A Week in Liverpool
On August 19, 2019, in the early part of the evening, after a long, cramped, uncomfortable flight (in other words, economy class) from Portland, Oregon to my native land, the United Kingdom (arriving by way of Manchester after a stopover in Amsterdam), I stood in the middle of the Tesco Superstore on Hanover Street in Liverpool, feeling extremely tired and holding a full basket of British groceries with each hand. As I stood there with Liverpudlians on every side, fighting off a heavy wave of weariness and trying to get my bearings after a journey that had taken many hours, a young man walked past, took a friendly look at me, and smiled, saying, "I think you need a trolley, mate!"
The cheerful observation of the amiable Scouser in Tesco quickly put me at ease and, in spite of not having seen the land of my birth for fifteen years, helped me to feel that I was, happily and gratefully, at home again. Although I entered this world in the United Kingdom, the firstborn son of an English mother and an American father, I have spent much of my life in the United States (in California and Oregon), as a result of my family having moved to my father’s country when I was too young to refuse. Nevertheless, my tastes, my sensibilities, my outlook, and my primary citizenship have always been unquestionably British, and I find that the older I get, the more I am drawn back to the north of England, where I began.
My wife and I were staying a short distance from the rail station on Lime Street, in a self-catering unit, in a hotel within an old building that had once contained Lewis's, the most famous department store in Liverpool. (The store where my mother, as a child, used to meet with Father Christmas.) Our last trip to Merseyside had been in 2004, when we spent hurried time in Liverpool and Warrington (the nearby town in which my mother was born and raised, and in which I also was born), so I was curious, and also slightly apprehensive, to see how much things had changed. I was especially fearful that Liverpool and its surrounding communities might have been irreparably disfigured by the crude effects of rampant capitalism in the 21st century.
On the next day, which happened to be my sixty-sixth birthday, we eagerly roamed from street to street, easily finding our way around the city. In the afternoon, having strolled past a number of landmarks (including the headquarters of BBC Radio Merseyside, a source of news and music to which I frequently listen online) we sat down in the cafe in Marks & Spencer on Church Street and had a cup of tea. After years of having to swallow what passes for a cuppa in the United States, it was a pleasure to be able to request, "Two teas, please," and to know that we would be served two pots (one each) that contained a proper British brew. I was exceedingly glad to be there.
Being in Liverpool means, of course, being in a city that continues, even now, to be filled with the lingering essence of its most renowned sons, The Beatles. It seems that, whenever one turns a corner or strays down an alley in Liverpool, a piece of their history can be found, waiting to proclaim itself to all those who are interested enough to look closely. As someone who is old enough to have ardently followed The Beatles from the outset of their storied journey, when they musically propelled themselves beyond the tiny clubs of Merseyside and, against all odds, went forward to become extremely famous, known and loved by millions throughout the world, being in Liverpool is akin to being on a pilgrimage.
It seemed fitting that we should spend an entire day seeking out the enduring legacy of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr. We started at The Beatles Story, a museum at the Albert Dock that artfully portrays their well-known rise to fame from its beginning to its end, from "Love Me Do" to "I Feel Fine" to "Strawberry Fields Forever" to "Let It Be," with an impressive array of photographs, posters, documents, displays, and rare items. For a longtime fan such as myself, to whom The Beatles had always served as a dependable source of unfailing happiness and easygoing inspiration, it was a deeply moving experience, prompting a few twinges of bittersweet awareness on my part, because in viewing the story of The Beatles, I also was viewing the story of my own bygone youth.
Our next stop was the Museum of Liverpool, on Pier Head, alongside the River Mersey, where we delved into Double Fantasy, an in-depth multimedia exhibition that depicted the art, music, and activism (particularly in regard to the determined promotion of peace) created by John Lennon and Yoko Ono during their life together. It was quite powerful in its overall effect, filled with a number of priceless items taken from Yoko Ono's own collection, including drawings, handwritten songs, articles of clothing, and John Lennon’s familiar eyeglasses. For me, it brought back many memories of the late 1960s and early 1970s, when the daring actions of John and Yoko frequently were a cause of controversy.
