Tour news!

To mark the announcement about my forthcoming book on Victorian Manchester’s scuttling gangs, I’m launching a new walking tour.

The Scuttlers: The True Story of Manchester’s Most Feared Gangs will be published by HarperNorth, the Manchester-based imprint of HarperCollins, on 6 May 2027.

It will tell the story of the incredibly-tough street fighting gangs who brought terror to the city in the late nineteeth century.

I’m also launching a new walking tour where you’ll hear some of the stories I’ve uncovered in the places where they happened as we walk through Angel Meadow and Ancoats.

The tour is a 1.6 mile linear walk. It’s mostly flat although there are some steep steps on the route so unfortunately it is not wheelchair friendly. As the tour includes some gruesome stories including a number of murders, it is also not suitable for children.

I’m offering only a limited number of tickets for the tour on only three dates this coming autumn (2026) to gauge demand with the hope of running more dates in spring 2027.

As a subscriber to this newsletter, you’re the very first to hear about this new tour and you can beat the queue by booking tickets here or using the button below:

Buy tickets for my Scuttlers tour

I really enjoy doing tours alongside writing my books and sharing the history of Manchester with more people.

In early 2024, I started doing tours of Angel Meadow based on stories from my first book about the area’s history.

More than 850 people have been with me on the journey and lots have asked when I would be launching a second tour.

If you haven’t been on my Angel Meadow tour and want to come along, you’ll find some new dates for September and October 2026 on the same booking page.

My Scuttlers book is available to pre-order now using this link or the button below:

Pre-order The Scuttlers

PS — If you are thinking of buying the book, please do pre-order it. Pre-ordering helps to support me as a writer by making the book more visibile to other readers in the week that it launches.

PPS — If you want to find out more about the book, and read my back catalogue of stories about Victorian Manchester, you can upgrade your subscription to this newsletter here or via the button below. To mark the book announcement, I’ve created a special paid newsletter subscription offer, which is only available in August:

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See you on the road soon!

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🚨 Exciting news!

I’m thrilled to be able to announce that I’m writing a new book…

The Scuttlers: The True Story of Manchester’s Most Feared Gangs will be published by HarperNorth, the Manchester-based imprint of HarperCollins, on 6 May 2027.

It will tell the story of the incredibly-tough lads and girls who ruled the streets of Victorian Manchester and Salford in the late nineteenth century.

Keep scrolling for a reveal of the cover. 👇🏻

The book is available to pre-order now using this link or the button below.

Pre-order The Scuttlers

🚨 If you are planning to buy the book, please do pre-order it. Pre-ordering really helps to support my writing by making the book more visible to other readers in its first week. 🚨

Here’s a description of the book to whet your appetite: “The Scuttlers plunges readers into the dark street corners of Victorian Manchester, where gangs of ruthless street fighters ruled with fear and violence. These young men and women turned the world’s first industrial city into a battleground — their brutal clashes leaving blood on the cobblestones and terror in their wake.

“But these gang members did not fight for money. Brutalised by the industrialisation and urbanisation of the first modern city, the scuttlers found protection in the gangs, they fought for pride, to assert dominance against rivals, to defend their territories, and ultimately, to survive.”

I’m really grateful to my agent Amy O’Shea at Graham Maw Christie literary agency in London for believing in the book and to Jonathan de Peyer, Editorial Director at HarperNorth, for aquiring the book and for his passion for the subject.

I’m also grateful to readers of this newletter and to the many people who have joined me on my walking tours in Manchester.

Most of you will know that in 2023 I gave up my career in journalism to follow my passion for writing about the people’s history of Manchester.

Starting out again at 50 was tough, so I’m thrilled to be writing this book and to keep doing what I love doing — sharing the story of my home city with more people.

I’m particularly grateful to those of you who have become paid subscribers to this newsletter — and especially those who have stuck by me while I have taken time away over the last few months to focus on researching and writing the book.

By supporting me and this newsletter you have helped me devote more time to the book — so thank you.

