Travelling isn’t fun. Exploring is, meandering at your own pace, stopping arbitrarily as takes your fancy, discovering new sights and experiences. I was travelling though, a bus, a train, no meandering possible, straight there.

On the plus side it was quick, even with the train getting me to Liverpool 15 minutes late. Five minutes after getting off I was at my hotel, ten minutes before its check-in opened.

They’d already started though, three people at the counter as I arrived, two more waiting in front of me. It still took 12 minutes for me to be seen, yet I held them up for just 90 seconds, most of that waiting for them to print a sheet of paper for me to sign with my room number on it.

A cross-sale attempt at breakfast, parried with a promise not to be up in time. “It’s available until 9.30,” was his gambit but I pointed out I may still be asleep then. I may well be too but if not I’ll be out in the City and can explore numerous lower priced options.

I worried that would put me in his bad books, get me a shoddy room. It seems the opposite, my expressed intent to thoroughly enjoy my room has put me in a rather nice one. It’s not the largest but feels spacious, the high ceiling helping. The fireplace and built-in dresser both betray the hotel’s former glories, the inside matching its external view, a grand hotel from the past.

The room faces inside too, presumably an inner courtyard, much quieter than the streets outside. The bathroom however is showing its age, the bath’s former glories long forgotten.

The late arrival had worked well with check-in, letting me ditch my bag. I grabbed my camera from it, camera bag left at home, a single lens adequate for two nights in the city. Camera in hand I found the lift back to the ground floor and exited into a modest nightmare.

West Ham fans. Dozens of them. A queue filling the sizeable lobby, threatening to spill out into the streets. I wasn’t the only person to spot the convenience of the hotel, 500m from Liverpool’s main train station, nearer than that to its central bus station and another train station. The convenience wasn’t reflected in the price, two nights here costing less than a single night in much worse hotels in Manchester, four stops down the track.

They’d be gone again in the morning, hopefully bemoaning a wasted trip. I’m writing this while waiting for the match to start, looking to stream it; much as I love Liverpool as a team the palavar around buying tickets deters me from even trying. I’m not a season ticket holder, belong to no fan clubs, really don’t want to hand over a subscription just for the chance to enter a lottery to win the chance to buy a ticket.

Anyway, I’ve travelled too much and walked too far today, this trip meant to be helping me rebuild strength and fitness as part of recovery from whooping cough not benefiting from me already achieving that. Plenty more walking tomorrow so I don’t want to overdo things today.

What I did do is take my camera back to the train station. Past it, with a photograph of St George’s Hall. It’s an impressive building but I have no idea how you’re meant to get in, which will be an issue tomorrow as I’ve booked an event there.

Today I just walked past, carried on to the World Museum. Grandiose name, and indeed, a grandiose building. I strolled in, found it was free and open entry, followed signs up some stairs to the exhibits.

The first exhibit was an aquarium. This was a complete bonus, I’d pondered hunting down the aquarium tomorrow, had found it today. It was tiny, a few small fish, various jellyfish, anenomes and starfish, nothing remarkable or exciting. Even the head sized anenomes were obscured behind curved glass.

Upstairs from that were insects, oversized molded replicas but also some real ones, still alive. This was less a natural history museum and more of a low scale zoo.

By this time the children who had overtaken me on the stairs to the aquarium had made it to the second floor too, dozens of them in school uniforms, not a teacher in sight. Possibly a daily excursion as school ends, but noise and crowding I didn’t want anyway. They were all being quiet, for school children, no misbehaviour or shouting to each other. That many children has a minimum noise level though, so I left them to it, caught a lift to the top floor.

Time and space was the tag line, an astronaut’s suit poised just outside the exhibition. Which turned out to be cheekily named, time being represented by pocket watches, maritime chronometers and large brass clocks. Some of the watches were 17th century, and were detailed jewellery irrespective of their timekeeping. I admire them but they’re not titanium; I’ll continue to look at more modern options.

The space bit was mainly a planetarium, its voiceover spilling into the time exhibit. I skipped that, nipped down to the dinosaur and evolution floor. No living specimens here but some carnivore skeletons, scary ones. Even without flesh, muscle and intent the posture and promise of pace and power were given menace by the plentiful sharp teeth.

