After standing empty since 2022, the time has finally come to say goodbye to one of Liverpool’s most iconic landmarks: the old Royal Liverpool University Hospital. First opening its doors in 1978, it served the community for 44 years. Now, in its final stages of demolition, its gradual disappearance marks a monumental shift for many Scousers.
For decades, those who passed along Prescot Street would glance up at the towering concrete shell, a looming Optimus Prime-like fortress casting its shadow across the street. Now, that once-dominant structure has shrunk, piece by piece, into rubble and fragments of thick cement.
Even from the top deck of the bus, the view feels different. You can’t help but notice passengers glancing down at the site with a quiet, thoughtful look—what some might call a “melancholy moment.” Underneath the debris lie memories. Deeply personal ones.
Memories Beneath the Rubble
The Royal wasn’t just a hospital. It was the backdrop for countless defining life moments.
There were the childhood scrapes that led to A&E visits and those first plaster casts that felt like badges of honour. More profoundly, it was a place where lives were saved, where families received life-changing news, and where loved ones came and went, sometimes forever.
It’s easy to forget that a hospital becomes more than a building—it becomes a silent witness to some of the most emotional chapters of our lives. And now, all that is physically left is dust.
An Architectural Love-Hate Relationship
The building itself was always a point of debate. Some called it ugly, a concrete behemoth out of step with its surroundings. Others saw it as a proud example of Brutalist architecture—bold, functional, and futuristic for its time.
Say what you will about its appearance, but those walls contained a workforce of dedicated professionals who performed life-saving procedures every single day. That alone should outweigh any criticisms of its design.
It’s interesting that, despite only being open for 44 years—a relatively short time for a structure so vital—it’s already gone. It raises questions: Why did such a significant hospital have such a short lifespan? Was Brutalism chosen purely for pragmatic reasons, or was it part of a bold new architectural vision for the city back in the late ’70s?
At the time, it probably felt like a modern, forward-thinking choice. But with hindsight, had we known that many Brutalist buildings wouldn’t stand the test of time, would we have made different decisions?
Looking Ahead
The new Royal reportedly cost £1.1 billion to build—no small investment. It’s sleek, state-of-the-art, and undoubtedly built with lessons learned from its predecessor. But one can’t help but wonder: will this new hospital last longer than 44 years? Or, in the not-so-distant future, will we be funnelling NHS funding into yet another rebuild?
Let’s hope it serves future generations for much longer. Because buildings like hospitals aren’t just part of a city’s infrastructure—they’re part of its emotional architecture too.
Andrew Dickinson
