St Oswald’s Church, Liverpool

Earlier this week I set off to have a look at St. Oswald's church in Old Swan. When you glared at the map it does not seem that far from Liverpool Lime Street station. In times past I would happily have walked this sort of distance – I often walked from Toxteth to Liverpool city centre. On this day I was exhausted long before I made it to St. Oswald Street. Along Edge Lane you could see the St. Oswald church tower beckoning in the distance and all to imperceptibly getting closer.

Normally I don't have much time for either church or religion, neither mean more to me than a vague curiosity value. So why this trip? Later this year I am starting an Open University module that consists of a rapid romp through the arts. One topic is the architect Augustus Pugin [ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pugin ] so it seemed a good idea to have at least a peek at one of his buildings; a peek all close up and personal. St. Oswald was built in 1840 and only the tower remains of Pugin's original. Here are a few photos I took on the day.

Overall I was a little disappointed by the church. With what I'd read about Pugin I was expecting some stand out architecture but what I saw was little different from hundreds of other such buildings. It was pleasant enough as architecture but little more; it must be enthusiasts that put all that effort into writing such books and like – only to disappoint the amateur like me. Still I'm glad I've seen it. The church was locked so I didn't get to see inside.

On leaving the small churchyard you could see the Victorian graves, the neatly cut hedges, you walked under the shade of a thriving tree; behind you was the empty locked church with its about to crumble façade; ahead was a small archway, adorned with moss, leading out onto the empty pavement; in the distance was the low hum of Edge Lane and the traffic making its way to or from Liverpool; just below this hum you could almost hear the chatter of a few local sitting outside a nearby pub. But there, across the road, dominating everything, was the aggressive utilitarianism of a Tesco superstore; it rammed its functionality and commercialism in your face. At this time of day a steady trickle of traffic meanders in and out and all the surrounding pavements and walkways are forced to conform to its monetary demands.

Was Catholicism, or indeed any church, any less demanding of uniformity? Probably not. But even a lifelong atheist like me cannot help feeling a little twinge of nostalgia.

I got the bus back into Liverpool – I was now minimising the amount or walking I needed to do – and onto an all-day-breakfast at a little café. Frankly this was the most enjoyable part of the day.

The Decline of Secondhand

I went out on a little trip this week; me, myself and I. It is infrequent for me to visit Liverpool city centre these days, living, as I do, a sedentary life on the Wirral. Residing just across the water from Liverpool, I rarely make the effort. Though, as today proved, hopping on the train is easy and cheaper than driving through the tunnel and struggling with the vagaries of parking. That is, if all you need is a wander round the city centre; anywhere farther afield and it all becomes a little more problematic.

The city centre has changed a lot since I lived nearby. I was a student at Liverpool University in the early 1980s and then lived in the Toxteth district during Thatcher's continued decimation of the city. Today there are masses of bright new and inaccessible buildings; inaccessible to the casual visitor that is. But my visit did highlight one detail of interest for the world of books.

The mainstream bookseller on the high street is surviving; just about. These shops are clinging on; though for how much longer who can tell. You can still go to your town centre and have a peaceful browse. Though I must admit, I myself, have looked at titles in-store and noted how much cheaper they were on the internet.

Pride, Tree Roots, Fall

Out having a stroll around Arrow Park yesterday and walked up the mud path towards the fish pond. There I stood for some time, soaking up the sun and looking at the ducks. Sometimes there's a Heron here and I was wondering if I might see it. It looks as if it has not arrived yet.

I set off again along the mud path. To one side a metal fence over which was the steep bank down to the water. To the other side thin trees and more indistinct pathways.

Coming towards me was a tubby, out of breath woman, possessing the vast expanse of a pink top. She must have been forty, and though jogging, looked like it was not a frequent activity. (Not that I should criticise, being older and more out of condition then she.)

I stepped to one side to let the expanse pass. She waddled onward, puffing. Beside her a little off white scottie dog struggled to keep up; half dragged along on its tartan lead; its little legs spinning away at the ground.

She loomed closer on the mud path, and when the pink expanse was alongside, tripped on a tree root, squealed and fell; of all places right beside me. It was odd, and not entirely pleasant, looking at her from such an unusual angle: flat on her back and down below.

“Oh, Georgie,” she squealed. That horrible little dog must have been called Georgie. It just stood there, looked on, attached to its red tartan lead. Frankly I wondered how it might react, you never know with dogs, it might have thought its owner was under attack. But it just stood there, attached to its lead, compliant.

From this bizarre angle I looked the woman up and down: the plump sweaty face, all puffy and red; the obviously dyed too blond hair, tied in the most constricting of knots behind her head; the too tight lilac shorts, undefining her fatty contours; the podgy legs. Like the dog, I did not know how to react. Should I try and help her up? And would that appear like I was trying to grab her? (Grab her! No way, no thanks.)

I gestured to help and she gestured no-thanks. Fortunately the worst the she appeared to have suffered was embarrassment; and she must have felt that in great big spoonfuls. More quickly than she should, and out of breath, she started to get up.

She stumble up and limped off with as much dignity as she could muster. I resumed walking in the other direction and felt her embarrassment.

The Fallen Tree

The tree had fallen in the winter wind; its roots ripped up, now sideways, taller than a man, exposed, no longer able to draw in nutrients.

The trunk still hovering above the ground, cracked, split. The branches, once in the sky now propping up the trunk. And with futile shoots of new growth. They may take years to fall, crumble and allow then tree to re-enter the ground.

It still looked majestic, powerful, and mightily impressive lying among its own debris.