48 Hours in … Manchester

Patrick Kennedy
Patrick Kennedy
5 min read

As a 46 year old Englishman, you would think that I would have visited Manchester at least a handful of times in my longish life, but, strangely, I have only ever managed to get there once, and that was about 25 years ago. I was, however, still flabbergasted at the difference in the city I had seen back in the 90s and the one that I was in now… it was barely recognisable as the same place.

Manchester, UK  Manchester, United Kingdom

I arrived at Manchester Piccadilly Station after a mere 2 hours 21 minutes on the InterCity train from Euston, and was immediately smacked in the face by the sheer energy of the place… and this was just the station. Having grown up in Kent, I used to travel into London on the weekend as a teenager and the stomach-churning, hair-raising feeling I would have on alighting at Victoria as a lad was the same one that I was experiencing now. I’d heard that Manchester had changed, that it had lost its reputation as a grim northern town and turned itself into a vibrant city bursting at the seams with cultural, sporting and artistic endeavours, but I expected to experience the thrill of the new Manchester at art galleries, football stadiums and restaurants… not on platform 7 of the station.

 

I had taken the liberty of treating myself to a bit of luxury and was booked into the Great John Street Hotel in the centre of the city. It was Friday evening, I always think it’s better to start a city break on Friday evening rather than Saturday morning so that you get to spend a Friday night there. Friday night, in my opinion, is when you see a city at its most natural: the inhabitants are full of the joy of the weekend, the streets are rammed with revellers and the streetlights add that cinematic sheen that makes it somehow surreal and slightly mysterious. The hotel did not disappoint. The beautiful facade was matched by the stunning interior, a foyer dripping in art deco style, from the dangling chandeliers to the plush rugs and furnishings, it felt like walking onto the set of The Great Gatsby.

 

After a quick wash and brush up I decide to grab a quick cocktail on the hotel’s terrace. Seated in a cushioned wicker chair, surrounded by bejewelled ladies and suited gents, I take in the chill night air. The view over the city is superb and the number of cranes that break up the skyline are an indication of just how much development is going on in this Northern Powerhouse. I decide to get out amongst it, so descend to the ground floor and make my way out into the street. My first port of call is a restaurant that I had heard about that serves the best modern Chinese food in the city. Tattu, like the Great John Street Hotel, knows how to do style, the darkness of its dining room is broken only by soft candlelight and the occasional flash of chrome from the polished bar. I had booked well in advance as I had heard how popular it was and after consuming the most exquisite spare ribs and mojito I think I have ever had, I understood why.

 

After dinner, I walked down along the quays to get some air. The quayside, once derelict and crumbling, is now the centre of urban chic living in Manchester. In the last 10 years, thousands of twenty and thirty-somethings have made the move back to the city so that they are at the heart of the city. FOMO, fear of missing out, seems to have extended out of social media and into our towns and cities. Many of the old riverside mills and warehouses have already been converted into industrial chic lofts and flats that are a quarter the price of their counterparts down in Docklands in London. Well-dressed docksiders are funneling out of the buildings, heading into the nearby city centre to enjoy drinks and dancing at the many trendy hangouts in the city… I, at nearly twice their age, decide to call it a night.

 

On Saturday morning, after a sumptuous breakfast at the hotel, I wander into the city centre to see it in daylight. The word that i would have used to describe Manchester from the misty memories of my previous trip was ‘red’. I could recall red-brick buildings all around me and a feeling of it being a city of work and industry. Indeed, those red buildings were constructed either as mills or factories back when Manchester was at the forefront of the industrial revolution and dubbed Cottonopolis because of its phenomenal production rate of cotton and cotton products. Back in the 90s, those red buildings seemed empty and depressed, with vacant windows staring out at a new world where they were no longer needed. Now, though, those buildings are the height of fashion, many housing upmarket shops and boutiques, others converted flats and townhouses where affluent Mancunians have set up home.

 

The city is abuzz with shoppers and tourists, yes, tourists, Manchester, it seems, has become quite the place for visitors like me to enjoy a weekend away. Both Manchester clubs are playing at home today, something they generally try to avoid when creating the fixture list for the season so that the fans don’t clash, but through some rearrangement of games, they are all here. The mood, however, is very pleasant, there are groups of men and women in the blue of City and the red of United wandering through the streets together, ribbing each other about how their rivals are bound to get beaten, but it’s all in good humour. After a good walk through the city, my stomach reminds me that it’s time to stop for a bite to eat. I wander up to the Ape and Apple, a fashionable eatery on John Dalton Street that serves excellent pub grub and some authentic local real ales at reasonable prices. This, like many other city centre pubs, is shiny and new and terribly cool.

 

The afternoon, I had earmarked for some cultural activity, so I make my way over to the Manchester Museum, where I spend a couple of hours in the company of dinosaur fossils, stuffed animals and some delightfully colourful little Costa Rican frogs in the vivarium. I realise that I still have a couple of hours before things start to shut down, so jump on a tram up to the Manchester Art Gallery, which is packed with modern and classical art from local artists and some old masters, as well as tourists from every corner of the globe. By now, I’m what we English call, knackered, so decide to retire to the comfort of my hotel and enjoy a couple more delicious drinks on the terrace overlooking this magnificently transformed metropolis.

 

On Sunday, after a more conservative breakfast of tea and croissants, one of which I secreted in my jacket pocket for reasons that will become obvious, I head off to Alexandra Park on the tram. Travelling by tram is completely different to buses or trains, it somehow transports you back to a period when everyone seemed to be in less of a hurry and the destination was sometimes the journey itself. The park is huge, at 60 acres it is a delightful area of open space in the middle of the city. As I sit beside the lake lobbing bits of stolen croissant at the ducks and geese paddling through the weedy waters, with families and couples strolling through the leafy wilderness, I regret that my train leaves in two hours and I need to get back to the hotel and check out… I’d like to spend another week or so here… or maybe, like everyone else seems to be doing, just move here.

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