There is a light mist in the air as we exit the James Street Station leading our luggage down a few blocks to the hotel. It’s the middle of July, but the temperature feels deliciously cool to my Carolina skin, as the sky is pregnant with moisture but no humidity—which strikes me as inconsistent with a seaport city. The buildings along the route ar

e a mixed bag of old and new—although the new are designed to look and feel comfortable to their elder neighbors. Old and new succinctly describes this pilgrimage as we enter the marble lobby of The Hard Days Night Hotel. We are in Liverpool, England and we are here with the singular purpose of tracing the roots of The Beatles.
My emotions are subdued, as I am careful not to relinquish to excitement lest I find that these are just places, with no magical properties that conjure the electricity of what once was. I have known it before, and have been let down; standing under the Arc de Triumph in Paris with no sense of the powerful armies that have traversed on through its pillars; touching ‘the Gates of Hell’ with no feeling of the anguish of Rodin; and not a trace of Howard Hughes in the home he built in Red Rocks Canyon outside of Las Vegas. All beautiful in their own right, but all just

places, nothing more. More than anything, I want this experience to be different, and on a level I fear that the fantasy will come crashing down when met with the reality. What tangible place, I reasoned, could compete with the dream?
The hotel faces John Street, a major thoroughfare in this ancient town, and is flanked by the

legendary Mathew Street, home of the Cavern Club and Mecca to Beatles fans. It was here that they played 274 times, honing their skills and sweating their chops while on the crucible to worldwide fame. Once they became a global phenomenon, they would never again know the relative intimacy of playing a small hall, with the crowd pressing the stage in waves of pleasure without a police line in front of them. It has been speculated that after the Cavern Club, they were already racing to the end, while quite literally changing music and pop culture in general in their wake. At the maw of Mathew Street, I consider these thoughts as we venture into the alley.
The city of Liverpool has quite rightly embraced its Beatle past and the tiny street is alive with statues, plaques and signage that all convey the message to the fans. I am sure that the area is cleaner, safer and glossier than it was when the action was peaking in the late ‘50’ and early ‘60’s, but it still feels right. There has been obvious care taken to not “Disney” the place, and even at an early hour there is a lively mix of raucous drinkers, roving hen parties and awe struck tourists blending to make the sum more than the parts. As we stroll along, I struggle to soak in the atmosphere quietly thankful to whatever fates have allowed me a privilege I never thought I would experience.
In 1973 the original Cavern Club was filled in, as it was not stable enough to hold a planned nine story building on its roof. Before the demolition, the club was disassembled brick by brick and reestablished a few doors away to the exact drawings of the origin

al. It is a perfect restoration in every way, and has the beat of the original I am sure—it is authentic “dingy”, not Hollywood style. The stage is just as humble as the pictures I have seen with the legendary multi-colored wall in the back. This evening there is a wonderful performer on acoustic guitar playing Beatles tunes, of course, and drawing the crowd right in. When we

entered for the price of one pound, roughly $1.50 American—crazy cheap, in my opinion-- and followed the spiral stairwell down, we found ourselves spilled into a hustle of action. We wandered a bit among the catacomb of brick arches and wooden tables, fining our way to the bar, where pints were in order. It goes without saying that I purchased the requisite t-shirt and some guitar picks from the souvenir area, and not the last trinkets I would buy on this excursion. Probably I exceeded the budget somewhat, but my account manger--also known as my wife, Patti-- would turn a blind eye this time to expenses; I just know she knows how significant this experience is to me. We take our ales and our purchase near the stage where a 4-top table has just become available. It’s getting better all the time, although my choice of a Longbow to drink is not quite to my fancy. It’s a cider beer, and I can attest that it has a bit of a kick that sneaks up near the bottom of the glass, which means I basically traded some taste for buzz, so it’s a zero-sum game.
The entertainer is now in full swing and the crowd is lapping it up. He performs an amazing rendition of ‘A Day In The Lfe’—remember this is all on acoustic guitar—and moves into ‘You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away’ followed by ‘yesterday’ sang by a member of the audience. A few tunes later, an Asian fellow with a big camera who has been enjoying the show with abandon alights the stage and sings ‘Michelle” combining French and English with Asian accentuation. He was brilliant and obviously in heaven as he drew a rapturous applause.
Returning in time to the street, we meander the neighborhood, admiring the sights. Mark takes my picture aside the famous John Lennon Statue and we stroll on in to the Beatles store