If you are a free subscriber and want to help me carry on this work, you can upgrade your subscription using this button. To mark the book announcement, I’ve created a special newsletter subscription offer:

Redeem special subscription offer

I have some plans to create some behind the-scenes-content about the book as the publication date approaches, as well as details for a special tour which I can talk about soon.

Here are some posts I’ve previously written about the scuttlers (£):

If you want to ask anything about researching or writing The Scuttlers, drop me a line in the comments.

Please share this post too if you think other people might like to read the book.

Thank you again — and I can’t wait to share more about the book soon!

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PS: Here’s a first look at the book’s cover. Let me know what you think in the comments.

Back in autumn, I posted a video making my Nan’s potato hash — or ‘tater ash’ as we call it here in Manchester. It’s a simple, comforting dinner that carries a lot of memories for me.

Anyway, I thought I’d follow it up by showing you how I cook another of my Nan’s simple classics — chicken soup.

It’s the kind of dinner she’d make without any fuss — warming, nourishing and exactly what you need on a cold winter’s day.

Subscribe using the button below to watch the full video and to help me devote more time to my writing.

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You can also read about the Manchester dinner hour and what it means to me in a post I wrote last winter:

Making cookery films isn’t my usual format — I’m no Jamie Oliver obviously — so it’d be good to hear what you think in the comments.

And if you make Nan’s chicken soup, do post a photo of the results too. I hope you enjoy it.

P.S. If you’re a paid subscriber, you can watch my earlier tater ash video below…

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The Northern Quarter is one of Manchester’s trendiest districts today but in the Victorian era it was awash with secret gambling clubs.

Thomas Street was the “headquarters” of the betting nuisance in the city, according to the great Manchester detective Jerome Caminada.

At a place called Tattersall’s, just off the street, a “great concourse” of people gathered every day to fritter away their hard-earrned wages.

The clubs there and in other parts of the city were being blamed for ruining families and causing young lads to get involved in crime.

Among the warehousemen, porters and mechanics placing bets were the wives of other workers and boys who should have been at school.

In May 1885, Manchester’s chief constable decided to take action and order 400 police officers to carry out lightning raids at 23 clubs across the city.

Even experienced police officers were shocked by what they uncovered.

Led by Caminada, the officers had to act fast because most of the club owners had phones and telegraphs could use to warn each other about the raid.

The first clubs the police entered were called the Rous and the Falmouth in Macdonald’s Lane — a total of 170 officers going inside or watching the doors.

Business was in full swing at the tables.

“We found upon the premises over 200 men,” Caminada later wrote, “and a fearful scene ensued as we entered.

“Seeing me coming they closed the door, and, as they refused to open it, I broke it open.

“There was a general scramble on the part of the betting men to get their betting books, money and other articles out of sight, and on the part of the members to get out of the place.”

As the police pushed their way up a spiral staircase leading to the Falmouth Club, the gamblers were rushing down.

Some jumped from the top of the stairs to the bottom over the heads of the officers.

One man, a commission agent named Herbert Jackson, jumped on to the skylight above the Rous club, fell through the glass and then leaped out of a window.

He received such a terrible cut on his calf that he had to be taken to the infirmary by two constables.

Other men ran across the skylight and across to the Falstaff Hotel — breaking more glass and suffering further cuts.

“Nearly all the windows in both clubs were smashed and for a quarter of an hour the scene was one of indescribable confusion,” the Manchester Courier wrote.

Caminada jumped onto the bar and shouted out that he only wanted to arrest the bookmakers and not the punters.

It was only then that the chaos stopped and the police were able to march the gambling bosses to Manchester Town Hall.

“By this time the whole city was roused and became alive as to what was going on,” Caminada wrote.

“As I and my colleagues went from club to club, arresting the leading men and sending them to join their companions at the town hall, we were followed by a large crowd shouting, cheering, yelling and making as much noise as possible.”

At the Palmerston Club in Ardwick, a notorious criminal jumped through the window and made his escape.

Nearby at the Pin Mill Club, a dirty little place nearby with scarcely room for a dozen men to turn around, the husband of a woman in charge of the bar left her and fled with the words: “Never mind, lass, it’ll be all right.”

