I have been thinking of writing about England for some time now, but I love the country so deeply that it has been difficult to focus on a single place to begin, so I keep putting it off. I am sure in the future there will be time and space to express gratitude and respect for all this “sceptered isle” gave to me by way of a legacy. Its history and its literature have been part and parcel of my soul’s furniture for as long as I can remember. Its landscapes and cobblestoned villages, its castles and cottages have enriched my imagination and peopled it with characters as diverse as King Arthur and Ebenezer Scrooge. All my memories of England bring a smile and a welcoming invitation at reflection. So many gifts did God allow this island nation to bestow upon the world that I will inevitably be drawn out into pleasant reverie for hours. So—where to begin? Perhaps, at the ending place would be best.
Among all the vistas that linger through my mind one always returns with a poignancy and vividness that is tinged with irony. It is a place in Liverpool along the Mersey River where so many thousands of our ancestors took their last loving look at the England of their youth before setting sail into the Atlantic and America.