you need to ask the driver for a ticket. If you use Arriva buses, you can tap with a credit or debit card, but not a MetroCard. If you use Merseyrail, you can tap a MetroCard, but not a credit or debit card. And none of these methods of payment interact with one another, so if you, say, take an Arriva bus to the station, then a Merseyrail train, then a Stagecoach bus from your destination, none of these will know about each other, so they won't be capped at the price of a Saveaway, so you'll pay over the odds. I have no idea what the position is with the smaller bus companies, or with the buses that have had a rebrand to the yellow Metro branding and therefore you have no idea what company is running them. Suffice to say, it's not exactly transparent.

This simply isn't on in 2025. Liverpool and its environs are a major city region. It has a good, comprehensive public transport network. We deserve a payment system that is simple and easy to use. The MetroCard is one step along the way, but it's a hesitant, tentative step. I first wrote on this blog about the Walrus card in 2011. Fourteen years later we've got one of the promised features, at last, at exactly the time the rest of the world has moved on. Nobody uses Oyster cards in London any more; you tap with your payment card or your phone. In Helsinki I had an app. In Amsterdam I had an app. In Stockholm I had an app. Whizz the QR code on the reader and I was done. There is no Tap & Go app as yet.

I understand it's difficult to implement these schemes, and it costs time and money. I'm once again forced to ask - why don't you talk to the people who've made it work already? Why not rock up at TfL and say "can we use your software, please?"

I guess I'm getting a bit old and tired and cynical. I'm getting a bit tired of Close Friend Of The Blog Mayor Steve Rotheram standing in front of some amazing new transport innovation and it turning out to be a bit rubbish. The Tap & Go that's limited in scope. The trains that suffer endless teething problems. The bendy buses that aren't bendy buses. The hydrogen buses that we simply won't talk about any more because that's a bit embarrassing. The station at Baltic that's still not under construction.

I want Merseytravel - or Metro, if that's what it's called now; even the rebranding has been maddeningly done - to work well for its residents and encourage people onto public transport. Simple, uncomplicated ticketing is one of those key elements, and it's still far off. Perhaps taking the buses under local control will help. I hope so.

(And yeah, it'd be nice if Tap & Go were also available on the many stations within the Merseytravel region that are not on Merseyrail, but I'm trying to be a little bit realistic here. You can't expect miracles. That'll probably arrive in about 2087).

The Dutch Cap

2025-10-07T12:40:00.001+01:00

A couple of years ago I went to Amsterdam in search of the stations on this map.

Those coloured lines form the five lines of the Amsterdam Metro, and I trekked all over the city and visited them all. It was great fun, and started a trend of me going to a foreign city and collecting their Metro lines. Good, wholesome entertainment.

While I was there, I noticed that, in addition to the lines on the Metro, there were three heavy rail stations on the map as well: Muiderpoort, Science Park and Diemen. Wouldn't it be fun to visit those as well?

Best laid plans and all that. While Muiderpoort was delightful, and I enjoyed wandering round the charming neighbourhood nearby, when I got to Science Park I discovered that there was a problem with the overhead wires; all the trains were cancelled. I turned round, dejected, and went to get a tram back to the hotel.

All of you who were bored by this story the first time round are probably wondering why you're getting a recap. The reason is, the BF. He got an urge about a month ago to go away. We deserved it, he said. A little city break somewhere. A treat. What about Amsterdam...?

YES, I said, a little too quickly.

I'd like to add I had a thoroughly nice time in Amsterdam, wandering the streets, eating, drinking. It was all lovely and I didn't force the BF to go on the Metro too many times. (We were staying near to Rokin station - sometimes it simply made more sense!). However, I did suggest that on the Sunday morning, while he had a nice lie in, I'd go for a little walk. A little walk between stations.

As you'd expect for a station with that name, designed to spearhead regeneration efforts, a lot of money has gone into making Science Park look a bit funky. It's cool and curved, because hey, this is a modern station, dude, yeah?

I sound cynical, and, in truth, the design elements are merely some curved walls and a bit of glass. However, when you see what a new station looks like in the UK, you actually appreciate the effort. Someone tried here and that's to be commended.

So now here I was, back on the Kruislaan, back walking between some Dutch railway stations, only this time in the opposite direction. It was actually nice to be back here because this is also where I was radicalised. I'd always been a fan of urbanism - making cities nice with more people and trees and transport and things - but it was looking at this particular apartment block on Kruislaan that pushed me into evangelism.

