Hunts Cross Station

No, there is not a whole lot here. The station is lovely, but there’s really no reason to visit Hunts Cross in my opinion unless your granny lives around the corner.
You will find a post office, a few cafes, and a pet shop down the road but that is just about it.
If you keep going and walk all the way down HIllfoot Avenue eventually you will come to a 24-​hour Asda and a shopping centre but you can find most of that in Liverpool so why bother?

From the rural-​sounding name to the station building that has apparently reached Grade II status, Hunts Cross station is a lovely place to sit and ponder why nobody seems to use trains all that much anymore, blankly ignoring the misery that travelling intercity still means in Britain.
Since the railway cuts through a wooded ravine, you don’t even have to look at the Hunts Cross area as you wait, something that strikes me as a bonus. I’ve only ever been here on the way to and from work on bank holidays, when the buses aren’t running. With the birds singing and the throb of traffic at an unprecedented low, it can feel remarkably peaceful and 1930s-​ish, like I’m waiting to meet somebody young called Gladys (such a thing was possible then).
What lets the place down, inevitably, are the staff. After waiting ages for a train, I went back up to the ticket desk and asked when my iron horse would be coming. Thinking I’d just that second walked in off the street, the fat pile of guts and apathy behind the glass told me the train had only just gone. I informed him I’d been sat on the platform for thirty minutes. Even though his widening eyes betrayed his guilt, he ploughed on with the lie until it became ridiculous. I felt like slapping him and saying «I know you’re lying! You know I know you’re lying! Why bother?» But that probably would have broken the serenity of the surroundings.