Had a great day yesterday. Hoiked t'wife out of the house at 8am to get the train to Liverpool. Forgotten how quick the Liverpool run is once you get out of Manchester. It's flat (but then West Lancs and Lincs are very, very similar) and the train fair sprints. A good run. Anyway, we got into Liverpool for about 10:15 and took the Northern Line up to Freshfield. Merseyrail was as efficient and as shabby as I remember it. Very efficient (trains every 15 mins after all these years with razor sharp punctuality) and very shabby (train slightly smelly on the way up).
Bootle looked as grim as ever. I've never been all that keen on that area. I've been spoiled by the Sefton coast. On the other hand, Freshfield and the North Formby area is all entryphones, big cars and "Fuck off, peasant" gates. It's about a mile's walk from the railway station to the National Trust property by the beach - the squirrel sanctuary, the dunes and the beach itself. It was gorgeous - we arrived within 1/2 and hour of high tide and the sea was virtually up at the dunes. I was content to chill, but H was into the sea almost straight away, washing her feet in the sea with abandon. I look a bit of a twat when paddling, so I maintained my cool (!?) and stayed dry.
H decided to walk north and after a while, I realised that she had no intention of stopping, except to act as eco-warden, clearing up the odd piece of glass, picking up the occasional stone/shell and finding the odd battered plastic horse lost, no doubt, by some poor Irish toddler throwing a wobbly on Blackrock beach. We walked for what seemed like forever, with my knees throwing out warning signals like nuclear war had just been declared. Eventually, we came across more civilisation and decided to leave the beach. To our horror, we realised that we'd managed to walk the grand total of 3 1/2 miles on sand and still had a mile to walk to Ainsdale station. We'd bypassed precisely no stations. And we hurt.
Went to Southport. The sea had just done what it always does in Southport. A runner. Instead of the gentle waves we'd seen at Freshfields, there was just miles and miles of wet sand and yelling chavs. I love British seaside resorts. They bring out the worst in people. Ginner lobsters, ill advised clothing and more slotties than you can shake a stick at. If you ever feel a failure, go to the seaside and immediately feel smug about your cultured, thoughtful life. It's a tonic, I tell you. Had mediocre F&C, but I didn't care. Needed carbs desperately. The chips hit the spot perfectly. It wasn't the best cod in the world (in fact it was the piece of cod that passeth all understanding) but it set me up for that English of English pastimes, a walk down the pier.
More walking. Every time I thought I was coming to the end, it went on and on. Egad, that thing's long. Really long. We gave up in the end. Sp3ccylad's 1st law of walking states that "the longer one walks, the longer the concomitant return leg". I realise that's obvious, but nobody said I was a genius, alright? So we stopped like some old couple in a pier shelter 2/3 of the way along, nursed our wearies and hobbled back into town. We sat out on Lord Street for a while (after finding this odd little French gift shop) and made our way to the railway station.
Liverpool, and the Albert Dock. My god, I like that place. Had a drink, missed the opening of the Tate by minutes and made our way through the city to Lime Street. Had an odd journey home, highlighted by a total stranger asking me to write a letter for her as she couldn't write English. I was happy to help. I know how it feels to be an immigrant.
All in all a great day. Really enjoyed myself. Reclaimed a bit of me from some memories. That's always good.
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