It was the one that made me think, why can't we do that in the UK? Long rows of balconies and pleasing spaces. Terraces, in fact, stretching the length of the home. When I'd been here in 2023 I'd seen a woman reading a book on one of the balconies, and her young daughter had wandered out from a different door and come over to see her and it seemed so nice. Big windows looking out on a tree-lined road with dedicated, separated cycle lanes and good quality pavements.

Why can't we do this in the UK? Why do we always have to build miserable boxes, miserable shells, with no features? Why are we building plain roads without infrastructure on them? Why aren't we making life nice for people? I'm tempted to enter the EuroMillions because if I had £197 million I'd absolutely spend it building some good homes for people to live in rather than whatever cube of nothingness gets chucked up in an field without any buses.

Fizzing with anger and frustration again I turned off the main road and into the sportspark. Laid out here was everything for the active residents of Amsterdam, and I walked amongst their healthy souls, sweating fatly. Kids played Sunday league football, their dads yelling louder than they ever could. The thwack of tennis balls matched my step. Through the trees I caught glimpses of a running track and joggers and cyclists were everywhere.

The southern edge of the park used to be home to De Meer, Ajax's home ground, until they moved to the much larger Johan Cruijff Arena in the 90s. The land was sold off and turned into apartment blocks, with the streets named after great stadia that were home to significant matches: there's a Wembleylaan, and an Anfieldroad, which I regret not detouring for a look at now.

The end of the park was marked by a motorway, currently in the middle of a comprehensive resurfacing which had completely closed one lane. A woman with a little spaniel called vaguely for him to come back to her as he darted back and forth over the bridge, excited to be out.

I was dropped into the district of Diemen, behind more apartment blocks and on wide streets. People were out walking, enjoying the unusually warm September morning, and the stream of cyclists was neverending. On a balcony, a woman was hanging out washing to dry. Cars crept around at 20 - that's 20 kilometres an hour, not miles, and nobody seemed to be bothered.

The area had obviously been done up lately. Street furniture had been put in everywhere, benches and boulders that blocked pedestrian paths to road vehicles but also gave people somewhere to sit and rest. These are, again, things that would never be introduced to a residential area in the UK because they would be presumed to be a magnet for anti social behaviour i.e. some teenagers might sit on the bench on a Friday night and giggle. Instead British children stay inside on their phones, and apparently this is also a problem, because basically we hate children.

There was a shopping centre here and I nipped in for a look round. It had the vague smell of ham you always get in down-at-heel malls. I'm not sure what causes it but no matter where you go in the world, if you go to an indoor precinct in the suburbs there will be a definite whiff of expired meat. I've experienced it all over Europe now.

Half the units were empty, and those that were full were closed, it being a Sunday morning and everything. The only two stores that were open were the Albert Heijn supermarket (which I pronounce "Albert Hiney", because I'm hilarious and not annoying at all), and a flower shop called Bloem!. There's something about that exclamation mark I really enjoy.

I wandered back out of the shopping centre with a Coke Zero to try and offset the heat. It really was incredibly warm for this time of year; lovely if you're a tourist, a wee bit worrying if you're a Dutchman living in a city that's roughly three metres below sea level.

Diemen station used to be next to a level crossing, a significant pinch point for traffic and railway movements on a busy line to Amsterdam Centraal. A few years ago the city bit the bullet and eliminated the level crossing by building a tunnel under the railway line for traffic.

It's such an enormous construction that your heart sighs. Level crossings are a pain in the backside for everyone in the 21st century, and getting rid of them is the ideal. However, when you see the engineering needed to implement it, you understand why they persist. There's no way of eliminating the level crossing that closes the road through Birkdale eight times an hour without an engineering project of gargantuan proportions.

Diemen station was rebuilt at the same time but it's no looker. Having spent all their cash on the road tunnel clearly the city planners decided two platforms and some ticket machines was all the railway could get. They do have ticket barriers, of course, even though it's unstaffed; I'm not sure why the UK demands a person stands next to the barriers at all times watching people waft in and out when the Netherlands seems perfectly capable of using them without getting trapped.

They also skimped on the signs. There wasn't a single Diemen sign outside the station that I could see, meaning I had to settle for the platform sign. It didn't matter. I was in a wonderful city and I had finally crossed off every station on their metro map. I was content.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2025-09-26T11:15:00.000+01:00

Back in May, I pointed out that there are no Merseyrail maps on the new trains. I said this was a terrible shame.

Clearly I have an enormous influence over at Rail House because there are now Merseyrail maps on the new trains. The only problem is they're not very good.

