A Not-So-Jolly Start to the “Holiday”
Ah, holidays in the time of Covid (#Ad). That catchy little virus has now pinched two whole years of holiday bliss from under our noses. While the rest of the world continued doing its best impression of a lockdown-themed Groundhog Day (#Ad), we too found ourselves glumly grounded, travel dreams dashed once again.
Let’s be honest, I know we’re not the only ones stuck at home watching travel vlogs on YouTube in our pyjamas. Everyone’s in the same slightly shabby, wine-stained boat. But still, I can’t help but sulk just a smidge. We should have been heading off to the airport today—passport in one hand, overpriced Pret coffee in the other—off on a glorious three-week jaunt across the US of A.
But alas, the travel bans had other ideas. America’s borders remained stubbornly shut to our eager, holiday-hungry faces. So, instead of boarding a flight and diving headfirst into burgers, ballparks, and bold American beer, I did the next best thing. I went to Manchester (#Ad).
Manchester, My Stand-In for Manhattan
A Brotherly Pint Beats a Lonely Sofa
Determined not to let the day go entirely to waste, I arranged a meet-up with my brother Rob—Manchester’s answer to George Clooney, if George Clooney owned slightly fewer jackets and slightly more old Oasis albums (#Ad).
The date was Friday 17th September. If you’re an avid reader of my Covid chronicles (and why wouldn’t you be?), you might recall that last year, when our 2020 holiday was also cancelled, Rob and I had also drowned our sorrows in Mancunian ale. There’s clearly a pattern forming here. Rob, mate, I love you, but if we’re doing this again next year… we may have to stage an intervention.
A Cheeky Train and a Slight Delay
Michele, lovely soul that she is, dropped me off at Hindley station, where I caught the 12:25-ish to Manchester. Now, when I say “ish”, I mean in the very British sense of the word—that charmingly vague timeframe that suggests the train might appear any time between now and the apocalypse.
Unsurprisingly, there was a delay. By the time I stumbled off at Salford Central, clutching my bag and wondering if I’d ever regain full use of my knees, I was already running late. Rob was patiently waiting at St Peter’s Square, sunning himself like a particularly chilled-out cat and listening to music through his headphones like some kind of soundtrack-loving Buddha.
I half expected him to be meditating by the time I got there.
Let the Pub Crawl Commence
Stop One: Café Beermoth – The Name Says It All
Our first port of call was Café Beermoth. No, it’s not a typo. Yes, it does sound like a metal band. But I promise it’s a bar—and a cracking one at that. If you’re a fan of craft beer (#Ad) and like your hops strong enough to make your eyebrows twitch, this is the place.
Rob hadn’t been before, so I took great pleasure in playing the smug tour guide. You know the type—dropping phrases like “Oh yes, this one’s got citrus notes” while pretending I wasn’t squinting at the chalkboard to see what was actually on tap.
Stop Two (Almost): Sam’s Chop House – Ghosted by Covid
From there, we planned to stroll over to Sam’s Chop House, a pub of legendary status. Sadly, the doors were firmly shut. The pandemic, that persistent party pooper, had kept them closed longer than expected. Peeking through the windows, we could almost hear the ghosts of pub lunches past.
But not to worry—Plan B was just around the corner. Quite literally.
Stop Two (for real): Mr Thomas’s Chop House – All Is Forgiven
Mr Thomas’s Chop House on Cross Street stepped in to save the day. This is one of those pubs that looks like it should have a Sherlock Holmes (#Ad) cosplayer lurking in the back. All tilework, history, and character oozing out of the walls. It’s got that proper old-school Manchester feel, like the sort of place where everyone knows someone called Barry.
The beer? Spot on. The food? Tempting. The atmosphere? Top drawer. We could’ve settled in here for the afternoon, but we had a mission—a pub pilgrimage, if you will.
Stop Three: The Shakespeare – Spirits and Spirits
Next up was The Shakespeare, one of the city’s oldest watering holes and, allegedly, haunted. Because why not add a ghost to the mix?
Now, I’ve actually worked here before—well, not pulling pints but surveying the place during a refurbishment when it was part of The Spirit Group. I remember hearing strange noises upstairs, and not just the usual sounds of dodgy plumbing and disgruntled staff. No, these were proper eerie creaks, the kind that make you turn around and mutter, “Don’t be daft” while secretly bricking it.
No ghosts made themselves known this time, but the beer was decent and the stories were flowing freely.
Stop Four: The English Lounge – Beavertown Bliss
From The Shakespeare, we wandered over to The English Lounge, tucked away behind the Arndale Centre. It’s another of my favourites. Something about its mix of comfy seating and cracking drinks makes it feel like a mate’s living room—if your mate had really good taste in beer.
We treated ourselves to a pint of Beavertown each, which was about as close to a spiritual awakening as you can get in a city centre pub. By now, the crowds were picking up. Clearly, we weren’t the only ones who thought Friday afternoon was the perfect time to reacquaint ourselves with draught beer.
Stop Five: The Lower Turks Head – Chic but Cheeky
Next stop on the tour: The Lower Turks Head. Now this place has had a glow-up. Once a bit rough around the edges, it’s now all polished wood, trendy lighting, and a hint of “hipster but approachable.”
The sundeck upstairs was sadly full. Apparently, everyone else had the same idea—grab a sunny seat and pretend the North West has a Mediterranean climate. So we made do with a perch in the main bar and a couple of Joseph Holts. Always reliable, always welcome.
Grub Stop: Pizza Express – Predictable but Piping Hot
After five pubs and a slow-growing craving for something solid to soak up the alcohol, we decided to eat. Now, Manchester is full of trendy food joints, hidden gems and culinary hotspots. So naturally, we went to Pizza Express.
Look, it’s not glamorous. It’s not artisan. But it’s reliable. And frankly, after a handful of pints, a greasy American Hot with extra jalapeños is exactly what the doctor ordered. We dined al fresco in Piccadilly Gardens (#Ad)—well, “al fresco” in the Manchester sense, meaning we huddled under a heater while pigeons eyed us with suspicion.
Final Destination: The Seven Oaks – And Then It All Went a Bit Wobbly
Our final pint of the day (or half pint, as it turned out) was at The Seven Oaks. This place had promise, but something was amiss. The beer selection was underwhelming, the vibe slightly off, and the pints tasted like they’d lost the will to live.
We left half-drunk glasses on the table and called it a day. A rare defeat in an otherwise triumphant afternoon.
Summary: Not Quite the USA, But Close Enough
So, no, we didn’t make it to America. There were no White House selfies, no New York hot dogs, and not a single tacky souvenir magnet purchased. But what we did get was a fantastic afternoon of sibling banter, pub-hopping joy, and a much-needed break from the pandemic doom and gloom.
Manchester (#Ad), you glorious old city, you did us proud. You gave us sun (briefly), beer (plenty), and laughter (often). Sure, it wasn’t the holiday we’d planned, but it was the holiday we needed.
