A Narrow Escape…for now.

When it comes to redevelopment, Liverpool rarely dodges the bullet. In fact, it’s said council redevelopment plans did as much if not more damage than the Luftwaffe. It was city councillors who knocked down the iconic Aintree Institute for housing that never materialised, the site ever since being used as a carpark. It was city councillors who reduced the Cavern to rubble. It was replaced by a ventilation shaft for a proposed underground that, too, never materialised. And in the summer of 2020 the council only just avoided another planning disaster—for now. The proposal would have transformed the city skyline—a £4m aerial zipline that would have run from the top of St John’s Beacon down onto the roof of Liverpool Central Library. 

St John's Beacon. Listed building? What about the Aintree Institute? Oops I forgot. It's no longer there. 

Opponents denounced it as the ‘Disneyfication’ of Liverpool.  Supporters of what would have been the country’s first ever permanent urban Zipline promised ‘thrill seekers’ glimpses of Liverpool whilst flying through the air at 40 mph. 

The plans were submitted in December 2019, Zip World estimating it would attract 104,000 riders a year and with them their friends and families ie an additional 200,0000 visitors. 

Hospitality and other businesses welcomed the idea, and despite opposition, the scheme was approved by the planning committee in June 2020.

The disaster was averted by an unlikely saviour,* the then mayor, Joe Anderson. He argued that while he could not interfere in planning decisions, he did not think it right to use the roof of the library! Short sighted man. Students would have soon acclimatised themselves to the squeals and the steady thump, thump, thump of roof landings; and perhaps a few less books but gift shops and nail bars. 

Despite Joe Anderson’s opposition, the scheme might have been passed; councillors can be a pig-headed bunch, but in 2021 St John’s Beacon was unexpectedly awarded Grade II listed status, and the scheme was aborted. Liverpool City Council however is unaccustomed to dodging bullets. Early in 2026 a spokesman for Zip World was approached as to whether the scheme had been truly put to rest. The last three words in his response was the bullet being loaded: ‘there are no discussions or applications for a new Zip Wire at this time.’

With this in mind and knowing both the Beacon and the library were now out of the running, I wandered around the city looking for alternative sites. 

The Mersey Tunnel Ventilation Shaft in Birkenhead 

The Liver Birds

A zipwire across the Mersey connecting the Mersey Tunnel Ventilation Shaft in Birkenhead to the Liver birds would be fun; bit of competition for the Ferry and perhaps a new song for Gerry Marsden if he was still alive. 

A zipwire connecting the two cathedrals, ecumenism in action and offering splendid views.

 

Metropolitan Catholic Cathedral

Anglican Cathedral 

As it might appear

A zipwire connecting St George’s Hall with the Liver buildings seen here distant left in the photo. 

In fact the whole city could be connected by zipwire. Trams? So last century. 

 

* It was Joe Anderson who tried to bulldoze plans for housing development in Walton Hall Avenue Park and Sefton Park. Two vital and popular green spaces. 

The Beery Adventure

When Owen, an American Facebook friend suggested we met up for a pub crawl in Liverpool, it took me all of two seconds to say yes. Facebook friends can be risky, but he loved good beer and was a fellow member of the Anthony Trollope Facebook page, which attracts a better sort of person. Karen, his wife loves Bob Dylan. The stars seemed aligned.

We met up at the Radisson Red Hotel at Lime Street Station, and the adventure began with two short and one long knock on our door—my instructions just to make sure it was him. ‘Where to first?’ he asked. Good, a man who meant business. 

The Vines, just five minutes’ walk away was the obvious choice, Victoriana at its most excessive. The beer, Timothy Taylor Boltmaker was a good pint, the ambience perfection. A follow up beer in Lime Street Station—Wetherspoons— something to eat and then bed. Big day tomorrow.

                     The view from our window, St George’s Hall and Liver buildings in distance.

I aimed to break up the beer with a bit of culture, unfortunately the Walker Art Gallery is closed on Mondays so it meant we started on the beer earlier than intended. This involved a brisk (in my case) slow walk up ‘haunted’* Bold Street and the bombed shell of St Luke’s, then up to the so called Georgian quarter housing cathedrals and some very fine pubs. 

The Catholic cathedral, started in the interwar years and designed by Sir Edward Lutyens, was intended as a vast basilica bigger than St Peter’s in Rome. The Crypt was actually built and gives you an idea of the scale of the original concept. Unfortunately World War II drained the project of money and manpower. Post-war impoverishment saw the end of the giant basilica, and something more cheap and cheerful replaced it—-‘Paddy’s Wigwam’ perched upon a giant underground crypt. 

Culture was again thwarted. The Crypt was closed to the public that day because it was being used as an exam venue for the University. So, beer it was. In this case Boddingtons.

What can I say about the Philharmonic that hasn’t already been said. I’m sure people going to Heaven are asked by St Peter ‘have you seen the toilets in the Philharmonic, lad?’

