Praise be, there was sun on Sunday -- after having thought that we would never not be damp and/or chill again. We attended church in northern Chorely, a few miles outside of Preston. Two things of note: 1. There was a young man there who was passing the sacrament that was right cute. I was nudging and winking at The Sister, though I considered that he might be too young and/or too small for her -- he was very slight and had the beautiful skin and bright eyes of an angel baby. She nudged me back and pointed to her left ring finger. Married?!? I whispered: "Good golly, he's a HOBBIT!" and we started cracking up -- in the most reverent way of course. 2. The talks were very good. One lady spoke about how the things we say -- our everyday words -- really do make a difference, and a gentleman spoke about how it's through small things that great things come to pass. Both very good things to ponder. After church we planned on walking around the temple grounds that are annexed to the chapel, but the gates were locked. Our kids slipped through the bars so that they could see the lily pads in the front water feature that we had told them about. Laughing during the passing of the sacrament, breaking into the temple grounds... ? I guess we can't be accused by our brothers and sisters across the pond of being sanctimonious American Mormons.
To Liverpool. The Dad and I have been briefly before, but I mostly just remembered having lunch there on the dock and being chilly. Within the first few moments on the street this time I might have said, "Everybody here looks like they are on their way to a club, or on their way back from a pub... even though it's only noon." But that was unfair of me. By the end of our little visit I had developed a much deeper appreciation for Liverpool and her inhabitants.
There's a great exchange in the movie Notting Hill that we love to quote every time somebody thinks they see somebody/something famous.
Martin: Did you know, and this is pretty amazing, but I once saw Ringo Starr.
William: Where was that?
Martin: Kensington High Street. At least I think it was Ringo, um it could have been that guy from Fiddler on the Roof. You know, Toppy.
William: Topol.
Martin: Yes... yes that's right. Topol.
William: Mmmhmmm. Actually, Ringo Starr doesn't -- doesn't at all look like, uh, Topol.
Martin: Yes, but he was -- he was quite a long way away from me.
William: So it actually could've been neither of them.
Martin: Yes, I suppose, so.
William: It's not really a classic, anecdote, is it?
Martin: Not a classic, no.
Well, out of the four Beatles statues I could have snapped a picture of, I chose Ringo Starr... so, you know, we can say that we have seen him... kind of... Or it might have been a statue of Toppy...
We went to the Cavern -- which isn't really the Cavern at all -- though they say that they used all the bricks from the original Cavern to build it, and it's exactly the same specs. It was too crowded and loud for us (read: we are not cool), but it was worth it to get a visual of where the Beatles played for a couple of years before they became big enough to warrant statues and all that.
The Museum of Liverpool (free) is a lot to take in. It took me a while to finally come up with a clearer sense of Liverpool, and after some observing and reading I finally came up with something that I could wrap my brain around: in a way, Liverpool is to England what the Lower East Side is to New York. A place where there has constantly been great numbers coming and going. Large groups of huddling, anxious people -- and a fair share of excited ones. A place of debarking of foreign goods and visions. Surges of ideas. Brilliant concepts born of inspiration as well as desperation. Again, it's not for me to try to sum up a group of people, or a place, but if I had to try to describe it, I think the analogy to the LES is, if not perfect, at least fair.
And just as people from the LES ooze moxie for, and/or because of, their home, so does it seem to be the case for Liverpudlians (yes, that's awesome... as is the name for people from Glasgow: Glaswegians). I watched a recording featuring a taxi driver who said that his people came to Liverpool three hundred years ago with the plan to move on, make a better home, and increase their status, "but," he concluded, "here we are... still Scousers." I had to look that up -- a Scouser is somebody who is from Liverpool, associates themselves with the city, and has the accent that Liverpudlians/Scousers are known for. How's that for having a solid and specific identity?
The Liver (pronounced NOT like the organ, but with a long i-sound) Bird is the city's symbol (nicknames, accents, their own bird... IDENTITY!). There are two famous Liver Birds on the clock towers of the Liver Building -- built in 1911 -- but a bird has been associated with Liverpool since the 1350's.
At the museum there's a relief replica of one of the birds -- to scale.
