As luck would have it on my trip to Carlisle the sun came out in the morning, but gave way to cold sporadic showers. I wanted to head south to see the famous Hadrian's Wall which represented the northern most border of the ancient Roman Empire. I missed a transfer in Sterling and ended up back in Edinburgh and eventually landed in Glasgow for another attempt at a transfer to Carlisle. Yes, it was confusing. The railmen then misguided me to a suburban feeder line in Glasgow. It was never pleasant to have so much bad luck and I ended up in the heart of the city shortly before dark. This part of Scotland was just like other big cities with trash blowing on the sidewalks, dirty streets, and toilets nowhere to be seen. Inconveniences stretch the patience of the most experienced backpacker. Where were the tourist maps of the city? At the train station there were no announcements of arrivals or departures. You had to pay to use the toilet. My biggest victory of the day was getting a room at the YMCA. Catch is as catch can. Youth hostels were not always available.
With a new day and better luck, my plan was to head south to Liverpool, home of the Beatles. It was also one of my goals to see Liverpool’s harbor which Dad had seen 30 years before in 1942 when he was part of the North African invasion fleet. He said the harbor was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The scenery on the way down was beautiful with magnificent green valleys, rock fences, and houses that dotted the slopes. Hadrian’s Wall was supposed to have been ten feet high, but knee-level seemed to be more accurate. I arrived at Liverpool's Eaton Station at 5:30 P.M.
Even though I found a Wimpey Bar, my bad luck returned when I learned a major convention was in town. The YMCA was out of the question. On the fifth try I found a room for the night at a small bed and breakfast that included supper at extra cost which I was happy to pay. When you are on the road so long, you quickly grow to appreciate England’s dining staples like fish and chips and bacon and eggs for breakfast. They reminded me of home. That’s where I picked up the English breakfast tea habit. I was never hungry in England.
As dusk approached I set out from the bed and breakfast and walked toward the docks until the sleeping red light district burst forth in neon light and activity. I reckoned it was just too far to the docks, but I could still see them darkly silhouetted against the horizon. Rain began to fall as I came within sight of the Irish Sea . When I returned to the center of town guys in studded black leather jackets and Elvis Presley hair cuts emerged to make the scene at the cavern nightclubs. They were where the Beatles got their start. I descended into one, but I turned back because they were too confining. There must have been a time warp. The young people I saw had the appearance of teenagers from the 1950s.
At dawn I had breakfast with a talkative disillusioned ex-communist. He said, as a former member of the party, that their real goal of dominating the earth was no illusion. Later in the day, on the Liverpool to London Express, I met a conductor with the same anti-communist sentiments who enjoyed pointing out famous attractions like the location of the Great Train Robbery in 1963. He also told me how the “Cat and Nine Tails” would solve England’s crime problem. I was beginning to like those Englishmen.