There are some great, talented graphic designers working at Merseyrail, producing some fantastic pieces of promotional material. I assume they were all on holiday when this was made.

Let's start with the colours. Yes, I've long said that there are Colour Tsars demanding that everything is yellow and grey, so I get why they've persisted with it here. Even though it looks awful. But making the region yellow and marking it as "Merseyrail network" in the key makes absolutely no sense at all. So the Merseyrail network isn't those little green and blue lines where the trains run? It's all the land inbetween? It's Neston and Huyton and Frodsham and all those other places you can't get a Merseyrail train to - indeed, it's places that don't even have a railway station. What they mean is "this is where Merseyrail tickets are vaild" - Day Savers and the like - but that's not what it says.

The reason for it is simple of course - they've used the old Merseytravel map, now called the "Local Rail Network" map, and stripped off anything that's not Merseyrail. Why they have done this is purely a business decision; you're on a Merseyrail train, here's all the Merseyrail destinations, done. It doesn't matter that it's actually quite useful information to know; that other networks show this sort of thing (the Tube map is overwhelmed with lines that aren't actually tube lines); and that getting rid of them means you now have to fill the space with horrible big grey boxes telling you that there are connections available. The box at Bidston, for example, says this:

If only there were a quicker, easier, and more logical way to show this, like, oh I don't know, actually including the line on the map:

They've made the map wordier and more complicated for no reason at all. It also means there's a big yellow space which is sitting there, unused.

And bloody Nora those grey boxes are ugly. The directional spikes are horrible and the determination to not show any actual lines on the line diagram means they're scattered all over the place - the right hand side of the map has four boxes on it and only two of them have edges that line up.

You can also see how copying over the map from the original means that Lime Street is shortened to "Lime St". The reason this happens on the Local Rail Network Map is because there's not much room to fit it in. Here you've got all the space in the world. You could put Lime Street Lower Level if you really wanted to.

(I should clarify that this area on the Local Rail Network map isn't any good either. Edge Hill is way too close, the spacing of stations on the Northern Line between Brunswick and Cressington is all over the place - who knows what it's going to look like when Baltic turns up - and why isn't James Street in capital letters when it's a city centre station on the Loop? But all that's for a different rant. Oh, and also the webpage on the Merseytravel site where the map is held calls it the "Local Rail Newtwork Map".

Which, while amusing, is just sloppy).

The Merseyrail map on the trains really is a case of "will this do?". There was an opportunity here for a proper redesign where those gifted designers I talked about earlier could be given a blank canvas and allowed a ground-up rethink. Put the two Merseyrail lines on the trains and think about it as an opportunity. Alternatively, stick with what you know and put the Local Rail Network Map on the trains. This halfway house is no good to anyone.

Finnish

2025-09-17T10:08:00.002+01:00

The entire Helsinki trip, linked:

INTRO: Ich Komme

DAY ONE:

Kivenlahti to Matinkylä: Light Show

Niittykumpu and Urheilupuisto: Language Barriers

Tapiola and Aalto-yliopisto: New Town, City

Keilaniemi and Koivusaari: Rush

Lauttasari and Ruoholahti: The Same But Different

Kamppi to Sörnäinen: The City Beat

DAY TWO

Mellunmäki to Itäkeskus to Vuosaari and back to Mellunmäki: The Northman

DAY THREE

Helsinki Central: The Lantern Bearer

Kalasatama to Siilitie: The Final Four

DAY FOUR

A load of transport nonsense: Satunnainen

The Helsinki-Stockholm ferry: Boaty McBoatface

DAY FIVE

Kärrtorp, finally: Completist

And that's the end of my Helsinki summer. Thank you for reading. It's been a long old journey considering how few stations there really are but sometimes I have stuff spilling out of me and I need to get it down on - well, not paper, but whatever this is. It was a wonderful experience and it's got me itching for more foreign cities.

Completist

2025-09-16T10:08:00.002+01:00

In 2024 I visited every Tunnelbana station in Stockholm. All 100 of them. The procedure is tried and tested and has been the same for eighteen years of merseytart.com.

take a train to a station
take a photo with the station sign outside to prove I've been there
walk to the next one

Then the procedure is reversed. Sometimes I simply walk outside, take the photo and walk back in, but so long as I pass through the ticket gates, that's fine. The important thing is that picture proving I was there. I've done it literally hundreds of times.

Which is why it was annoying when I got back to England, looked through my photos to write this blog, and realised I'd missed one. I'd forgotten to take one single sign picture.