I didn’t finish the exhibit, the museum for some reason getting extremely warm. With my jacket off I found the lift down, a man already in it.

“It’s getting hot,” he said, a mix of surprise and confusion in his voice.

As we passed the 1st floor the lift stopped, a man getting in with a small girl so short she had to stretch to press the button – for the top floor. As the lift resumed its journey down the man looked surprised and angry. I’m not sure she even noticed, any direction in a glass lift was going to make her happy.

Sbe wasn’t the first toddler I’d seen having a good day. One stop after I got on the bus three generations of women got on, the youngest of them bouncing with excitement as the bus pulled up. She was sanguine about getting back off again just two stops later, well within easy walking distance. Perhaps a quick treat that avoided making her too tired after whatever activity she and a dozen others had been to at the local fitness club.

Back in the museum lobby it was cooler and outside was entirely pleasant, in amongst the raindrops. It had been dry all day until I left the train station in Liverpool, first drops arriving after just a few yards. By now the continual increase had left the streets wet and it was a steady rain that showed no signs of relenting.

I took a detour back to the hotel anyway, found the bus station, the other train station, a pub playing live music. They had their window open, a speaker pointing at the street, the performer doing earnest damage to Liverpool’s musical heritage.

At the hotel I checked online for food recommendations, found somewhere doing a porterhouse steak. It was a quick walk away in the rain and almost empty when I got there. Almost full when I left. The starters were too enticing so I just ordered two. The jalapeno cheese bites were short on jalapeno but nice enough, the tacos excellent.

The porterhouse impressed with its size (over 26oz), less so with the meat itself. The size, the bone and the varied thickness seems to have beaten the chef, the cooking varying from my requested medium well to the raw side of ‘raw to medium’. While I didn’t doubt it had as promised been pan friend in butter I have high expectations for a £40 steak. They weren’t met.

The chips though were superb.

I left them a nice tip anyway, the service good throughout and I did enjoy the meal – the strip side of the steak had a lovely texture adn my body welcomed that much beef raw or otherwise. Their pudding selection was poor so while waiting for the starter I’d quickly checked for specialist pudding places nearby. One had the requisite nice photographs and was on the same street I was already on; I’d have to walk past to get back to the hotel.

I didn’t walk past.

The decor was refined and tasteful but let down by the fake pillars, vacuum formed plastic that photographs well but doesn’t hold up to an in-person inspection. The menu was similar, flowery words backed by a selection of desserts that felt American not British. I’d been attracted by the gelato, not fat pancakes, waffles and brownies.

I did go for a gelato option, chocolate and hazel nuts, the menu proudly boasting of a genuine Ferrro Rocher topping. I was there for a sundae not a brand name so I asked if I could have that but with chocolate curls (a topping you could add) instead of the store bought chocolates.

The answer was surpsisingly ‘No’; apparently they can add but not remove toppings, giving me the suspicion that they don’t make desserts there at all, just buy them in ready-made and stick a large price tag on. Except she then offered to recreate it from their ‘build your own sundae’ menu, so we basically copied the ingredients list from the premade option and swapped out the topping.

It was good too, looking quite modest but taking a long time to eat, the sauce frozen into a solid chocolate cover that needed drilling through to reach the ice cream, itself dense and needing excavating. The price was more than the premade, quite expensive for just a dessert, but I enjoyed it.

Back at the hotel I confirmed the TV couldn’t show the football, found buttons on the remote for various streaming services. Pressing them got me nowhere, the TV not connected to the internet, unable to stream anything at all. The hotel has a weird internet service, advertised as two sessions a day. I can’t even remember how they measure a session.

Telling my tablet to find it led to an interesting discovery: An open hotspot branded with a telecoms provider, not the hotel, and a stronger signal than the hotel’s wifi. In related news, I’m streaming the football through it with no issues.

I’ll see if it survives the match, catch up on the world and maybe get an early night. I have many plans for tomorrow.

Over 5km walked today, including this trip to the hotel.