Another club raided that day was the Devonshire, which was over a stable and could only be entered by a wooden stepladder from a store house.

It was a favourite secret den of the wives of working men in the neighbourhood.

“The director, bookkeeper, secretary and treasurer all combined in one big Falstaff-proportioned man, who had evidently fattend on his gains,” Caminada said.

The club had 370 members who paid an annual subscription of one shilling each. Other clubs were found to have up to 700 members on their lists.

Some of the bookkeepers refused to walk to the town hall with the police in handcuff and ordered taxi cabs to take them — sitting in the back with an officer.

At the Lancashire Club off Hyde Road, a gbnd played Auld Lang Syne as the cabs drove up.

Caminada was shocked to discover that there were more than 2,000 people in the clubs he had raided that day.

About 200 bookmakers and club staff including directories, secretaries, barmen, doorkeepers and bookmakers’ clerks were arrested in total.

The police recovered £2,200 from their trouser pockets — worth around £250,000 today.

The Courier described it as “the great raid”, adding that the likes of it had never been known in the history of the city.

Other clubs listed in court reports include the Burton, the Stanley, the City, the St George, the Russell, the Derby, the Gaythorn Social, the Waterloo, the Central and the West End. Then there was the Bentinick Club which was opposite the Assize Courts next to Strangeways prison.

In the Central Club, in Back Lad Lane, off Deansgate, Caminada found 70 men including three “very horsey looking bookmakers”.

The club was a resort of rough characters and consisted of a large room, open to the roof, with a dirty sawdust floor and a ricketty billard table. The punters had “smoked the air blue” by the time the police smashed through the door.

The leading bookmaker was a lad nicknamed Young Cheeky.

Before going away with the police officer, he helped himself to a thick cigar and a drink, and tucked a meat pie under his coat.

But the end of the day, people had begun to turn on the officers who were disrupting their gambling.

When they raided the Albert Club off Oldham Road a huge crowd was waiting.

“The whole of the people around this neighbourhood seemed to have turned out of doors and expressed a good deal of sympathy for the men in charge and a great deal of ridicule for those who were depriving them of their neighbours,” the Courier said.

“Thousands of people lined the footway and a number of youths threw mud at the cabs as they passed by.”

♠️♥️♣️♦️

Thank you for reading…

I hope you enjoyed this week’s true story from the backstreets of Victorian Manchester.

If you do enjoy it, please do subscribe here as it genuinely helps me to devote the time to keeping it going. It takes me at least a day to research and write it each time I post. You can unsubscribe with one click.

I find it fascinating how areas of the city have their own history that most of us just don’t know about.

How has your week been? I’ve been busy this week.

On Monday, I took a group of 16 people from Cadishead and Irlam to Manchester Central Library where we had a tour of the archives and did some family history research on the library’s computers.

It’s part of a six-week genealogy course I’m teaching for a charity called the Hamilton Davies Trust.

I’ve also been preparing this week for my Angel Meadow tours. Tickets are already selling quickly. If you’re thinking of coming along, you can see the dates and prices on this link or clicking on the image below.

Have a great weekend!

Mister Plant, the curator of Peel Park in Salford, was in fear for his life.

Awoken in the night by his bedroom door flying open, he seized his gun and began charging round his house hunting the burglars.

Failing to find them, he went back to bed but kept one eye open until the dawn.

It was a pattern being repeated all over Manchester that night.

In Blackl…

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It was said you could buy anything your heart desired on the streets of Victorian Manchester.

Gutter merchants sold their wares in the ginnels — fruit, flowers, toys, ginger beer, icecream, art, literature, toothpicks, bird whistles and combs.

And on the food stalls around Shudehill you would also find trotters and tripe being sold to drunks on their way …

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No story from me this week — just a picture of Manchester in the snow.

The postcard shows Whitworth Park on the south side of the city, but you might not recognise it.

That’s because Whitworth Park doesn’t have a lake.

In 1947, with money for the upkeep of parks in short supply after the Second World War, the water from the lake shown in the picture was d…

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Warning: This story contains references to suicide

The winter of 1813-14 was the coldest ever seen by those who lived through it — so severe the River Irwell in Manchester froze over.

