Undefeated by Liverpool’s rainy weather, Stephen Bailey spends a day in the northern English city to learn if there is more to it than The Beatles.

Liverpool likes to boast about its favourite sons. Black-and-white Beatles photos are plastered to the corridor walls, leading the 1960s nostalgia as I land at John Lennon Airport.

A yellow submarine stands outside the terminal, half-submerged in a puddle. It’s not exactly in a “sea of green” as the song suggests, but I take a photo anyway.

Poetic Lennon lyrics cover the main building walls, juxtaposed with a pub that advertises its breakfast special: bacon sandwich and a pint of lager for £5.

I’ve only just landed but I’m already humming along to famous songs. It’s impossible not to, given the airport’s unmistakable tagline: “Above us only sky.”

I look up. Although it’s summer, multiple layers of grey swirl and merge, rain slashes sideways ­– could this be the view that inspired such happy songs?

But there are different ways to see colour. The lady at Tourist Information is so enthu-siastic that I end up asking pointless questions just to hear her voice.

Strangers not only provide directions, they walk me halfway and provide a proud narrative about their city. Girls in high heels struggle with pink umbrellas, but they’re giggling the whole time.

I decide to make my own magical mystery tour, a public transport-fuelled trip around the landmarks that inspired arguably the world’s most famous band.

It used to be possible to do this trip on the Yellow Duckmarine, a bus that morphed into a boat and sailed on the waters around Albert Dock, but it sank last year, not long after Queen Elizabeth had been on board.

Panicked passengers quickly learnt that despite being yellow, it had no submarine qualities.

I’ve heard and pictured my destinations a thousand times, but they’re not what I was expecting. Strawberry Fields isn’t full of ripe fruit, it’s a children’s home consumed by graffiti. Penny Lane is just a road sign surrounded by a gaggle of camera-snapping Asian tourists.

As the grey sky intermittently unloads, I find plenty of fascinating respite

And I find out that Abbey Road is actually in London, so I can’t recreate the famous album cover.

These places aren’t beautiful and they’re certainly not photogenic, but they reveal the band’s working-class roots.

John Lennon and Paul McCartney’s childhood homes are now museum pieces that recreate 1960s décor.

Ringo Starr’s old neighbourhood feels more real, an iconic row of 1920s terraced houses.

Purple dustbins and pink window frames dominate the narrow street and a small sign indicates the famous former resident. The house is still lived in and I hide my camera when a woman with a perm comes to the window.

It’s hard not to get carried away with all this Beatles mania. There’s a Beatles Story museum, a Hard Day’s Night hotel, and a museum centred on when the band met Elvis.

Thirty thousand jelly beans have been used to create a mosaic of the Fab Four and it seems compulsory for every gift shop to have a Best Of album on repeat.

So is there more to Liverpool than the Beatles? The Tourist Information lady certainly thinks so and she’s quick to point out that nearly every attraction in the city has free entry.

St George’s Hall dominates the city centre, an epic 19th century show of grandeur full of pillars and ornate decoration. Murals of naked women cover the outer walls, causing me to unwittingly point my finger.

The interior demands silence, great palace rooms revealing shiny, golden tiles and an immense church organ.

Liverpool Cathedral also impresses, the imposing brick archways illuminated by majestic stained glass windows. It might not be as well known as Westminster in London, but it’s nearly as big and doesn’t cost a ludicrous £18 to get in.

As the grey sky intermittently unloads, I find plenty of fascinating respite. Modern art galleries are crammed with bizarre sculptures. A WWII bunker has been spookily reopened as a museum experience.

Some focus on local history, like the Maritime Museum and its collection of enigmatic ship remains. Others take their collections from further afield; the World Museum displaying Egyptians remains, dinosaur fossils, and indecipherable 500-year clocks.

Throughout it all, the only thing I have to pay for is a pot of English tea that keeps me energised.

I’m also quickly won over by the locals. Liverpool has an enduring soul.

Some call it northern grit, a stoic determination to overcome the post-industrial depression that scarred many working- class English cities.

But grit suggests a local character based on survival. Liverpudlians are too funny for that.

Every sentence is an opportunity for a joke. Sarcasm is part of the local language, alongside “bevvy” (beer), “butty” (sandwich), and “boss” (very good).

Humour is a part of the local psyche. I head down into the grotty, sweat-stained dungeon of the Cavern Club, where a solo guitarist is on stage. He looks a little like Paul McCartney.

Every song is interspersed with jokes and quips about the audience, even Hey Jude becomes part music part pantomime.

Nothing is memorably funny, but this dedication to creating laughter is what gives the city its laid-back atmosphere.

The Cavern Club sells a beer called Hobgoblin and was where The Beatles played their first gigs.

Fifty years later their lyrics continue to be sung. Two hundred people crowd around the cover act on stage, mostly tourists, all eagerly swaying and singing along.

It’s quite raucous for 4pm on a weekday, but the effect of Beatles lyrics is that it’s impossible to not join in.

Even when a third identical act comes on stage, and plays the exact same set as those before, everyone is still shouting “naa naa naa nanana naa” to Hey Jude.

The airport chose “above us only sky” for its motto but the next line from Imagine is more poignant in summing up the city: “Imagine all the people, living for today.”

Because that is Liverpool. City treasures don’t require entrance tickets, inclement weather is just something you deal with and laughing with strangers is part of the culture.

And while there is more to Liverpool than The Beatles, there’s nothing quite like musical revelry for providing the backdrop to a city break...

Ryanair fly direct from Malta to Liverpool twice a week, all year round.