Liverpool Rocks

I don’t imagine when I arrive to Liverpool that it’s rocks that’ll intrigue me the most. I had thought it would be Rock ‘n Roll or World War II history. I’m certainly interested in the two aforementioned things, but I’m puzzled by the stones. Or rather, I’m puzzled by Liverpool’s treatment of their stones.

In the week since I crossed over from Wales back to England (which makes it seem like a supernatural event when it was really only a bus event), I’ve already visited Penny Lane (it’s in my ears and in my eyes), seen the Peter Pan replica statue at Sefton Park (the original is at Kensington Park in London), visited Albert Dock, the Tate Liverpool, and the Liverpool Museum (there’s so much to see and so little time, as the saying goes). I’ve had my picture taken with the larger than life Beatles statues near the Liverpool Museum and strolled by the houses where John Lennon and Ringo Starr grew up.

Do these statues make me look short?

That’s not even half of the things on my list of things to see and do in Liverpool. For heaven’s sake! I’ve probably walked thirty miles since I arrived. And here I thought my month in Liverpool was going to mean slowing down, sitting at my writing desk, and staring out the window of my little studio room at the pouring rain. Have I forgotten how to be a stay-at-home writer? Apparently. But also, the weather keeps turning nice. Anyway, eighth down on my list—compiled before I’d left the States—is Calderstone Park. So, one evening I look the park up to see why it’s special enough to warrant a visit. The first sentence on the informative page I find tells me that Calderstone Park is named after the Calderstones which are megaliths older than Stonehenge. There’s also, in addition to a playground and other parky things, an ancient oak tree called the Allerton Oak or the Law Oak where the Hundred Court was reported to meet one thousand years ago (I have no idea who the Hundred Court was and if they only met once every thousand years or if there’s much more to the story, but the whole thing sounds both legal and earthy). Well, anyhow, I’m all about old trees and ancient stones and the park is less than 2.5 miles from where I’m staying, so, yeah, worth a visit.

The Tate Liverpool

I scroll about a little longer online and stumble onto a Historic Liverpool webpage which, after their Calderstone bit, has a link to another site about Robin Hood’s Stone which happens to also be in Liverpool. What? How was that not on my list? I mean, really.

Really.

The next day, thankful I’ve found out about it before it’s too late (meaning before I leave town), I go in search of this Robin Hood’s Stone. It’s only 2.6 miles away and the forecast has not threatened torrential rain (or even light drizzle) so, I pack some snacks, fill up my water bottle, tie on my scarf, and hit the road.  

An awesome tree rising out of the ice at Sefton Park

I only stop to ask for directions once at a confusing point of instruction from Google Maps at a very busy roundabout where it mentions a left turn on a street which I can’t find anywhere in the vicinity and then a sudden turn on the road which I’m on but since it doesn’t mention compass directions I’m now not sure which way to go. Left or right. It’s not that hard. But I’d rather get it correct on the first try since it’d mean walking a mile out of my way (and then a mile back and then another right mile) if I go the wrong direction. Though I may have miscalculated a mile or two there because math is not my strong point. Also, I’m beginning to think maps are not my strong point either. But what are people for but to ask directions of? 

The man I ask, like me, is also not local. He’s in town visiting his daughter and his grandchild and has escaped familial time to get out of the house for a cup of coffee. Though likely eager for his caffeine (and probably some peace and quiet) he is, however, kind enough to pull out his phone (which has internet connection whereas mine does not) and help me figure out my right over my left. In my defense, my new friend has a dickens of a time figuring out his map too. But in the end, we come to a consensus. I tell him thanks. He tells me good luck. And I head off, still not one hundred percent sure the both of us figured it out, but nothing ventured by foot, nothing gained.

A mile later, it’s confirmed. We were right. Three cheers for us!

Another half a mile or so and I’m at the stone. Now here is the intriguing part. Realize, I’ve recently come from the Avebury Stones which while fenced in, the fencing (I believe) is more for sheep grazing purposes than stone corralling. Here is something else altogether. Robin Hood’s Stone is barricaded in by a green painted (Robin Hood green?) metal fence. For a brief moment, I think, “They’ve imprisoned it. What would that stone do if it were free?” I had read the night before that it was in a protective fence, but I hadn’t expected it to be so tight. So small and enclosing. I mean, I can’t even get a picture of the full stone without some part of the fencing getting in the photograph as well.