Kärrtorp.

I'm not saying that I took the ferry from Helsinki to Stockholm specifically to go to Kärrtorp. I went back to the stations of the Blue Line to coo and sigh and take more pictures. I wandered round the city. I stayed overnight in a nice hotel. I got a flight back to Manchester the next morning at a cheaper price than if I'd flown from Helsinki.

What I will say is that when I walked to Slussen station from the ferry port, the very first train I got was a Green number 17 train going south to Skarpnåck. I traveled seven stations. I got off at Kärrtorp. I went through the ticket barriers into the little pedestrian plaza outside, stood in front of the station sign, and took a picture.

Then I turned round and walked back up to the platform and got another train. Job done.

Boaty McBoatface

2025-09-14T12:32:00.002+01:00

Blogging is a dying art. You know it, I know it. Actually, as I write this, I'm not even sure anyone is going to read them. Who can be bothered reading all those words in 2025, when you can get soundbites and micro-blogs and Threads fed to you? In fact, never mind having to read at all: break out the cameras and the microphones and let's go full influencer. That's where the money is.

I've long resisted videos based on the fact that, well, I know what I sound like when I talk. I've known for forty eight years that I can write but I can't speak. The internet came along in the 2000s and gave us socially awkward losers hope that maybe we could be useful members of society; our brains were valued more than our looks. What we said was more important. Then came YouTube and cameraphones and always-on high speed broadband and you didn't need to be able to say anything any more, you just had to be pretty and boisterous and outgoing. And preferably have big tits.

I've tried doing a couple of videos before, where I played with some not-Lego. I thought I might try to push this a bit further on the Helsinki trip. I didn't want to do the whole week as a video, but I did have an experience that I thought would make interesting content. I was going on a boat.

There's an overnight ferry from Helsinki to Stockholm every night and I thought it would be fun to take the ferry and do a kind of video blog of it. Stick it on YouTube, see what the reaction was, see if it worked.

I went to the Viking Line port at Katajanokka in plenty of time for my ship, as advised. "The gates will be open two hours ahead of sailing," it said, so I turned up two hours ahead of sailing, because I am a very well-brought up young man and I do as I am instructed. A quick scan of my QR code at an automated terminal and I was issued with a credit card-sized piece of paper. This was the key to my berth on board (oh yes, I know the lingo).

I followed the crowds up and round to the departure gate and this was where I was hit by my own naivety. I'd thought that as it was a ferry, and we all had our own cabins, that we'd be welcome on the ship any time. I thought we'd wander across when we wanted so we could partake of the delights of the ship.

Nope. Instead we were held in a tight lounge, decorated to look like a Moto service station but without the joie de vivre, with a single bar and not enough seats. Not nearly enough seats. The MS Viking Cinderella has a capacity of 2,700 passengers and they were all brought up into that little airless room. For two hours I leaned up against a column and cursed everyone who worked at Viking Line from the CEO down to the lowliest waitress.

Finally we began to shuffle towards the one (1) access point for the ship. Apparently we needed to have our IDs checked first, so the Viking Line laid on a couple of members of staff to do so. And when I say "a couple" I'm talking literally: two men checking each and every passport and ID card.

Worse, there was no official queue, no roped off route for us, so people fed into the scrum from every direction. We shuffled forwards, slowly, the time of departure getting nearer and nearer. I'm afraid I got very Brexit in my head, calculating how the space could be reorganised so there was a proper line instead of this awful European throng. In England there would've been a single file snaking through miles of rope fences and it would've worked a lot better. I was about three rows back from the gangway when a senior looking man appeared and basically said "fuck it"; passport checks were suspended and the crowds were allowed to push through, IDs be damned. If an international terrorist made it from Finland to Sweden that night he's the one to blame. I'd used my waiting time to look up the schematics of the ship and learn what deck I was on and how to get there and I practically ran there to get ahead of the slow moving throngs.

There it was. My neat little cabin. I'll let Video Me take over here:

I'm sure you'll agree the presenting and editing jobs will be flooding in from there. Can I explain that the yellowish tinge to my glasses is because of the sunlight bouncing in? I don't want you to think I have tinted lenses like Cliff Richard.

There's also a guided tour of the cabin, if you want to hear from Video Me again:

Thrilling, I'm sure you'll agree. I hope you enjoyed that because that's the last we'll hear from Video Me. As you may have guessed from the several hundred words preceding the videos, I realised that I didn't actually like filming anything. I didn't like talking to the camera, I didn't like videoing. I'd thought I'd wander round the ship filming it, so you the reader-slash-viewer could experience it too, with my thoughts and ideas, and I realised I didn't want to do any of that. I didn't want to be noticed. I didn't want people to stare at me. I didn't want people to hear me chatting to myself for "content". In short, I didn't want to look like a cunt.