The big freeze began on 16 December — the day that Lavinia Robinson went missing.

The mystery of her disappearance would grip the public imagination for two desperately cold months.

A school teacher, Lavinia had been making plans to marry her fiancé Mr Holroyd, a surgeon, just after Christmas. Where had she gone?

Lavinia’s life had already been remarkable.

At the age of 12, her mother Frances Robinson had died. Five years later, she lost her father, William.

Taught by the Moravians in Fairfield, she set up a small school in Bridge Street to help the local children in between looking after her five sisters and three brothers.

Aged just 20, Lavinia met and fell in love with Holroyd, whose surgery was also in Bridge Street, where her sister Esther lived.

A new life beckoned in the suburbs away from the black river.

The story goes that on that fateful Thursday evening in 1813, the couple were staying at Esther’s house.

Lavinia wanted to spend the evening discussing her wedding plans. Esther was to be her chief bridesmaid.

Later that night Holroyd and Lavinia, wrapped up in a black beaver bonnet and mantle, went out for what the bride-to-be thought would be a romantic walk in the moonlit streets.

But in the morning, Esther discovered her sister had not gone to bed.

Then she found a note in Lavinia’s handwriting on the parlour table declaring her innocence from Holroyd’s accusations. What could it mean?

Searching the streets, Esther could not find her sister. That morning, the Irwell was frozen from bank to bank.

Holroyd told Esther a story. During their late night walk, they’d had a row.

He believed she was secretly planning to marry another man.

After scandalising her with the accusation, he made the shock decision to cut off their engagement.

But being a gentleman, he said, he had left her safely outside her sister’s door and wished her goodnight.

Christmas came — and went. The couple’s planned wedding day, 12 January, also passed. Lavinia was still missing.

On 18 January, an advert appeared in the Manchester Mercury offering a reward of 30 guineas for information.

‘She was of fair complexion with long, light-brown hair,’ it said. ‘She had on a fawn-coloured twilled stuff dress, a pink and yellow silk handkerchief on her neck, a black beaver cottage bonnet.

‘Her family and friends feel the most painful anxiety to obtain some intelligence of this unfortunate young lady.’

A week later, the borough reeve and constables added another 70 guineas to the reward money — worth around £9,000 today.

People began to suspect that the frozen river held Lavinia’s secret.

Men began walking on the ice and trying to peer beneath the glassy surface and breaking through with pickaxes.

There was no news until after 5 February when the ice on the River Irwell finally started to melt.

Two days later, a man named Mr Goodier told the constables he had seen a body surrounded by shards of ice on a sandbank at Barton, three miles from Bridge Street.

She had ‘icicles gemming her hair in the place of orange blossoms,’ he said.

Trapped under the ice for nearly two months and preserved by the freezing temperatures, Lavinia’s body had finally risen to the surface.

She was identified by the initials L.R. on her clothing.

It appeared that the mystery had been solved.

‘We can now most assuredly say that she is no more,’ one newspaper said.

‘It was on a sandbank near Mode Wheel, about three miles down the Irwell, that her body was found.’

On the night she had gone into the river, the ice had thawed just enough for her to go under the surface.

But it was so cold that by the morning the Irwell was covered in ‘thick, ribbed ice’.

One Victorian writer called Lavinia ‘the Manchester Ophelia’.

But Lavinia’s story took a new turn.

In his interview with the constables, Holroyd later admitted he had abandoned Lavinia not outside her home but in the dark outside the New Bailey Prison on the far side of the bridge.

A witness said he had seen the surgeon strike Lavinia and that she had placed her arms around him as she pleaded for him not to leave her.

‘Believe me — but you won’t,’ he heard Lavinia say. ‘I do not care if you murder me if you’ll believe me.’

Public feeling in Manchester was running high after these reports emerged and everyone expected Holroyd to be placed under the spotlight at the upcoming inquest.

Had he abandoned Lavinia to her fate or even pushed her into the river?

But, unable to discover exactly how she had died, the inquest jury recorded an open verdict.

