Toxteth, Ancient & Modern

This is the Toxteth mansion where I spent Christmas. I didn't exactly have the run of the whole place but the second floor three bedroom apartment was sufficiently palatial for our needs.  We could have easily eaten our turkey lunch in the hallway but we settled for the large living room where the rabbits live.

It is a strangely appropriate dwelling place for rabbits.

Five hundred years ago Toxteth was a Royal Hunting Park, and afterwards it was farmed by a Puritan community. The place still has a rural air although perhaps not so pure. In the 17th century the millionaires moved in and then the gaps between the grand terraces were crammed with back to back terraces where the workers lived. 

When I first lived in Toxteth in 1976, I rented a top floor flat on the Princes Road boulevard where I could look down through the arched window on the comings and goings of the lively world below.  I was struck with the contrast between the neglected architectural treasures of this northern city and the pristine conservations areas of London and Bath. Then came the riots and eventually, regeneration.

Thirty-five years on and it's all looking lot smarter.   Despite gentrification, the rows of terraces still suggest a sense of community. The magnificent houses have been converted into smaller secure apartments overlooking the grand parks that are a meeting place for all sections of society: dog walkers, pram pushers, runners and cyclists, children playing and artists drawing, drummers drumming and watchers waiting for the world to pass by their park bench.

But the scandal is that there are hundreds of strong and sturdy terraced houses standing empty awaiting demolition and rebirth as a faceless estate of newbuilds for hapless first time buyers who can't now get a mortgage for a solid house such as these.  Some hardy homeowners linger on, refusing to relocate, and supporters of their cause tend the fronts of the empty houses with hanging baskets, floral chimney pots and plant tubs with trees to fend off the threat of dereliction.  Once these houses could have been economically refurbished.  Now any solution will cost millions. They may be standing empty a while longer, or could be sold off at a bargain price.

So much history, ancient and modern.  Is this the place for me?

Ocean View

I have been back up north, to Newcastle where we lived for fifteen years, to Darras Hall where I was a primary teacher and Whitley Bay where my children went through secondary school, where they played in orchestras and rock bands.  I stopped overnight in Cullercoats with my friend Carol Alevroyianni who has scraped together her savings to buy an old terraced house facing onto the North Sea.  This is the view from her window.  When you pass through the airlock of her three front doors, you step out into the bracing British world of holiday and health.  Dog walkers, joggers and cyclists pass in a continuous stream along the Victorian promenade.  Steam ships crawl along the horizon.

It was good to see my friend again, in off duty mode, and talk about how our children have grown into free spirited adults, how our own careers have developed and how we have both moved from marriage to independence. We played in a Samba band together, she was Director of the three day international music festival that for many years graced the North Shields Fish Quay. She left North Tyneside Council to become a regional Creative Partnerships Director. Recently she has been working free-lance for Channel 4 television. My own life developed in reverse taking me from the arts through schools to work as an education consultant for Sheffield City Council.

Leaning over the railings the following morning, gazing out to sea I wondered, as many have done before me, what our struggle is all about. The huge expanse of rolling sea remains superficially unchanged, the sky as vast and the winter wind seems as bitterly cold as when I first came here with Keith one weekend when our children were tiny.

We have been through good times and bad, our little family has grown-up and moved away, but the waves still roll in, relentlessly pounding the cliffs, wearing them away. Behind the grey clouds, the sun still shines. But the seasons are out of kilter.

It is enough that I can stop now and take the time to look at this awesome natural world and murmer thanks that I have been so lucky to pass this way.  It will be an even greater good fortune if one day my tiny grandchild grows and thrives in a safe world so that her children too have the opportunity to enjoy the view, play in the sand and paddle at the edge of the ocean.

The lighting of lanterns

What is it that fascinates us about lantern parades?  The link with the past?  Some mystical symbol?  The gathering of many together in common purpose, huddling for warmth and protection again the spirits of the night?  To process to a tree and to sing in the rain is a very unusual experience for children dependent of X-Box and TV, but hundreds of people turned out to do just this.

The making of the lanterns is now part of the ritual.  The soaking of willow, bending and fixing, stretching of paper and coating with glue: a modern process from an ancient craft.  But how to light up the lantern and still be safe?  Candles or battery lights?  The living light of a burning flame is something wonderful that brings both danger and security, threatens and protects, frightens and excites.  To make fire is an ancient skill, empowering and reassuring.  The lighting of lanterns is a celebration not just of light but of the gift of fire.  A thanksgiving.

Singing

Last Friday I stood on a platform in the  the Liverpool Anglican Cathedral, and I sang carols.  I was part of the Singing for the Brain Choir and I was definitely more terrified than the elderly gentleman standing next to me who remarked that it was the most frightening experience of his life. I held my nerve by fixing my eyes on my Rosy, who as conductor held this nervous group of distracted singers in the palm of her hand, constantly encouraging and guiding us through this challenge.  The warmth radiating from the paying audience and the glow of achievement from the singers was thrilling.  This was Radio Merseyside's fundraising concert for the Alzheimer's Society for whom Rosy had started work as a volunteer and by whom she is now highly valued.  I am so proud.

And what a place to be: a breathtaking gothic folly which took three quarters of a century to build.  I first walked into this extraordinary unfinished edifice in 1970 when I was on a school trip.  Six years later, when I working at Liverpool Playhouse, I went again to the Cathedral wearing an expensive dusky pink frock and a wide brimmed hat purchased especially for the occasion of a visit by the Queen.  To be standing here again as part of this inspiring choir of people in a most difficult time of their lives gave me cause to reflect on the strange journey we are all on, destination unknown.

If you want a Cathedral, as the Liverpool song goes, they've got one to spare.  It is a vast stone vaulted space that could contain Westminster Abbey.  I wondered how they could possibly cover the running costs when we struggle at the little Wincobank Chapel, so I looked at the website.  You can book the Cathedral for your next birthday party.
http://www.liverpoolcathedral.org.uk/about/venue-hire/main-cathedral.aspx
http://alzheimers.org.uk/site/scripts/news_article.php?newsID=1124