In between and after our visits to The Beatles Story and Double Fantasy, we took in other sights connected to the Fab Four, walking up and down Mathew Street, where they first made a name for themselves on the stage of the Cavern Club, and also finding the spot (on the corner of Church Street and Whitechapel, now occupied by Forever 21) where NEMS, the department store owned by the family of their manager, Brian Epstein, once stood. By fortunate chance, rather than by actual intention on our part, we were staying in Liverpool during International Beatleweek, an annual festival of public Beatlemania that draws fans from many countries, which added to our general well-being. As dedicated fans of The Beatles ourselves, we felt that we were among kindred spirits.
In addition to treading in the footsteps of The Beatles, we also found time to explore the other charms of Liverpool during our stay. We ambled along the waterfront, marveling at the towering splendor of the Three Graces (the Royal Liver Building, the Cunard Building, and the Port of Liverpool Building), stopping in at the Tate Liverpool and the Merseyside Maritime Museum, and reveling in the bracing expanse of the River Mersey itself. One day, during what turned out to be the hottest August bank holiday weekend on record, we took a leisurely ride on a Mersey Ferry, crossing the river in bright sunshine, which afforded us a welcome opportunity to view the proud skyline of the city in all its singular beauty.
The morning after our ride on a Mersey Ferry, we walked up the length of Duke Street to Upper Duke Street, past the Chinese Arch at one end of Nelson Street, to see Liverpool Cathedral. (Where Paul McCartney, as a boy, once tried out for, but failed to be accepted by, the choir.) It happened to be Sunday, and as we quietly entered the spacious interior of the cathedral, we were able to witness the final moments of a regular service. When the service had concluded and the congregation had dispersed, we were free to wander through the cathedral, which, although it was designed (by Giles Gilbert Scott) and built during the 20th century (from 1904 to 1978), embodies the same degree of timeless majesty as ancient cathedrals that have been standing for much longer.
From Liverpool Cathedral, we walked down Berry Street to St. Luke's Church, known as the Bombed Out Church as a result of the extensive damage that it suffered from German bombs during World War II, leaving only the outer shell of the church, which has been preserved as a means of remembering those who perished during the May Blitz of 1941. Seeing the bare remains of the Bombed Out Church put me in mind of the stories that my mother had told me when I was growing up, harrowing stories of what she and her family had lived through in Warrington (less than twenty miles from Liverpool) during her younger days, when the Nazis were waging their ruthless war against Britain.
Aside from spending time in Liverpool and Warrington (where I was hugely astonished, and somewhat appalled, to discover that an enormous mall, the Golden Square, had arisen since my last visit, taking away most of the business from the high street and the old market), we spent a wonderful summer day in Chester, a dignified city rich in history, tradition, and gentility. In particular, we were overwhelmed by our visit to Chester Cathedral, a sacred building whose breathtaking proportions and abundance of medieval glory have the ability to summon feelings of awe and veneration even within those who are not overtly religious. We also visited the Chester Rows, where quaint shops abound, viewed the Chester Roman Amphitheatre, sat for a while on the bank of the River Dee, and ended our day in the green, restful environs of Grosvenor Park.
Having stayed for a week in Liverpool, we took a train to the coast, spending several days in Blackpool. After checking into our slightly down-at-heel hotel on the North Shore, we first sought out Ormond Avenue, near the seafront, where my mother's Uncle Albert, a bachelor and former officer in the British army who was a dab hand at ballroom dancing, had lived in his later years. We then did the sort of things that one should do in Blackpool: going to the top of the Blackpool Tower (where we were stunned by the amazing view, extending in all directions), walking along the Promenade (which Uncle Albert used to do every day), and making an afternoon expedition down to the windy beach, the two of us huddling as we turned our faces toward the Irish Sea. After our stay in Blackpool, it was time for us to depart from England and return to Oregon.
Whenever I remember looking out the window of our room in the Lewis's building, beholding the alluring lights of Liverpool at night, reflected in the rolling waters of the River Mersey, I am certain of where I would like to be. Although I currently reside far away from the city of the Three Graces, I can honestly declare that my heart belongs to Liverpool and its citizens. No city, including Liverpool, is without its share of problems and shortcomings, but the people of Liverpool are a special breed. They have proven their ability to maintain courage under difficult conditions, having stood their ground against the murderous fascism of Adolph Hitler in the 1940s (and also against the brutal politics of Margaret Thatcher in the 1980s), and they understand the life-giving value of laughter. Their city is a living expression of fundamental humanity.