Liverpool, it would seem, is overprotective of its stones. Or maybe, it’s trying to make up for years of neglect. If one can neglect a megalith.

Robin Hood's Stone

Robin Hood’s Stone is possibly part of the Calderstones. Now the Calderstones most likely used to be part of a burial mound maybe similar to the West Kennett Long Barrow which I climbed up a hill to see in Avebury. They probably date back to somewhere in the Neolithic period. That’s pretty old. But, as the years went by, the mound lost its importance, new people moved into town and village, and then the area became farm land. In the 1500s, boundary disputes erupted like a plague and the Stones were used as landmarks to separate town from town and land from land which gives current and past historians some context to account for the treatment and acknowledgment of the Stones and their locations. In the 1700s and 1800s lots of digging went on around the mound. Urns filled with human dust and bones were found, sifted through, carried off, and tossed away. Eventually, the site itself was pretty well destroyed. Somewhere along the line, the Stones were moved. And then moved again. Robin Hood’s Stone itself was possibly used as a cattle scratch for many years. Then, in 1928, after that particular stone had already been declared a Scheduled Ancient Monument (what a title to have!) it was moved 198 feet westward to its current spot, tucked into the ground with a comforting blanket of cement, and surrounded by its metal fencing. Now, Stone, ye are safe.

Robin Hood’s Stone really has nothing to do with Robin Hood. And that’s known. Even so, I find it touching that the street that runs alongside has been named Archerfield Road. Let the Robin Hood magic touch this place even if inaccurately.

The name was given the stone because it has long lengthwise grooves down its surface that were believed to have been made by medieval archers who needed a place to sharpen their arrowheads. Though others have been convinced the grooves were merely draining funnels for Druid human sacrifices.

Turns out, the markings are most likely a result of time and weathering. However, there are also manmade markings (one site calls them “mysterious”) on the lower end of the stone which is now buried and cemented into the ground and thereby not viewable by me. 

I take my pictures and then cross the road to stand for a while and stare while also hoping, suddenly and inexplicably, that I don’t look crazy (when did I start caring about that?). After communing as best I can with Robin Hood’s Stone and wondering about the oddness of what humans do especially in regard to what we save and what we protect, I turn back the way I came and make it home without any directional glitches.

The following day, I walk to Calderstone Park. After visiting the Allerton Oak, while not as impressive as the 1150-year-old oak in Sherwood Forest, it’s still impressive in its own right and for its own years, I wander around the park trying to find the Calderstones themselves. It’s another beautiful, not-raining day and I’m enjoying the bits of sunshine and the blue sky that mix in with the ever-changing cloudscape. But, I tell you what, finding the Calderstones is like being on the quest for the Holy Grail.

 

The Allerton Oak

I’d researched this before coming. I really did. One site told me that the Calderstones had been moved out of their greenhouse and into the Mansion House as a way to protect them from destructive weathering and damage. That had seemed like it would be simple enough to find. However, Calderstone Park is either 94 or 126 acres big (depending on which quick search results you want to believe) and even a Mansion can be hard to find if there are a bunch of trees in the way.

The first couple I ask help from point me in the direction of the Mansion House and also tell me it’s all boarded up and closed to visitors. They hadn’t known that the Stones had been moved. At first, I feel I know more than they do, but I quickly begin to have my doubts. After all, they’ve known this park all their lives. I’ve only just arrived. Regardless, and unaware of all my thoughts, they leave me to my wandering fate and walk off discussing the stones, the park, and the ways around it. A short while later, I make it to the Mansion House and sure enough, it is all boarded up. Also, there’s no way inside. I ponder for a moment as I stand awkwardly there. I check the maps I’d saved to my phone and then look around to get my bearings. In doing so, I see that there’s a park map behind me so I go to stare at it.

The Mansion House

It shows the Mansion House, the kids playground, the lakes, a rock garden, and many other things. Alas, there’s no big arrow saying, “The Calderstones are here!” However, in tiny print off to the side the map reveals this clue – “The Calder Stones, relics of an ancient monument, are protected in the vestibule.”

