Two weeks in England: Merseyside is not Liverpool: Crosby and The Wirral; three nights in Wallasey; family matters; Roy and 100 other iron men at Crosby; topless in Liverpool
So, from the birthplace of the Bard to the birthplace of Roy. Well, not actually Liverpool – he was born in Crosby, north of Liverpool. The Wirral, a wide peninsula on the other side of the Mersey River, where several family members live, is similarly not Liverpool.
There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.
John Lennon
The Wirrall
Roy’s late mother Leila’s only surviving sibling, Aunty Marjorie, still lives on The Wirral, in Heswall (see map below). Her eldest son Richard, who lived in Durban for many years and was out on the town with Roy on the night Julie J. and I met the two of them, now lives in New Brighton, right next to Wallasey on the map. All these areas, however, fall under the metropolitan county of Merseyside.
Over the years, I’ve sometimes found English people (bless their hearts*) to be infinitely pedantic about where they were born, have lived or are currently living. And at the risk of annoying, I suspect that it can have more to do with class distinction than making sure you don’t catch the wrong bus when you come for tea. Mind you, it’s not just the English who do that… I can think of several examples in Perth, WA, where one of two adjacent suburbs is regarded as being far more desirable than the other – and for no immediately obvious reason.
(*Bless their hearts: an idiomatic expression sometimes used to soften criticism.)
Show me that I’m everywhere and get me home for tea.
George Harrison
Three Nights in Wallasey
So, Roy booked a place for us at Gibson Manor Apartments in the Wirral suburb of Wallasey (try saying that ten times), just a couple of miles from Richard in neighbouring New Brighton.
It has a great location with an expansive view over the river and direct access to the wide and lovely New Brighton Promenade – perfect for either walking or running. I did both.
Review: Gibson Manor Apartments, Wallasey
We were lucky to get the only river-facing, ground floor apartment of four units offered through booking.com. With its grand entrance, lofty ceilings and good finishes, It could have been lovely – and still could be. Ridiculous mistakes let it down: the wardrobe wouldn’t open because the doors got stuck on the thick-pile carpet and have now come off their hinges; a bedroom curtain that came only halfway down the long window, letting in bright electric light all night; no bedside tables; no mirror at all in the bathroom; grouting dust not yet cleaned from the bathroom walls; a wine fridge, but no dishwasher; seriously grotty old cutlery apparently salvaged from a Salvation Army bin; no wine glasses; a washing machine, but no dryer and no clothes airer. Our advice? Get new management.
Verdict? Ten out of ten for (a) location and (b) wow factor. Zero for management.
With every mistake, we must surely be learning.
The Beatles
Family Matters
Visiting Roy’s Aunty Marjorie was top of the agenda, and she kindly invited us to lunch on the Saturday. Aged 96, she still lives solo in her beautiful home; her super-energetic daughter, Sally Anne, lives a couple of streets away.
Review: Rockwood Bistro
239 Seabank Road, Wallasey, rockwoodbistro.com
It’s lucky that we were here over a weekend, as Richard’s partner Jacklin was able to join us for dinner on both Friday night (at Marina Lounge Café, New Brighton) and Saturday night (at Rockwood Bistro, Wallasey).
As usual, there is a great woman behind every idiot.
John Lennon
This beautiful little bistro is on the converted street level of a house – it seems that owner-chef Christopher John and gorgeous front-of-houser Pauline live above the shop. Together, they served up one of the best meals we’ve had for a while… and what’s more, everything was served piping hot on hot plates.
Roy and I shared the trio of pork starter (Scotch egg, sausage roll and crackling on crispy kale), while Jacklin had the corned beef croquette and Richard plumped for the scallops. He enjoyed his filet mignon, though it was more done than he expected; and Roy and I loved our slow-cooked beef and lamb respectively. Jacklin, too, had the lamb. We loved the range of five or six vegetables included, and the individual jugs of jus served separately. (I can’t provide exact ingredients or prices, as the menu changes frequently and the current one was no longer available online.)
Having eaten up all said veggies, we deserved dessert: something decadently chocolatey for Jacklin and Rich, apple crumble with sauce anglaise for Roy, and an Irish coffee for me. (And then I complained that I couldn’t sleep.)
Drive to Crosby
As mentioned, Roy was born in Crosby; but moved with his family to Sutton Coldfield, near Birmingham, before he was old enough to remember those early years. Still, there were family visits to Granny Kit, Aunty Joy and Uncle Tom, and of course Aunty Marjorie, Uncle Ron and cousins Richard, Anthony, Kate and Sally Anne.
After high school, having spent three years at sea as a British India cadet, Roy lived with Granny Kit for six months while “doing his ticket” at Liverpool Polytechnic (now Liverpool John Moore’s University). During this time, cousin Richard had become the resident DJ at the Banyan Tree in the illustrious Adelphi Hotel – pictured in the slideshow of Liverpool that features somewhere below.
Another Place, Antony Gormley
We’d been told to visit Crosby Beach, famous for being the site of sculptor Antony Gormley’s 100 Iron Men, officially titled Another Place.
This fabulous art installation consists of one hundred life-size cast iron sculptures placed over a stretch of 3km, modelled on Gormley’s own body. Looking out to sea, they are thought by some to be a reflection on emigration. Anyway, having been in situ since 2007 and weighing in at 650kg each, no one is going to be putting them in the back of the Ford Fiesta.
It was well worth seeing, even on a grey and drizzly day. The beach was mucky, and I was glad to be wearing old Nikes that could be chucked into the washing machine.
There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done.
The Beatles
Liverpool at Last
Lucky that it was a Sunday: traffic was light, and parking in Liverpool CBD proved easy-peasy. Having duly admired the well-executed waterfront makeover, we thought we’d do the Mersey ferry journey, which we last did many years ago for the purpose of scattering Roy’s dad’s ashes. But there were technical problems with the one ship that was running, explained the desk, and the hourly-run service had been cancelled until further notice.
Slipping? We’re bigger than Jesus.
John Lennon
Topless Tour
So we paid £10 pounds a head for a topless bus tour. It came with commentary from a woke student with fervent LGBQT+ politics and lank, rainbow-dyed hair to match. When intelligible through his Scouse accent, he was, nevertheless, quite entertaining.
Review: The Alchemist
Walking straight back up the road into the city from the ferry office brought us to The Alchemist, a trendy bar serving up a gaggle of hissing, spitting, bubbling and generally mercurial cocktails that were clearly going down well, judging from the shrieks of the hen party customers. I settled for a large and delicious G&T, while Roy the Driver had a half of lager.
For lunch, tempura-battered hake, furikaki chips, mashed edamame, tartare sauce and curry gravy for me; for Roy, a Korean longevity salad with chilli, edamame, sweet potato and grains, topped with grilled chicken. All very nice.
If you don’t know where you’re going, every road will take you there.
George Harrison
Up next? Why, Part 3 of course, on East Sussex and London. And then we finally get to France.