The cheerful observation of the amiable Scouser in Tesco quickly put me at ease and, in spite of not having seen the land of my birth for fifteen years, helped me to feel that I was, happily and gratefully, at home again. Although I entered this world in the United Kingdom, the firstborn son of an English mother and an American father, I have spent much of my life in the United States (in California and Oregon), as a result of my family having moved to my father’s country when I was too young to refuse. Nevertheless, my tastes, my sensibilities, my outlook, and my primary citizenship have always been unquestionably British, and I find that the older I get, the more I am drawn back to the north of England, where I began.
My wife and I were staying a short distance from the rail station on Lime Street, in a self-catering unit, in a hotel within an old building that had once contained Lewis's, the most famous department store in Liverpool. (The store where my mother, as a child, used to meet with Father Christmas.) Our last trip to Merseyside had been in 2004, when we spent hurried time in Liverpool and Warrington (the nearby town in which my mother was born and raised, and in which I also was born), so I was curious, and also slightly apprehensive, to see how much things had changed. I was especially fearful that Liverpool and its surrounding communities might have been irreparably disfigured by the crude effects of rampant capitalism in the 21st century.
On the next day, which happened to be my sixty-sixth birthday, we eagerly roamed from street to street, easily finding our way around the city. In the afternoon, having strolled past a number of landmarks (including the headquarters of BBC Radio Merseyside, a source of news and music to which I frequently listen online) we sat down in the cafe in Marks & Spencer on Church Street and had a cup of tea. After years of having to swallow what passes for a cuppa in the United States, it was a pleasure to be able to request, "Two teas, please," and to know that we would be served two pots (one each) that contained a proper British brew. I was exceedingly glad to be there.
Being in Liverpool means, of course, being in a city that continues, even now, to be filled with the lingering essence of its most renowned sons, The Beatles. It seems that, whenever one turns a corner or strays down an alley in Liverpool, a piece of their history can be found, waiting to proclaim itself to all those who are interested enough to look closely. As someone who is old enough to have ardently followed The Beatles from the outset of their storied journey, when they musically propelled themselves beyond the tiny clubs of Merseyside and, against all odds, went forward to become extremely famous, known and loved by millions throughout the world, being in Liverpool is akin to being on a pilgrimage.
It seemed fitting that we should spend an entire day seeking out the enduring legacy of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr. We started at The Beatles Story, a museum at the Albert Dock that artfully portrays their well-known rise to fame from its beginning to its end, from "Love Me Do" to "I Feel Fine" to "Strawberry Fields Forever" to "Let It Be," with an impressive array of photographs, posters, documents, displays, and rare items. For a longtime fan such as myself, to whom The Beatles had always served as a dependable source of unfailing happiness and easygoing inspiration, it was a deeply moving experience, prompting a few twinges of bittersweet awareness on my part, because in viewing the story of The Beatles, I also was viewing the story of my own bygone youth.
Our next stop was the Museum of Liverpool, on Pier Head, alongside the River Mersey, where we delved into Double Fantasy, an in-depth multimedia exhibition that depicted the art, music, and activism (particularly in regard to the determined promotion of peace) created by John Lennon and Yoko Ono during their life together. It was quite powerful in its overall effect, filled with a number of priceless items taken from Yoko Ono's own collection, including drawings, handwritten songs, articles of clothing, and John Lennon’s familiar eyeglasses. For me, it brought back many memories of the late 1960s and early 1970s, when the daring actions of John and Yoko frequently were a cause of controversy.
In between and after our visits to The Beatles Story and Double Fantasy, we took in other sights connected to the Fab Four, walking up and down Mathew Street, where they first made a name for themselves on the stage of the Cavern Club, and also finding the spot (on the corner of Church Street and Whitechapel, now occupied by Forever 21) where NEMS, the department store owned by the family of their manager, Brian Epstein, once stood. By fortunate chance, rather than by actual intention on our part, we were staying in Liverpool during International Beatleweek, an annual festival of public Beatlemania that draws fans from many countries, which added to our general well-being. As dedicated fans of The Beatles ourselves, we felt that we were among kindred spirits.