Holroyd was called to give evidence but was told by the coroner he did not need to answer any questions in case he incriminated himself.

Facing no blame from the inquest jury, Holroyd was free to get on with his life and to find a new fiancée.

He said in a statement his accusations against Lavinia had afterall been incorrect.

But people living around Bridge Street had other ideas.

After the inquest, they smashed the windows, shutters and panels of the door of his house and began throwing stones at him in the street.

Then, he disappeared — with rumours circulating that he had fled town.

A newspaper hundreds of miles away, the Shrewsbury Chronicle, reported on 14 March that Holroyd had taken his own life.

He had died from taking poison, it said, after trying to drown himself in the Stafford Canal.

But rumours about him were still circulating in Manchester up to eight years later.

‘He is wandering the Earth,’ the rumour mongers said. ‘Like a modern day Cain.’

Lavinia lies buried in the now grassed-over St John’s church yard just a short walk from the river.

The gavestone was still visible when a journalist went to look for it at the start of the twentieth century before the church was demolished.

It is now a quiet garden where office workers sit at lunchtime in the summer months.

The stone is gone but the inscrption was recorded by one Victorian writer who visited the cemetery more than half a centrury after her death.

‘Lavinia departed this life 17th of December 1813, aged 20 years,’ it said.

Beneath those words was a poem:

More lasting than in lines of art

Thy spotless character’s imprest;

Thy worth engraved on every heart,

Thy loss bewail’d in every breast.

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A sad story

The cold weather this week made me think of Lavinia Robinson.

I read about her story some time ago in a remarkable nineteenth century book full of tales about old Manchester lent to me by a good neighbour of mine, Phil.

The book’s Victorian author described Lavinia as the Manchester Ophelia after a character who drowns in William Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

The author was romanticising what was really the very tragic death of a young woman after she was treated so horrifyingly by the man she loved.

Strangely in the newspaper articles I read from 1813 while doing some further research, the first name of Lavinia’s fiancé is never mentioned.

He was only known, far too respectfully, as Mr Holroyd. He also seems to have gotten off incredibly lightly at the inquest.

But it does seem that Lavinia’s death genuinely touched a lot of people in Manchester.

‘The burial of Lavinia was witnessed by sympathising thousands — for she had become the adopted daughter of the public and, for the time being, she seemed allied to nearly every home in the district,’ the author of the book fittingly wrote of her.

Some 52 winters after Lavinia’s death, he paid his own visit to St John’s churchyard to look for her grave and record the inscription.

Today, there is a small metal plaque on the bridge over the Irwell at Bridge Street where Lavinia plunged under the ice.

Telling the story of Manchester and Salford’s great river, sadly it doesn’t mention her.

But hopefully her story won’t be forgotten.

Take care this weekend if you’re out and about in the cold weather.

After finishing my second season of history tours in Manchester, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who came along this year.

I’m amazed to say I’ve finished the autumn in the top ten tours and activities in Manchester according to TripAdvisor’s current popularity index.

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You can read that story and find the recipe here…

It was so well read that I thought I’d make a short film showing you how I cook it.

As the video took me a while to make, it’s just for paid subscribers, but you can watch it by clic…

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The men and boys who oversaw the spinning mules were as closely knit in their work as the threads they spun.

Moving back and forth throughout their shift in the cotton mills, they always operated in teams of three.

Two lads — a little piecer and a big piecer. The man, known as the minder, made sure they didn’t get trapped by the machines.

The piecers had just seconds to fix the snapped pieces of yarn before the entire mule — a 150ft-wide carriage of 1,000 spindles — lunged forward five feet.

Keeping safe from the obvious danger required real skill and co-ordination amid the noise and heat of the spinning room.

You had to put all your weight on your left foot and throw your right leg out behind.

Then lean in and twist the threads with the thumb and forefinger of your left hand.

Finally, straighten up and step away — a pirouette they performed hundreds of times a day.

But each time the boys leaned over the carriage’s rail and twisted those threads, they were facing a hidden danger.

The mineral oils that were used to lubricate the mule were giving them cancer.

