Atlantica - 01.02.2006, Side 41

Manchester has more football teams per person than any other city in the world,
but chances are there’s one that springs to mind first: Manchester United.
The world’s most glamorous football team makes Old Trafford stadium its home.
The award-winning walking tour of the Manchester United museum and stadium
covers a lot. We visit the stands and dressing rooms while being fed obscure
facts about the club, like the number of full-time staff (more than 2,000 on
game days), the services paid to life-long fans (their ashes can be scattered
on the pitch), and the bizarre superstitions of former Danish goalkeeper Peter
Schmeichel (new gloves could only be hung a certain way on the dressing room
hooks). As we are leaving, we are invited to make our own glorious way through
the players’ tunnel to the pitch, walking to the (recorded) sounds of throngs of
cheering fans.
On game days, the excitement is more tangible. From inside the stadium, the
dull roar of football chants like “GLORY GLORY MAN UNIIIIITED!” can be heard
over an hour before kick-off. I walk towards Old Trafford as if following the Pied
Piper, joining trickles of people dressed in bright red MUFC (Manchester United
Football Club) scarves and other kit as they shuffle along the canal towards their
football Mecca.
I’m one of a handful of women here. This is a tradition of fathers and sons,
friends, families, and although the ritual occurs in many places around the world,
this is the most famous. The wintry breeze carries the greasy aroma of chips
and sausage butties. Touts sell fanzines as if they were fruits at a local farmer’s
market. The horns are blowing.
Still, given the crowd, the area is surprisingly orderly. The many police officers
in fluorescent jerseys – several on horseback – don’t seem to have much to do
until the drunken yobs arrive only moments before the kick off.
As zero hour approaches, I stand outside the stadium and gaze down Sir Matt
Busby Way at the phalanx of humanity in red that is approaching the gates. The
people enter – lager-swilling hooligans last – and then the seagulls swoop in en
masse to feed off our detritus. If only I had a ticket …
MANCHESTER a
While the urban sectors of England’s northwest are experiencing a Renais-
sance, the pastoral scenes of the countryside are as quaint and steeped in
refined beauty as they ever were. In my short weekend in Manchester, it was a
requirement to spend some time out in the countryside.
The Peak District National Park is England’s oldest, and situated between
Manchester and Sheffield, Europe’s busiest. The park gets its name from the
Anglo-Saxon tribe Peacsetna that lived in the region in the 7th century. The
Dark Peak of the northern section is so-named because of its gritstone cliffs,
while the pastoral White Peak in the south is primarily limestone – or so local
resident Jim Bintcliffe told me when he struck up a conversation while waiting
in a queue for a soothing cup of tea.
There are many postcard-perfect villages in the park to use as a base for a
short walking tour. My visit to the area, about an hour’s drive from the city cen-
ter, was to Castleton, an ancient village popular as a starting point for exploring
the numerous caverns and paths around the nearby 517-meter Mam Tor. I
wandered instead up the winding path to the ruins of 12th century Peveril
Castle, one of England’s earliest Norman fortresses. After surveying the ma-
jestic realm of the surrounding Hope Valley from the top of the castle’s grassy
hill, I joined the other day-trippers for the descent back to the visitor’s center
and the local tearoom. The more diligent walkers, easy to identify draped in
waterproof clothing and with plastic covered maps dangling from their necks,
passed me with a friendly nod and continued along the paths to the pass
through the hills to the next village. I was satisfied with scones and clotted
cream – the most English of snacks in the most English of countrysides.
A Breath of Fresh Air
Manchester’s Beautiful Game
AT L A N T I CA 39
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