, where more treasures are to be purchased and secreted away. I always have a hard time with this, trying to determine what is meaningful to buy and what is tacky. I settle on a double Decker bus festooned with Abbey Road album pictures for 13 pounds, content that it is memorable and tacky—perfect!
We have 9:30 reservations for dinner at Blakes, which is the restaurant at the hotel, so we head on to our rooms to freshen up. The Hard Days Night Hotel sounds like it might be a caricature, but nothing could be further from the truth. This is a 4-star venture with outstanding service and very high quality appointments. Yes, the Beatles are everywhere, with sculptures, signage, paintings and the such, but all is done tastefully and with panache and the impression is not too over the top. Each room has an original work of art (we had a painting of baby John) and feature excellent bedding, furniture and all marble baths in chocolate tones and accent colors. All expected amenities are in evidence, as well as complimentary Internet service, although the keyboard was impossible to use. We still managed to send off a few e-mails, however, before the restaurant calls to let us know they can get us in a half hour early.
Blakes is named for Peter Blake, designer of the Sgt. Pepper album cover, and the décor subtly references this iconic work. Again, the designer shows restraint with some well thought paintings placed throughout

and a

centerpiece montage of all of the characters that are present on the cover. This place is about the food and service and both are outstanding. I enjoyed a first course of duck sausage with white truffle and foie gras, a main course of lamb trio with chops, shoulder and sweetbread and a dessert of mint truffle profiteroles with warm chocolate sauce. A Barossa Valley Estate E Minor Shiraz, 2005, was my wine selection with the savories, and it married quite well. All were outstanding in taste and presentation, properly temped and served at a perfect pace. A late evening stroll followed and later in bed we were serenaded by a few choruses of ‘Ticket To Ride’ wafting up from the street below courtesy of 20-30 late revelers. Anticipation of tomorrow’s tour colored my exhausted psyche.
The morning brings a fabulous breakfast at Blakes seasoned with discussion of the main event for the day, a private chauffeured tour of Beatles Liverpool sites. I had made the arrangements through Ian Crabtree months earlier and the situation was perfect: we would check out of the hotel and be picked up for the tour at 11:00am and be dropped off at Lime Street Station at 3:00pm to pick find our train to London. The car arrives a few minutes late but not apprec

iably so, and our guide, Mark Roberts of Beatles Tours of Liverpool, settles us in for the journey. He is an affable fellow with a sense of humor and well-paced commentary, and of course very Liverpudllian in manner and accent. I have scored the front seat while Patti, Shelley and Mark gain the back with our luggage in tow.
The first two points of interest are decidedly un-Beatle-like: The Liverpool Cathedral, a massive gothic Anglican church--in fact the largest in the United Kingdom, and the candy-striped building of the White Star Line Office of Titanic fame. I recall that Liverpool was the starting point of that ill-fated cruise.

From here we make our way past the Albert Dock and on to the school that Paul and George attended, as well as the art institute where John went with Cynthia and Stu. The buildings are right next to each other, a fact that seems somehow odd to me in the sense that the scale of the city never really entered my conscious. In fact, the whole of the tour strikes me with how close in proximity the locations a

re in relation to each other, bringing the Beatle lore to a human scale. Next is the apartment that Brian Epstein kept for his ‘trysts’ that he later lent to John and Cynthia to protect the only married Beatle from publicity that might not sit well with his female fans. Along the way we are treated with the sight of a piece of public art commissioned to celebrate all of the immigrants in Liverpool. Its title is ‘A Case Study’ quite appropriate, in my opinion.
The childhood home of Ringo is the next stop,

a decidedly depressing area that is soon to be demolished ( Ringo’s home will be disassembled and re-set in a museum). Guide Mark is chagrined by this idea, not seeing the significance of the move, preferring to leave things where they are. We drive a few streets and he points

out an empty field where legend has it Adolph Hitler once stayed in a home with his brother Alois before World War 1(none of this is confirmed). We proceed next to Arnold Grove, the childhood home of George. It’s just a wisp of an alley really, and not much of an improvement of Ringo’s home, although all of the flats are occupied.
Paul’s home is a substantial improvement, situated on a pleasant street of well-kept homes and neatly kept gardens. Although of plain construction, it has

a comfortable feel to it. Like John’s home, it is owned now by the National Trust, making it a historic place that will be kept as it is for posterity—tours inside must be arranged through the trust.
Now it’s on to John’s home, by far the nicest of the four. A gated yard in front frames a picture perfect home that all Beatles fans have seen many times. After pictures, Mark and I pluck a few seed pods from a bush just inside the wall. Perhaps we will be able to grow some Lennon magic when we get home.

Next up Penny Lane and Strawberry Fields….. plus the legendary Casbah Club!