As I finished my day’s walk early, one day within the greater Liverpool area, and being on approximately the right train line (give or take an hour’s wait on a lonely country station, like a character in Cold Comfort Farm, and a change in Southport), I decided to go see Antony Gormley’s outdoor sculpture Another Place, which came recommended.
At the Crosby station, I asked the ticket master for directions to the beach. These turned out to be remarkably straightforward: under the train tracks by the pedestrian tunnel, across the road, and straight down to the sea, or the Mersey estuary that passes for it near Liverpool. Straight into the wind, as it turned out.
I also asked if it would be obvious which way to go, once I arrived at the beach.
The ticket master looked a little strangely. Would they — the sculptures, I meant — be obvious? I asked.
This time he just kind of shrugged, so off I went into a wind that was so strong in my face I laughed with sheer euphoric delight as I was walking — even when I took one step too far and sank up to my ankles in smelly Mersey estuary mud — and was picking sand out of my ears all evening.
Would they be obvious. I thought there three or five or a dozen. Not a hundred.
I’m sorry I don’t have a very good picture of the hundred. When I sank in the mud my first concern was getting back onto terra firma, and I dropped my camera. (Since cleaned out, so there are pictures of canals and Liverpudlian industrial heritage to come.)
Obvious. Literally, met in the way ( ob + viam, road). There on the beach, where a truck drove by and I walked fifteen feet on, the fifteenth step too far, laughing at the wind and the giant naked statues and the sun that had come out for the first time that day. Brilliant — just don’t walk out too far to look at them.