The Admiral, Rock Park, Rock Ferry, Wirral

Jun 30 2007 by Mike Chapple, Liverpool Daily Post

A SLEEPING giant in a forgotten land. That’s the Admiral, a marvellous pub brimming with maritime history.

It looks out over the Mersey amid the leafy tumbledown splendour of Rock Park and adjacent to the old pier that served the residents of this once well-to-do area.

Duuuur, hence the name Rock Ferry.

The pier’s now dilapidated metal frame snakes out like a crooked accusing finger towards the gasometer in the Dingle across the way.

Heathens who can’t sniff the romance that wafts off our great river may scoff at such perverse beauty, but there’s a faded glory about a place that has been cut off and left to bask, lost in time, thanks to the bypass which cuts Rock Ferry in two.

At its apex stands the pub which, if he had still been alive, would have been the local of the great 19th-century American author Nathaniel Hawthorne, the gate post for whose now long-gone villa lies a stone’s throw away. Old Nat used to double up as the US consul in Liverpool and every day he would march to the landing stage and ferry cross the Mersey to his work in Rumford Place.

Truth be told, if he was still around he would have commented that the old Admiral’s currently flakey exterior could do with a wash and brush-up.

But, as Lady Penelope of Pensby and Yours Truly pulled up in FAB 1 and walked inside, that appeared to be precisely what was in hand.

Gill Evans, who took over the place a year ago, is attempting to get the place ship-shape with a little help from her mum Marilyn McDougal and friends.

“We haven’t got much money but everyone’s chipping in – we’ve always loved this place and we want to turn it into a lovely family pub,” said Marilyn, with the smell of wet paint duly hanging in the air.

She added that, with two yacht clubs nearby, the pub had many faithful regulars plus some ordinary landlubbers, three friendly examples of whom were there as we spoke: Steve Atkinson, Len Griffiths and Gary Behn.

“I discovered this pub 30 years ago and have been coming ever since – we call it the glue pot,” explained Len, who added that the pub’s real ale – what he called “twiggy beer” – was well up to scratch.

Unfortunately, when we visited, they were waiting for delivery but a day later the cavalry had arrived. Among the beers on offer was one of the Pub Column’s uber faves, the rich Jekyll’s Gold and Sam Smith’s in a real oak cask as well as draught Hydes, something called Kalt, plus the usual suspects, Stella, Carling and Becks.

But, of course, we’re never just here for the beer – and the pub itself is pretty awesome. It has a huge wooden bar, so long you’d have to lay five blokes as tall as me end to end to cover it – and I’m “a big lod” as Eddie Waring would have said.

It also has a spacious lounge sporting views out over the desolate beach and jetty, a snug/dining area and a large beer garden complete with gazebo for Puffing Billys who will have to smoke outside from tomorrow.

There’s the obligatory complement of ghosts, too, one of whom haunts the gents and is wont to whack the unsuspecting round the earhole as they point percy at the porcelain.

The piece de resistance is a spacious bar with a stunning collection of framed pictures of the Ferry of yesteryear.

Nuff said.

So, are you ready to Rock?

All right, then . . . let’s go!