There are a few local "stories" about the two Liver Birds -- originally one was to protect the city ("our people"), and the other the sea ("our prosperity")... but that's been twisted and a local favorite is to say that the female looks out to sea to make sure that the seamen are returning home safely, while the male looks toward the city to make sure that the pubs are open (ah ha... see what I'm talking about? My first impression, though judgy-sounding, probably wasn't that inaccurate). There is also a legend that if the birds ever leave, the city would cease to exist -- this is something brought up when WWII is mentioned. Liverpool had the crap bombed out of it (or into it), and yet, the birds came through. Other than being bombed to oblivion, there's another way they could depart -- the story goes that if an honest man and a virgin woman were to meet under the birds, the birds would fly away. Shoot. that says a lot, doesn't it? Apparently there can only be one pair of an unusual species in the city. And what is the Liver Bird? Originally, it was probably an albatross, but the story now is that it's a mythical hybrid bird very specific to Liverpool.
Liverpool's history is charged -- from its participation with the slave trade to the huge role it played during the opium trade to China. A very controversial statement from the UN a year ago posited that Liverpool had "no-go" areas because of its excessive drug problems. The crime rate and poverty rate is disproportionately high in Liverpool and there have been, and are, many efforts in place to foster improvement. One of the quotes that I thought interesting was: "Invest in our local youth. Respect them." I think I often get too caught up on who "deserves" respect and fail to realize that giving respect is an indicator of who I am, not of who the recipient is. I must remember: Atticus.
The youth of Liverpool. The most famous being... A handful of boys who were amounting to nothing, scraping together a band that took years and years of hard work before the right person saw them, etc. They had quiffs/knock-off Elvis haircuts and cuffed jeans. Completely unrecognizable from who they became. Of course, everybody has a beginning, but it was certainly interesting to see pictures of them trying to be like Elvis... when in a few years (after their manager redid their image) everybody would be trying to be like them.
A quote to sum up the impact of The Beatles from a guy who was a teenager at the time: "If you didn't dress or wear your hair like The Beatles, they [girls] weren't interested in you, nor were you considered cool." So... I guess you start dressing and getting your hair cut like the blokes who were told how to dress and get their hair cut... Who until then were dressing and cutting their hair to look like somebody else.
While looking at The Beatles memorabilia The Boy asked me who was still alive. Of course, we know about John, but I could not remember if it was George or Ringo who died of cancer. I asked a lady standing next to us and after some discussion we landed on Ringo, but then a couple of minutes later she came back with her husband and told me it was George. "I think Ringo is doing voice-overs for Thomas the Tank or something." Right then. Anyway, we parted in a cloud of "Cheers!" and I felt... cheerful for having had the exchange.
The Beatles and Liverpool. Last week marked the 50-year anniversary of their first album Please Please Me being released. A regular at the Cavern was documented as having said, "Bob Wooler announced that 'Please Please Me' was number one. Everybody cheered and clapped. Around us girls began to cry: we cried. That was it, we'd lost them forever. And so it was." Liverpool gave them their start, but there's always that tipping moment -- when the energy that thrust you forward, thrusts you beyond.
We left downtown Liverpool, but the crowds because of the bank holiday weekend slowed us up, and we were late for our appointment time at Speke Hall. While Speke Hall looks interesting, we only used the loo at the visitor's center while the attendant at the desk radioed the bus driver to see what could be done for us. See, The Dad found out that if you make reservations months in advance through the National Trust you can get tickets to tour inside the homes of Paul MaCartney and John Lennon. Otherwise, you only get to snap pictures from the sidewalk. The Dad looked like a kicked puppy during the anxious moments when our future was being determined. We were in luck -- we were given directions and told that we could meet the driver/the group at the McCartney's home. I always say that usually when something doesn't turn out, something else cool will work out... In this case, it was highly embarrassing, yet slightly kind of awesome when we walked past the crowd on the sidewalk and were let in through the front door.
No pictures allowed inside the house, but being very 50's/60's rest assured that both houses were brilliant.
