What the English Town of Bootle Taught Me About Love, er, "Luv"

How a rough-around-the-edges place showed me what real heart looks like.

May 31, 2025

Don’t feel bad if you’ve never heard of Bootle, England.

Most folks outside the UK haven’t. Honestly, I’d wager a fair number of people inside the UK haven’t either. It’s a small town on the edge of Liverpool, and it doesn’t have much to recommend it.

I only know Bootle because it was the only affordable Airbnb we could find during Brent’s Beatles pilgrimage to Liverpool.

When our Uber pulled up in front of our place, Brent and I exchanged a “What have we done?” look. The street was loud, the building old and gritty, and the entire area had the pre-gentrification feel of 1980s Brooklyn.

*Not our building but pretty typical of our neighborhood.*

A little Googling revealed what my eyes had already guessed: Bootle, heavily bombed during WWII, was mostly passed over in the post-war redevelopment frenzy.

Funding went to better-off areas, leaving Bootle with a raw deal. The town now struggles with poverty and crime, and people here live, on average, twelve years less than residents of wealthier nearby neighborhoods.

A look at Reddit showed people who didn’t live in Bootle, didn’t have much nice to say about it.

If England had a “flyover country,” this would be in the heart of it.

And that’s a shame — not because it’s secretly brimming with culture or great food or stunning architecture. It isn’t.

But it has something else, something harder to find: a certain kind of quiet, human grace.

One of the first things I noticed was how people in Bootle talked to each other. Everywhere I went, I heard the word “love” — or, more accurately, “luv.”

Yes, Brits are known for using the word, though its usage is dropping. But Bootleians drop l-bombs the way the Roy family on Succession drops f-bombs. “Hello, luv,” “Have a good day, luv,” “Thanks for coming in, luv.” Even the burly security guard who stopped us from entering a closed shop did it kindly: “Sorry, luv. Closed for the day.”

Yes, in Bootle, even men use the word “luv” with other men.

It might’ve been jarring to my American ears, but honestly, it was… well, luvly.

The social and commercial heart of Bootle is a tired little mall called the Strand.

Despite a recent facelift, much of it looks worn out — like the pensioners waiting at the nearby train station. The shops inside reflect Bootle’s economic reality: discount stores like Poundland and Iceland, a vape shop called Kaboom, Hairlucinations (yes, really), and the ever-present Ladbrokes betting office.

Then there were the empty storefronts, looming like ghosts of the businesses that had died but had yet to pass on to the next life.

*Just one of the empty storefronts in the Strand.*

And if the name “Bootle” does ring any bells, it might be because of the Strand. In 1993, it was the site of one of the most shocking crimes in UK history: the abduction and murder of two-year-old James Bulger by two ten-year-old boys. That story clings to the place like soot in the corners of a window.

So no, I can’t recommend you go out of your way to visit Bootle.

*Bootle does what it can with what it has, including a series of canals. Yet those efforts are often overshadowed.*

But I am glad we did. Because it was there, in that unremarkable mall, that I witnessed one of the most touching acts of community I’ve seen in eight years of nomading.

It happened at The Coffeehouse, a small UK café chain. I went there most mornings to work, and over time, I began to notice the regulars: moms with prams taking a breather, elderly couples on autopilot with tea and jam-slathered muffins, disheveled women with curlers, groups of teens absorbed in their phones.

It wasn’t diverse by any stretch — Bootle is very white and very working-class — but it had the quiet rhythm of a place where people knew each other’s routines.

And then there was Iris.

I heard Iris before I saw her.

“I’M NOT LATE TODAY, AM I?” she bellowed, entering. “DON’T WORRY. I’M HERE NOW!”

Loud, staccato speech, thrown like a punch. At first, I thought she was mad at the barista, maybe, or another customer. But no one else seemed alarmed.

“IS MY TABLE FREE? I HOPE SO. ”

No one else paid her much mind, so I returned to work, figuring the commotion was over.

But the next day, same time, same volume: “HI JACKIE! LOOK WHAT I BROUGHT! ISN’T SHE PRETTY?”

Iris held up a doll, beaming. The barista smiled. “She’s beautiful, luv.”

That was my first proper look at Iris. Late fifties or early sixties, short auburn hair held back by a headband, big black glasses, jangly jewelry, and a trolley cart decorated with Pokémon keychains. Her outfit was neat but simple — slacks, blouse, sensible shoes — but the accessories added flair.

Her voice, though, was relentless. Atonal, loud, and impossible to ignore.

It didn’t take long to realize she was probably autistic. And that her shouting wasn’t aggression — it was just how she spoke.

Usually, someone would join her: a barista, sometimes another customer. The pattern was always the same. They spoke normally; Iris replied at full volume. “YES, I DID.” “THAT’S GOOD TO HEAR.” “THANK YOU VERY MUCH.”

I like to think I’m a decent person, so I didn’t object to Iris’s presence, despite how her voice grated — and it really did. However, I needed to work, so I started wearing earbuds. They didn’t block her out entirely, but they helped.

Then one morning, a woman sat at the table next to me — the first person I saw visibly bothered by Iris. Loud sighs, annoyed glances, escalating frustration.

Finally, she snapped: “Please stop shouting! It’s awful!”

Iris froze. The café fell silent. A barista knelt beside her and whispered something. Then Iris called out, “I’M SORRY!”

Another customer leaned toward the upset woman and said, gently, “That’s Iris, luv. She comes every day. She can’t help the way she talks.”

The woman frowned, apparently unsure what to do with the new information. Iris’s volume of speech was probably hard for her to control. That didn’t make it any easier to listen to. Finally, the woman said, “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. It’s just… so unpleasant.”

“I know, luv,” the other woman replied. “But we all have to get along, don’t we?”

When the frazzled woman left a little later, she stopped by Iris’s table and said something I couldn’t hear. I’m guessing it was an apology.

The kindness in that coffee shop moved me more than I expected. No one lashed out. No one shamed anyone. There was grace for everyone — Iris, the annoyed woman, the coffee shop’s staff. It was quietly extraordinary.

Later, I mentioned it to the barista.

“That happens now and again, luv,” she said. “Most folks here know Iris, but not everyone.”

“She’s here often?”

“Every day. Lives on her own. She started coming in four years ago. Now we give her free coffee, and everyone chats with her. She loves folding the napkins for the tables and does it perfectly. She’s very sweet. She brings me gifts for my little girl. Never says a bad word about anyone. And you know, folks around here — we know what it’s like to be looked down on. So we make sure she’s treated well.”

That stuck with me.

“Is there anything else?” the barista asked.

“No,” I said, handing over a ten-pound note.

She gave me my change and said, “Have a good day, luv.”

I smiled.

Bootle doesn’t have much — not in the way travel guides measure things.

But I’ve rarely seen a place with more heart.

I’ve been thinking about the kindness I saw there a lot lately. The world doesn’t exactly reward patience or empathy these days. And yet, here was this little town showing us how it’s done.

Maybe the first step is small. Maybe it’s just saying “luv” a little more often.

I’ll start.

Thanks for reading. Have a great day, luv.

Note: I didn’t use Iris’s real name.

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