At the Phil we met up with Georgina, in my case, a virtual friend become suddenly real, but an old colleague of Owen and Karen’s. Everything was coming together. 

Walking through the Georgian quarter we wended our way to the Anglican Cathedral.

 

And here it is, the Anglican Cathedral. (Culture)

And then Kavanaghs’ – a real gem. I’m sure a bottle of absinthe would turn this space into Alice in Wonderland or perhaps just a nightmare. 

I played safe with Abbot’s Ale. None of the other pubs served food so it was back to the Phil for a Bass and a chicken, leek and tarragon pie.

 Over fives miles that day. Never was bed so welcome. 

Drawing the bedroom curtains

Next day was ‘Ferry Across the Mersey’ day, followed by the Albert Docks and the Beatle Experience, a museum that told me nothing I didn’t know, but pleasant nevertheless. 

              The Liverpool waterfront

                               Birkenhead side — ventilation shaft for the Mersey Tunnel

By the time it was over, I was ready for a pint. But first some walking to do.

Legend has it the Liver Bird facing the sea is looking for returning sailors. The Liver bird facing inland is checking the pubs are opened. Google told us they were.

This time we focused on Dale Street and three pubs in particular. First port of call, Thomas Rigbys. Unfortunately no food on Mondays and Tuesdays. Karen and Bernadette needed food. So, we walked to the Ship and Mitre. 

Unfortunately, no  food until five pm. Karen and Bernadette took pity on us and made do with crisps until a promised Vietnamese. Wonderful pub, a beautiful pale ale called Spitfire. Wonderful Vietnamese restaurant in Castle Street. 

Once more into the beer, my friends. Thomas Rigby revisited, 

And finally the Hole in the Wall where I was seduced by a plum porter’s promise of being ‘Smooth, Dark and Fruity.’ Well, it was smooth and dark but, as I suppose the name suggests, tasting of plums. Ah well, you can’t win them all, and it was alcoholic. 

                                                   Mathew Street back in the day

                                                           Mathew Street now

The Grapes was once quiet and scruffy, a place where off duty postmen, the Beatles and other Cavern groups would go for a drink after a show.  I used to love its warm Blackpudding Baps with mustard and a ring of raw onion. I didn't expect to get that 2026. At the same time I didn't expect it to have changed so much.

Mathew Street, a far cry from what it was in my day, but there you go. Then a quiet cup of tea and a whiskey catch-up in the hotel bar with my cousin, Michael. 

Nearly six miles that day. 

So, thank you, Karen and Owen and above all, Bernadette. I hoped you enjoyed it!

*Haunted Bold Street 

 

 

Roots and Brass Plates

 

 

 

 

 

The Liverpool bus stop near our house

 

A friend recently expressed surprise when I said I hated the idea of moving, re-locating, setting up house somewhere else. She pointed out how, over a long and happy life I’ve been to so many places, and I travel still though perhaps less adventurously when money allows.

In reality, a reluctance to move and a love of travel complement rather than contradict the other. Travelling is a joy (airports being the exception) when you have somewhere to come home to.  Re-locating on the other hand—except when you’re young—removes the powerful but largely unseen contentment that comes with having roots. 

In Liverpool, I was nurtured in a post war community with a family history rooted in the area. Leaving was initially exciting, moves to Swansea, Aberystwyth, Newport – and America, flitting from bedsit to bedsit, a Jackson Heights condominium, and then a lovely Edwardian house in Newport where, over a period of twenty years or so, new roots were established, to the extent I thought we would be there forever. 

Ribblesdale Avenue where I grew up (no cars then)

Manley road. Behind that top window, my first bed sit in Newport

Our family house in Newport

Two Newport views, the Civic Centre and the iconic Transporter Bridge

And now we’ve been in Monmouth for twenty years and new roots established.

                                                                      Monmouth in mist

But what do roots mean? It’s an easily understood metaphor until you try to explain it. 

For me it's walking into town down a country lane recognising faces, exchanging smiles and a greetings with strangers, because it comes so easily when people are happy and feel they’re in the right place. It’s recognising familiar patterns, the same couple walking the lane, the man with the distinctive fedora, the lady walking her three dogs, attending the same church, observing friends ageing slowly, attending funerals knowing others will attend yours. Above all knowing you’re immersed in goodwill. You may never need nor ask for help but there’s a powerful sense of it being there if or when needed.

Monmouth is pretty, but roots are independent of aesthetics. I enjoyed the same sense of ‘place’  in Liverpool and Newport where roots were inherited or developed.  Anthony Trollope understood roots. For him, every individual was indissolubly bound in an intense, self-perpetuating set of relationships. He expresses it most pithily in his wonderful A Small House in Allington, where every Sunday  ‘One walked over the brass plates of dead Dales in the village church.’ I shall start saving for my brass plate—assuming I don’t move again.