Antique Tripping In The Wirral ~ A Wonderous Place.
I’m in love with he Wirral. I’m drawn there naturally. Who knew? I never knew. What is it? It’s a mysterious place divided from Liverpool and the mainland by the River Mersey and the only way to get there is by that legendary Ferry ‘Cross The Mersey or the very non rock‘n’roll train or tunnel. Before George Michael came into my life (my Mazda) I regularly took the Mersey Rail, or as I unaffectionately call it the Mercy Rail, a brutal reminder how public transport in England is third world compared to the joy that is the MTR in Hong Kong, but anyway, I don’t live there any more and, gruelling as the metro is, I did have some wonderful human encounters on my day trips over to West Kirby to parade around the promenade and have tea in the gorgeous cafes with the well-Hobbs-heeled, well-dressed ladies, but I wasn’t aware how incredible the whole area was until I explored it by car.
Waiting for the seaside steam express.
I was coping, but not brilliantly in my carlessness, there is a romantic charm to chocolate box railway stations and misty platforms, but it’s horribly frustrating when you can only buy what you can carry and the older I gets the smaller it gets. My days and nights of carrying street-found silver plinths through the sweltering streets of Wanchai for five hours are over. The final straw came when a Wirral friend took me out for a drive around the towns and I crossed the line. I cracked. I committed. I bought a cheap car with a big boot and named it George Michael and that’s a separate story for another day. Freedom! There is however an inconvenient toll on both tunnels, so you have to pay to get in and out. I’ve heard local people joke it’s to keep the undesirables out from both ends and at best I can pretend it’s like paying to enter Xanadu, but really it’s a con on the local community and they should scrap it.
Hamilton Square railway station showing off.
Historically, geographically and architecturally the Wirral is incredible. I had explored Hamilton Square about a year ago when I was early for a meeting with the council to discuss some creative projects and sent my own head into a spin. There was not a soul in the streets, just me in the middle of breathtaking Georgian grandeur lost in space and time, all cylinders firing I marched on towards the ferry landing site and came upon Amorini Antiques.
Meet me at noon, Hamilton Square, wear a hat.
I never know what it is that makes a place feel inviting, is it familiarity, the design of the building, the aesthetics of the contents, the history of the location, the warmth of the people or the magnetic pull of the alignment of the earth to the moon, dunno, but some places are negative and some places, like Amorini, switch all my neurones to positive.
Georgian terrace, Hamilton Square.
My council meeting in the Woodside Cafe, set in the converted historic grade II listed building that still serves as the Birkenhead side for the Mersey Ferry, has spectacular views of the Liverpool waterfront and set me off on a thrilling day tripper tour of the coast up to New Brighton, but I vowed to go back to Amorini with ‘free hands’ another day.
Woodside Cafe, Birkenhead ferry landing site.
Liverpool from across The Mersey.
That day caught me by surprise when I accidentally found myself walking the streets of Birkenhead town centre in a Mac carrying a vintage suitcase channeling Elsie Tanner from the other side. Far from empty handed and god knows how I got there, but I ended up back at Amorini with a certain Mr Benson’s luggage in one hand and an ugly monkey jug in the other. Upon later investigation of the label on his suitcase, Mr Benson must have been a man of glamour and style, judging by his 5 star 1970’s stay in the Amathos Beach Resort in Larnaca, Cyprus. I imagine he wore chunky cuff links and smoked a cigar with his brandy, radiating a delicious cocktail of Brute aftershave and sunburn in the evening in the bar with Elsie Tanner as his dinner date.
Zat you Elsie?
There were hundreds of things I wanted to buy, but I was too stressed I’d break something with Mr B’s suitcase navigating all the knick knacks, nooks and steps, so I sidled into the tea shop and had a spiritual brief encounter with me nana over a milky coffee, bumpy table cloth and a toasted tea cake.
Zat you Nana?
Places like this are a safe haven for ladies to openly share with other ladies how much they love weird little lady like things. In a loud shouty hostile world, women are secretly gathering in crannies to share elicit conversations on staircases about delicate collections of little treasures. There are hilarious confessions and powerful connections. It’s my favourite form of subversion.
Full of toasted tea cake and kindness, suitcase still in hand, I stood on the stoop and left empty handed on a threat to return to buy a wedding present for my Italian friend. Last Sunday, six months later, post Prisca’s wedding in Milan and my own birthday tour of England, I cruised in to the table top sale day ready to fill George Michael’s boot(s) and fulfil my promise.
Ironically, as weak as I am, I could have managed to get my truffle back on Mercy Rail, if it was running on a Sunday, doubt it, but my new obsession with tiny things I had manifested on a long stay in Bangkok last winter kept me transfixed to a shelf in the back room on the top floor. Looks like my “quantity over quality”, “if you’re gonna have one, have a big one” life phase is over. I couldn’t move, couldn’t leave, just kept tight hold of a teeny “early twentieth century INDIAN” wooden cheetah with a wire tail.
No tiny fighting.
All I knew about it was that I was swooning over the smallest thing in the building. Luckily I was joined at the shelf by my wonderful brand new chum Sue, owner of the Chiller Room on the ground floor, who I had just exchanged life stories and giggles with at her stall outside. She was fabulous, she knew nowt about it neither, but she said she’d send up John, owner of this section. John told me it was probably a toy from the 1920s and he had a lion and a bird outside if I wanted to see them. I most certainly did. Welcome to the Jungle Room my little Wirral squad. He said he had some more if I was interested. I said I’d be back.
Welcome to the fam.
