Two Middle-Aged Men, One Canal, and Several Pubs

This was my third visit to Lydiate, just outside Liverpool, to see my good friend Dave — and like all good trips, it gave me the best of everything: fine company, tired legs, honest pints, a bit of history, and the kind of canal-side wandering that makes two men in their forties feel briefly heroic.

I arrived by airport bus into Liverpool city centre, heading towards Queen Street bus station, then caught the 300 out towards Southport. On the way, I saw different faces of Liverpool: the rougher, working-class stretches around places , where you can almost hear the old echo of docks, building sites, Irish labourers, hard graft and hard weather. Then, suddenly, the city changes its coat. There are grand buildings, proud streets, and heritage everywhere — the sort of architecture that stands there with its shoulders back, reminding you that outside London, Liverpool has some of the finest architecture in Britain.

Once you get out towards Lydiate, though, the mood softens. It really is the best of both worlds. You’re close enough to Liverpool to feel the pull of the city, but far enough out to hear birds instead of buses. Maghull train station, nearby, is one of the loveliest little stations I’ve ever seen — clean, tidy, flower beds glowing away, a wee coffee shop doing its civilised best, the whole place looking like it had washed behind its ears and won an award for good behaviour. And rightly so.

There’s a settled, community feel to the place too. As Dave said, a lot of people who grew up around there want to come back, settle down, raise families, and put roots back into the same soil. You can understand it. Crosby and Southport are close, the demographics are good — if you know what I mean — and you still have that country edge, that rural pause, that little breath of green between the lungs of the city.

And then there’s the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. That was where our day really began. We set up shop in the sunshine, two lads with running legs and questionable judgement, determined to walk miles. And walk miles we did.We strolled and talked, talked and strolled, and somewhere between the first stretch of canal and the first pint, we became explorers in our own minds — Shackleton with cider, Columbus with sore calves.

Our first proper stop was the Scotch Piper, the oldest pub in Lancashire and surely one of the finest old pubs anywhere in Britain or Ireland. It was my second time there, and somehow it was even better than I remembered. Low ceilings, old timber, history in the walls — the kind of place where the past isn’t displayed, it just sits beside you quietly with a pint. It reminds me of Irish pubs in the best way: a little separate, a little stubborn, full of character, and not overly concerned with modern nonsense.

It’s a dry pub in the food sense — the only thing on offer was a bacon buttie, but according to one man we met, it was the best bacon buttie in the UK. He came in for a coffee and one of those, and claimed it kept him going for a week. We had a few pints, naturally, and it didn’t take long before we were chatting to people. We met a lovely couple, bounced through a few conversations, and generally behaved like two men who had found the correct pace of life.

From there, we carried on along the canal. There were dog walkers, ducks, birdsong, still water, and one of those old signs telling you Leeds was 100 miles away — which, after a few pints and several miles on foot, felt both inspiring and personally threatening. The canal has a wonderful stillness to it. It doesn’t ask anything of you. It just lets you walk beside it and pretend you’re making profound decisions when really you’re wondering where the next pub is.

The next stop was the Scarisbrick Arms, more of a pub-restaurant than a proper boozer, but we needed a pit stop and weren’t in a position to be fussy. We met a Portuguese lad from Madeira who didn’t seem overly taken with us, though in fairness we were in great form after the Scotch Piper and may have been radiating more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. There’s a difference between places that serve food and places that serve drink. The food places are grand, but they don’t always have that crackle — that rogue electricity — you get in a proper pub.

Still, we sat outside, had a drink, and admired the beer garden. Then we moved on to the Ship Inn, another lovely spot by the canal. Beautiful setting, good food by the look of it, families out enjoying themselves, and the whole place doing a roaring trade. These canal pubs are gorgeous, no doubt about it, but they can lack a bit of edge. You don’t always get the rogues, the characters, the old boys with impossible stories. They’re probably back in the town boozers, wisely avoiding two madmen marching along the canal in the heat like it was some charity event nobody had sponsored.

At one stage, Dave mentioned Heaton’s Bridge — an old man’s pub, apparently, and exactly the sort of place I’d love. We considered it. We debated it. We imagined taxis. We assessed our legs. The legs issued a formal complaint. So we stayed sensible, which is not always our strongest department, and made our way to the Saracen’s Head instead.

The Saracen’s Head was busy too, with a barbecue on and people gathering as England were playing Panama later that day. Families were out, the place was lively, and once again the canal gave everything a lovely backdrop. We sat outside, had another drink, and enjoyed the simple luxury of not needing to be anywhere in a hurry. Eventually, we decided to walk back to Lydiate — and yes, it was another few miles.

There were, naturally, a few moments along the canal where nature called and discretion became a creative exercise. It felt like being a teenager again, drinking by the canal, rough and ready, with bottles of cider in hand because we knew it was a long journey. Proper order, really. What more could you want? Sunshine, friendship, a canal, a few bottles, and the illusion that your knees still belong to a younger man.

When we finally got back, we were tired in the noble way — not gym tired, not work tired, but “we have earned this pint and possibly a medal” tired. We finished up in the Running Horses and watched the England–Panama match, which was a bit of an anticlimax after the day we’d had. The real match had already been played: two men versus the canal, and the result was a hard-fought draw.

The next morning we got up early. Dave’s mother had mentioned that the local priest was celebrating the 30th anniversary of his ordination, so we firstly brought Diamond the dog for a walk and headed down to a beautiful old-world Catholic church. There were outdoor Stations of the Cross and a lovely atmosphere around the place. We couldn’t even get inside because it was packed, which said everything about the respect people had for the priest.

Dave met an old school friend who had brought his two daughters, Molly and Maggie, to Mass. They were so polite and well-mannered, and I found myself watching them as much as listening. There was something very heartening about it — children there, older people there, families together, a mix of generations in a peaceful setting. It was a gentle, lovely way to finish the trip.

Afterwards came the full English breakfast, which I ate in record time, while Dave’s hangover kicked in with a vengeance. He had to bring his breakfast away in a box, which gets funnier the more I think about it. As I said to Lisa afterwards, it wasn’t the number of pints that got us — it was the number of miles.

I’ll definitely be back. That canal walk has left a soft spot in me. It was relaxing, funny, scenic, and full of those small moments that stay with you: a good friend, a warm day, old pubs, tired legs, birds on the water, and laughter carried along the towpath. Next time, though, the mission is clear: Heaton’s Bridge. The old man’s pub awaits, and God help it when we arrive!