I amble off in the direction of said building. I make it there. I think. It’s a building with a lake thing between me and it. I can read a map (the Mansion House is at my back. I walked with the children’s park on my right hand side just the way I was supposed to). But it feels wrong. I stand and stare (I’m doing that a lot lately) at the building wishing I had x-ray vision. To get there, I’ll have to make my way around this little lake. Again, not wanting to over walk, I mill about and then turn to the couple who have just happened to come up alongside me.

“Is that the vestibule?” I ask. When they look a little puzzled, I explain I’m looking for the Calderstones and they tell me that those are housed in the glasshouse which is just up the very path that I happen to be standing on but in the opposite direction. “You don’t go right or left,” the man says, “you continue on this pathway and you can’t miss it.”

I don’t rush off right away. Actually, I’m standing there wishing a bit for a park bench. It’s not that I don’t trust my new friends or their intel, but I am feeling a bit led astray overall on my quest and I’d like to rest a moment before embarking on this (hopefully) last leg. Since I don’t move, they don’t either. With the sunshine breaking through some clouds to shine down on us like God’s light down upon the Knights of the Round Table, we stand and chat for ten or so minutes about life, travel, history, roots, immigration, and someone the man once knew who was also from Texas and to whom they often sang (or she sang?) “The Yellow of Rose of Texas.” If any of us had brought along a kettle, we would have sat together and had tea (with or without a park bench to alight upon). Sadly, none of us came that prepared and so we part ways. Then I, following their directions, do in fact make it to the glasshouse and thereby to the stones.

“How strange,” I say out loud as I approach for I’m that struck. For sure enough, the six Calderstones, of varying heights and widths, are locked inside the glass house. Absurdly I think, “Stones who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw themselves.” Of course, I stand and gape for a while.

Someone in the 1950s found the stones (wherever they were at that time. Really, God only knows), was aghast by the film and moss that had covered them, cleaned them up, and stuck them inside to protect them against further destruction. And there they are.

The site that had lied to me about the stones being inside the Mansion House said that they were moved there in order to prevent even more wear and tear which was happening to them even within the glasshouse aka the Vestibule.

 

The Calder Stones

I gaze through the dirty glass, covered by a light film (though no moss that I see) of dirt, dust, webs, and who knows what else, and see the marking on the stones that came from the Neolithic times. I see the footprints said to be from the Bronze age. I see the markings of feet that were made in the 17^th and 18^th Centuries as through a mirror dimly. Well, through a glass dimly anyway.

It’s for the markings, for the history of those markings that they’re being protected. But it feels strange to keep stones from the elements. Why is that? Why would I think that? It’s not like I haven’t seen stones inside before. The Elgin Marbles are housed in a museum as is the Rosetta Stone, and it is even more closely and claustrophobically encased than Robin Hood’s Stone. I’ve even had a little rock collection of my own which I kept inside. I try to figure out what it is exactly that I’m reacting to as I make my way around the vestibule to view the stones from as many sides as I can, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. 

Some people have argued that even though the stones’ current location is as close to their original historical placement as possible that they should be removed from here altogether and put into a museum. Which makes me think of Indiana Jones and his cry of, “This should be in a museum!” for each of the artifacts he steals back from whatever money-grubbing villain he’s encountered and the retort one villain gives him of, “You should be in a museum.”

To be honest, sometimes I’m not sure how I feel about artifacts in museums.

As I leave Calderstones Park and head off for Strawberry Fields, for a strange moment, I feel that if I were a stone whether a little rock or an impressive megalith I’d rather be outside. Not pressed in by glass or even pushed upon by green painted bars, I’d rather be able to feel the air and be able to breathe—if stones breathe (surely even rocks breathe)—to wear down under the rain and the wind and the sun, and even eventually to fade away. Didn’t Sting say, “Rocks don’t ever die, they only fade away”? Is it so bad to fade away? Can’t it be said of stones and humans that dust ye are and to dust ye shall return?

*If you’d like to see more travel and writing related stuff, be sure to check out my Patreon page: https://www.patreon.com/amandawhite  I’d love to see you there!