Paul McCartney's parents were not well off, but as his mum worked for the government (health services -- she was a midwife) they qualified for council housing. She really wanted her two sons to amount to something, so she was constantly trying to upgrade and improve their lives. This house -- the one Paul lived in as a teenager -- was the seventh house that they had moved to. Unfortunately, his mum only lived there a little while before dying of breast cancer when Paul was 15. This led to his father working during the day, and playing his trumpet for extra money at night. Being raised in a single-parent household with that single parent working long hours I knew exactly what this meant: Paul's house became the flop house. It was the house where kids -- like John Lennon -- could come and hang out without a lot of parental intervention. And even when Paul's dad was home, there was a drainpipe leading up past Paul's bedroom for after hours coming and going.
The home where John was raised was much nicer. His parents split when he was about five and thought that it would be best for him to be raised by his childless aunt and uncle. Inside the house is a copy of his school reports -- his marks weren't so great. He was particularly not-great in math. This led to an interesting conversation with the guide. She said that often his aunt came off as harsh, BUT it should be put in perspective that statistically speaking, she was right. You DO have to pass your exams in life. Most of the time you have to run your paces -- not every kid who is bored at school is going to turn out to be a musical genius who makes it in the world in such an enormous way. So perhaps there should be a bit more generosity, and we should just see her as being practical because she was concerned about him -- not a dream squasher (she did sound pretty funny -- when George Harrison would come over, and I guess he was a poor kid from a section known as Speke who was a rather flamboyant dresser, she would take a look at his bright yellow jacket and enormous quiff and, looking over her shoulder, say: "John, the scruff from Speke is here for you."). Similarly, Paul said one time that because he was so good at literature his mum really wanted him to be a teacher, so if she had lived he would never have been in the band. It bugs me that kids often don't give their mums enough credit, or extend the benefit of the doubt quite far enough. I would say that usually parents only want their kids to be happy, and so all the rules and riding are an attempt to help that happen. I might be wrong, but I like to think that if that statement from Paul is really something that he said, that he was wrong. That his mum would have supported his dream when it came to it, had she been around to be given the chance.
John Lennon's mum is the one who introduced him to music. When he was 16 he became closer to her, but sadly, a year later she was run down by a delivery truck.
There was a bike leaning against the side of the house that I asked the guide about. She said that as teenagers John and Paul were often riding their bikes to each other's houses. They would cut through the municipal golf course.
It's interesting to think of the super stars as skinny teenagers riding their bikes around and climbing up drain pipes. It felt spooky to have one foot in the past -- looking at John Lennon's report cards, passing through the doorway where a 14-year old George with big hair had to endure a sassy aunt... and the other foot in the now -- knowing that the smart-alec schoolboy would be shot on his door step, that the little dandy would have to battle cancer. As stupid as it sounds, for just a second, it seemed unfair that I should know those things.
Just like Beatrix Potter incorporated things from her life into her art, so did The Beatles. Strawberry field was where an orphanage held a yearly picnic that John loved to go to as a little boy. The adjoining fields where he played with neighborhood chums was called the strawberry fields -- or something like that. It's right behind the house he grew up in.
This is a replica gate -- the original having been moved to a museum somewhere.
And we drove to Penny Lane. "Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes... "
To me, why all this is important is because it reminds me how strong the ties to childhood can be. As we grow up and things don't make sense and seem incongruent, to have a place, a memory that we can turn in towards... that relief that comes when floundering in the pool and then your foot brushes the bottom -- knowing that in all that shapeless, unsupportable water there is something down in the deeps that can help you regain your footing, or at least something to push off from. The moments and memories that my kids are creating; the spaces that they are moving through -- these are the things that will come back to them and then come out of them in so many ways.
So with a new appreciation for Liverpool, and The Beatles, we were back on the road. As we drove out of the city the other side of the motorway was backed up for miles because of an accident. As we passed that long stretch of still cars I thought again how one small thing: looking down to answer a text, a loose bolt, a darting animal -- can have such a large impact, for good or for bad.
Our next destination: Wales.
