Sefton Park: My Sanctuary in the Heart of Liverpool

Writing about a certain place can be difficult due to the unreliability of your emotional memory.

For instance, my fondness for Jamaica is based solely upon the fact that, when I was working on a cruise ship, I was given every Thursday off so I could play for my vessel's cricket team, against a side from the local community.

Truth be told, I never really explored the country. I would play the match and then be ferried straight back to the ship, so I could begin my evening shift as a videographer. Then, that very same day, we'd depart Jamaica, and head off towards Cozumel.

But, those matches were some of the happiest afternoons of my life.

As a result, I love Jamaica, yet have only seen a very tiny fraction of it.

Conversely, despite living in London for a few years, and having both explored it in minute detail, and savoured the very best it has to offer, I don't particularly like the place.

Its architecture is astonishing; its nightlife is incomparable. And, as a theatre-lover, I believe London is the undisputed Capital of live drama.

But, I was also living in London during a horrifically painful break-up. And I was there the day my brother and I got the telephone call from my mother telling us our father had had a stroke. Given those two events, it's hard to ever think too favourably about the place.

Objectively, I know it's a great city. But, subjectively, it now ranks pretty lowly on my list of beloved places.

This is probably true for most villages, towns, cities, and countries I've ever been to. My memories colour them all, for better, and for worse.

And this is never more true than it is for Sefton Park.

Except, there's a dissonance, a dichotomy, in my emotional memory when it comes to this place.

Despite holding some wonderful memories for me, the park also holds some of my worst. It's a huge, 235-acre reminder of a truly horrific time. Yet, it was those awful times that, although vile to live through, also probably saved me. Therefore the park's importance to my life story couldn't be any more pronounced.

Sefton Park, for the many of you who have never visited it, occupies a very large chunk of South Liverpool. It contains a lake, two beautiful statues of Eros, and Peter Pan, and miles, and miles of verdant grass, which, in the Spring, is dotted with pockets of daffodils.

It also contains the Palm House, a beautiful, Victorian glass-house, that has been fully restored and renovated to its former glory. It's utterly charming, and the perfect place to retreat into if you need a temporary respite from the ardours of modern life.

The park, and its Palm House, were two of the very first things I saw when I initially came to Liverpool. They may not have ultimately convinced me to move to the city, but they certainly had a casting vote.

Later, my daughters and I would spend hours exploring, and playing, in the park. A lot of that time was spent in the playground built a few years after my first daughter was born. But, just as much time was spent kicking a football to each other, trudging through its short, muddy caves, or feeding the ducks with the specially formulated pellets we'd bought from a shop on nearby Lark Lane.

The memories couldn't be any happier.

But, then...

After my breakdown at the end of last year, I found myself suddenly alone.

A few of the most important relationships in my life didn't survive my admission to a psychiatric ward. And, after discharge, my flat became incredibly lonely. For the sake of my mental well-being, I had to get out.

So I would head to Sefton Park.

In hindsight, I was still very, very ill. I just wasn't aware of it. But, now, looking back, I can see it clearly. It's there in the long walks I would take around the park. Walks I took up to three, or even four, times every day.

I obsessively took the same route each time.

Leaving my flat, I would walk down Livingston Drive, before arriving at the busy Aigburth Drive that encircles the park. Dodging the traffic, I'd cross the road, and enter the park, passing through the two stone pillars that marked that particular entrance.

Walking down a short path, lined by tall horse chestnut trees, whose branches created a canopy, I'd encounter a number of squirrels. The bushy-tailed residents were used to seeing members of the public, and - instead of fleeing whenever a human came near - they tended to simply stop for a moment, and, once you'd passed, continue on their merry way.

Once I'd traversed this walkway, I would turn right, moving onto the wide path that circled above the lake.

It would normally take me an hour to complete a circuit of the lake. This was before Covid-19, so children were still in school; apart from a few joggers, and dog walkers, I practically had the place to myself. More solitude, but, unlike my flat, I never felt lonely whilst in the park.

Once I'd circled the lake, I would walk up the path passing the playground, and out onto Lark Lane. Then, home.

The number of times I took the walk each day, as well as my religious following of the same route, was a coping mechanism: It combated my acute loneliness and allowed me to, briefly, leave my apartment, the very place I had contemplated suicide in just a few weeks before. A recollection that simply made me sad.

However, like all coping mechanisms, it quickly became ingrained and became a crutch instead of a source of strength.

But, at the same time, although the habit was fundamentally maladaptive, it also helped me.

Because it was in the park where I did my thinking.

And I had a lot to think about.

My daughters, my family, my last relationship, my career, my finances... all had been affected by my admission. My failings as a person, my personal and professional failures, my mental health... There was a lot to process, and reach conclusions about.

And, I reached a lot (a lot) of conclusions.

In part, I think I did so simply because my mind was slowly rebuilding itself. With each day, I grew stronger and gained a tiny sliver of increased emotional clarity. I gained insights that had eluded me before, insights that enabled me to make some big decisions about my shattered life.

However, I also believe that that process was aided, in no small part, due to the surroundings of the park.

Mental health experts have long proclaimed the benefits of spending time outdoors. Research carried out in the field of 'Ecotherapy', where treatment is centred on performing tasks outside, in woods, and close to water, has clearly shown that it can buoy one's mood, and lower depression. The reasons why it does are still being explored, but the combined impact of natural light, proximity to nature, and physical exertion are unequivocal: It helps.

And being in the park helped me. No question.

Every day I spent there, I felt myself grow stronger, felt my mind slowly re-piecing itself. The autumnal trees, the plentiful grass, the placid lake... it aided me in ways I cannot fully explain, nor ever be grateful enough for.

I still walk in the park. Sometimes I even take the same route I used to. I can still remember how I felt when I did, a year ago. Those memories of fear, loneliness, and confusion are never going to be fully forgotten. They're now an integral part of me, etched in my soul forever.

However, there's a clear contrast with how I feel now.

I'm not yet fully 'better', and I won't be for years.

But, I'm immeasurably more at peace than I was at the end of last year.

And the beautiful Sefton Park has played a huge part in that.

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