In addition to treading in the footsteps of The Beatles, we also found time to explore the other charms of Liverpool during our stay. We ambled along the waterfront, marveling at the towering splendor of the Three Graces (the Royal Liver Building, the Cunard Building, and the Port of Liverpool Building), stopping in at the Tate Liverpool and the Merseyside Maritime Museum, and reveling in the bracing expanse of the River Mersey itself. One day, during what turned out to be the hottest August bank holiday weekend on record, we took a leisurely ride on a Mersey Ferry, crossing the river in bright sunshine, which afforded us a welcome opportunity to view the proud skyline of the city in all its singular beauty.
The morning after our ride on a Mersey Ferry, we walked up the length of Duke Street to Upper Duke Street, past the Chinese Arch at one end of Nelson Street, to see Liverpool Cathedral. (Where Paul McCartney, as a boy, once tried out for, but failed to be accepted by, the choir.) It happened to be Sunday, and as we quietly entered the spacious interior of the cathedral, we were able to witness the final moments of a regular service. When the service had concluded and the congregation had dispersed, we were free to wander through the cathedral, which, although it was designed (by Giles Gilbert Scott) and built during the 20th century (from 1904 to 1978), embodies the same degree of timeless majesty as ancient cathedrals that have been standing for much longer.
From Liverpool Cathedral, we walked down Berry Street to St. Luke's Church, known as the Bombed Out Church as a result of the extensive damage that it suffered from German bombs during World War II, leaving only the outer shell of the church, which has been preserved as a means of remembering those who perished during the May Blitz of 1941. Seeing the bare remains of the Bombed Out Church put me in mind of the stories that my mother had told me when I was growing up, harrowing stories of what she and her family had lived through in Warrington (less than twenty miles from Liverpool) during her younger days, when the Nazis were waging their ruthless war against Britain.
Aside from spending time in Liverpool and Warrington (where I was hugely astonished, and somewhat appalled, to discover that an enormous mall, the Golden Square, had arisen since my last visit, taking away most of the business from the high street and the old market), we spent a wonderful summer day in Chester, a dignified city rich in history, tradition, and gentility. In particular, we were overwhelmed by our visit to Chester Cathedral, a sacred building whose breathtaking proportions and abundance of medieval glory have the ability to summon feelings of awe and veneration even within those who are not overtly religious. We also visited the Chester Rows, where quaint shops abound, viewed the Chester Roman Amphitheatre, sat for a while on the bank of the River Dee, and ended our day in the green, restful environs of Grosvenor Park.
Having stayed for a week in Liverpool, we took a train to the coast, spending several days in Blackpool. After checking into our slightly down-at-heel hotel on the North Shore, we first sought out Ormond Avenue, near the seafront, where my mother's Uncle Albert, a bachelor and former officer in the British army who was a dab hand at ballroom dancing, had lived in his later years. We then did the sort of things that one should do in Blackpool: going to the top of the Blackpool Tower (where we were stunned by the amazing view, extending in all directions), walking along the Promenade (which Uncle Albert used to do every day), and making an afternoon expedition down to the windy beach, the two of us huddling as we turned our faces toward the Irish Sea. After our stay in Blackpool, it was time for us to depart from England and return to Oregon.
Whenever I remember looking out the window of our room in the Lewis's building, beholding the alluring lights of Liverpool at night, reflected in the rolling waters of the River Mersey, I am certain of where I would like to be. Although I currently reside far away from the city of the Three Graces, I can honestly declare that my heart belongs to Liverpool and its citizens. No city, including Liverpool, is without its share of problems and shortcomings, but the people of Liverpool are a special breed. They have proven their ability to maintain courage under difficult conditions, having stood their ground against the murderous fascism of Adolph Hitler in the 1940s (and also against the brutal politics of Margaret Thatcher in the 1980s), and they understand the life-giving value of laughter. Their city is a living expression of fundamental humanity.