I wish I'd realised that before I bought a gimbal, mind.

I headed to the main entertainment deck. There were restaurants and bars here, plus a theatre with some kind of show to keep the kids entertained, and even a casino. It was, as I said in my video, a proper ship. It was huge. I was overawed by it.

The restaurants were absolutely rammed; it seemed you'd be wise to book a slot ahead. I couldn't see any spare tables so I did my usual trick. I went to the pub.

The Admiral Hornblower promised a "truly British" experience and it certainly reminded me of a British pub: specifically The Favourite, the now-demolished flat-roofed establishment on my estate in the 1980s. It had a plasticky, inauthentic feel, as you'd expect from a "British pub" on a ferry in Scandinavia. I ordered a pint - they even had nonsensical imperial measures - and took up a spot to watch the entertainment, a little blonde man with a guitar singing No Woman No Cry.

He ran through a selection of rock classics, mostly in English but with a peppering of Finnish ones too, which the crowd sang along to. I sat in my seat (bolted to the floor) and supped my beer and watched. He stepped away after a while, and an extremely jolly and extremely annoying woman came out to launch the karaoke night.

By this point I'd had enough beers to stop me finding it hopelessly embarrassing. It was actually quite charming when they sang a Eurohit song I didn't know. I wasn't really interested in the blokes doing My Way - I can get that in Liverpool city centre any time I want - it was the local songs that got everyone bouncing in their seats that I enjoyed. This diva, for example:

I subsequently ran into her outside the toilets and I told her I thought her singing was amazing. She looked properly thrilled.

A few more songs and I decided to call it a night. I was a bit worse for wear and I'd only eaten a bag of peanuts. I decided to go up on the top deck to get a bit of air, definitely not stopping to sing Diamonds Are Forever or anything insane like that on the way. I went up in the lift and stepped out into the twilight.

Out there, away from the land, surrounded by nothing but sea, all I could take in were the skies. The incredible burnished skies. Shifting layers of colour and shade. Clouds that merged with the water.

I stood there for a long time, until I began to feel chilled; I was only wearing a t-shirt and shorts. I couldn't stop staring at the water and the light.

I went back up there when I woke the next morning. The skies were heavier now - it had rained over night, and there was a dampness in the air. The deck was slick with moisture. By now though, we'd reached Sweden, and so instead of open water there were a hundred tiny forested islands drifting by. We were working our way inland through deep inlets formed by glaciers thousands of years ago.

Behind us was another ferry. There are two companies who go overnight from Helsinki, and it seems they follow each other exactly. It's strange how, as an island nation with a legendary naval history, we've sort of lost the idea of taking a ferry in the UK. The minute aeroplanes were invented we decided we'd much rather do that, thank you very much. There's still the ferries to Ireland, of course, plus Bilbao and the Hook of Holland and what's left of the Dover routes, but these are very much the bargain option. If you haven't got a car people would think you were mad to take them.

While I enjoyed the laid back journey, and it was very good value for money, I don't think I could stand it for more than one night. Taking the ferry effectively killed any interest I may have had in going on a long ocean cruise. After ten hours on board I already felt stir crazy; walking up and down the stairs, wandering around the decks, trying to find something new to look at. There were the changing views now we were close to land, of course, but imagine being halfway across the Atlantic and all you can see is the water. No wonder people spend the whole time getting drunk and filling their faces with buffets. There's nothing else to distract you.

I packed up my bag and headed to the exit. As with getting on board the boat, this was a long tedious wait in a chairless space. We docked in Stockholm and then there was a length stretch of nothing while we watched an army of cleaners come aboard.

Again we had the advantage of coming ashore right in the city centre. The Viking terminal is on Södermalm, and it was a twenty minute walk from me along the front to Slussen Tunnelbana station. When the Blue Line extension opens there will be an even closer station at Sofia, ten minutes walk away, but that won't be until 2030. Oh darn, I'll have to come back.

Slussen is still undergoing major building works; the new bus terminal is due to open in 2026, but it's a mess of routes and diversions. It's still an improvement on my visit last year, when I couldn't even find the entrance.

So here I was in Stockholm again, a year after my last visit. There was only one thing to do. And it wasn't break out the video camera.