Our first stop was Llandudno. Unlike Blackpool, it is a seaside town that is still lovely. It looks to be proud of its Victorian/Edwardian history, and so has resisted garish modernizations. My guess is that it doesn't need any gimmicks, what with the architecture that's as pretty as a plate of petit fours, the pier and the beach, etc., BUT Alice Liddell (Lewis Carroll's Alice-muse) did spend time in Llandudno. In fact, her family had a home there where they went on holiday. We had heard that because of this connection there were some Alice-y statues about. When I saw how pretty the town was I was worried that the Alice thing would be lame, so I'm glad that we took the time to look for them. Holding true to the aesthetic sensibilities that seem to be strong, even the "statues" resist being garish and modern -- they are made out of wood. While we didn't stop long, it was a pleasant stop. I would go back and spend some time there.
Yes, that family was part of our experience. Every time I thought that they were finally going to move out of the way they would suddenly come up with some additional way to interact with the statue. I was like: are you kidding me? Finally we all started laughing so hard and I had to keep shushing my rude offspring. And then I decided that if these photos are truthfully documenting our experiences we better just take the picture, since by that point taking a picture without that family standing in front of it would be a bald-faced lie.
Wales spawned Anthony Hopkins (well done, Wales... I've been thinking about Remains of the Day a lot on this trip... mostly the book -- when Stevens goes on the motoring trip and he says that England (Scotland, Wales) is the most beautiful because it is calm and shows restraint -- that it is so confident in its beauty that it doesn't have to shout about it... but Sir Anthony did a bang up job in the movie), and Dylan Thomas. In "Clown in the Moon" Thomas created: "I think, that if I touched the earth, / It would crumble; / It is so sad and beautiful, / So tremulously like a dream." The bit about the calm, restrained beauty is true of Wales. Thomas's words that the earth is beautiful and dreamlike -- also true of Wales. Wales is like waves of velvet. With sheep.
We stopped in Conwy for dinner. We ate at the Castle Hotel and the food was delicious. The Boy and The Sister both ordered the most beautiful macaroni and cheese I've seen. After dinner we saw the smallest house in the UK and then walked a bit along the top of the city walls. If it wasn't so chilly we most definitely would have walked it in its entirety -- as the gloaming was coming on, so the castle was glowing, and the rooftops were exactly as rooftops in Wales inside a city wall should be. But it was cold, very.
And on and on we drove. A couple of us needed to use the bathroom dearly, so at one point when there was a turning around and then a backtracking there was almost a mutiny. But then we arrived. Boy did we. The Pen-Y-Gwryd Hotel at the base of Mount Snowdon. I get that it's super cool to stay in the exact place where Edmund Hilary's team trained for their little jaunt up Everest. But when you consider that that was 60 years ago... and they were a bunch of men who were willing to hike with their snot frozen to their faces... it's probably a good indicator that it's not going to be the most glamorous outfit. I really need to start monitoring the trip-planning. The Dad has had carte-blanche up until now, but Sunday night might have been the end of that era.
I think that the bathroom-down-the-hall wouldn't have bothered me quite so much if I wasn't in the heightened bathroom-needing state that I was... Anyway. We had two separate rooms (each one had its own distinct smell), so we split boys and girls. It really was like being at a camp. People were walking through the halls barefoot and in their pajamas. There were no locks on the doors... In fact, our room -- the girls room -- didn't even shut all the way. After The Sister, in some awesome pajamas, gave it a valiant effort (The Girl and I giggled in our bed as she pushed and jostled and opened and shut it about a million times) I finally threw in the towel and told her to just place the little wooden chair in front of it and get to sleep. At first she was trying to do the whole wedging the back up under the doorknob thing, but it didn't work and I told her that's not what I meant anyway: "Just put it in front so if anybody opens the door they will hit it and we'll wake up."
As I drifted off to sleep I thought: we are seriously in the middle of nowhere, in a foreign country -- I wouldn't even know how to call out if I had a phone that worked, on a stormy night, going to sleep in a hotel full of strangers, with our door not only not locked, but obviously not locked because it's not even completely closed. The beginning of a book, I think... For the record, I knew fully well that if we were murdered in our beds everyone would ask: "What were they thinking???" Believe me. I think that all the time.