Dear reader — If you’ve been enjoying the newsletter, please consider subscribing using the button below. It genuinely makes a difference in helping me keep this newsletter going. Check out your subscription options here — you can unsubscribe any time, with one click.

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Mule spinners’ cancer, as it became known, was first identified by doctors here in Manchester in 1887.

By then the oils, usually derived from shale, had been in use for around 35 years — giving cancer to an untold number of boys and men.

While the piecers were working, the mule carriage silently threw out a fine mist of oil at the height of the groin.

And to keep the mules efficent, the mill overseers were dousing the machines with that oil several times a day.

Smaller men and boys who had to stretch and lean more over the rail were at greater risk.

The cancer started as a warty ulcer on the skin of the outside of the left testicle — the side on which the piecers leaned against the mule.

It could be removed with surgery in the early stages. But once it had spread to the internal organs, it was too late.

By 1900 there was a shockingly high number of cases of former mule spinners dying from the cancer.

But, as late as the 1920s, some doctors who worked with the cotton industry denied there was a problem.

Dr Vernon Davies, an MP, wrote: “I was certifying surgeon for Shaw [in Oldham] for 22 years, and have never seen scrotal cancer in spinners.”

Some blamed a lack of cleanliness among the workers.

Others said it was caused by the tightening of their overalls as the piecers stretched over the machines.

A doctor named John Brown, a former medical officer for Bacup in Lancashire, claimed in 1924 he had never heard of a single case in his own district.

“All the information I have been able to collect goes to prove that this [disease] is very infrequently met even at the present day.”

But the factory overlords were worried — less about the health of their workers perhaps than about the potential for mass compensation claims.

At that time there were 20,000 spinners in the region.

The Operative Spinners’ Amalgamation said they already had 80 cancer cases on their books.

At a compensation court in Ashton-under-Lyne, a judge heard that half of the scrotal cancer cases treated at Manchester Royal Infirmary were mule spinners.

The son of one spinner across the Pennines in Yorkshire told an inquest into his death from cancer: “His trousers got oily, but were washed my by mother, and then, when they became dirty again, they were thrown away.

“After work, if he was going out, he would change his trousers, but if not he would keep on his work clothes.”

It was not until 1925 that the Home Office finally launched an inquiry.

The investigation discovered that the mortality rate among cotton spinners aged 25 to 35 was 14 times greater than the general population.

By the ages of 45 to 55, it was sixty times as great and by the ages of 55 to 75 it was a hundred times greater.

In Oldham, which alone had more than 8,000 spinners, 229 cases were found.

A study even worked out that the death rate in the town was rising as the cotton industry boomed in the 1920s as more spinners were being employed.

The Home Office inquiry confirmed that mineral oils were the cause and recommended efforts be made to replace them with non-carcinogens.

Splash guards were also ordered to be placed on the machines to prevent oil from spraying on the workers’ trousers.

Mule spinners over 30 would be required to have medical checks every four months.

But as late as 1941, a doctor named Brockbank wrote in the British Medical Journal how he had seen more than 150 cases including some that were “hopelessly neglected”.

From 1923 to 1939 there were more than 350 deaths and, even as the Second World War was starting, factory inspectors said they had identified another 52 cases.

They included a Dukinfield man named George Harrop, who was just 56 when he died.

He had worked at one of the biggest mills in Ancoats for more than a decade before the cancer forced him to give up work in 1926.

A five-paragraph story in the industry’s newspaper, the Cotton Factory Times, noted that an inquest had recorded a verdict of death from “misadventure”.

“He was an extremely good workman,” a solicitor for Mr Harrop’s employers told the coroner.

“They very much regretted his incapacity and the long illness from which he suffered and resulted in his death.”

But for hard-working Mr Harrop, the regrets of his employers came far too late.

Cotton towns ancestry

I hope you found this story interesting.

I still find it amazing that so little is known about the effects of an industry that dominated people’s lives in our area for well over a century.

If you’re looking to find out more about your cotton industry ancestors, please do check out my professional family history site www.cottontownsancestry.com.

I’ve recently revamped the site to better reflect that my work covers not just Manchester but the mill towns of Greater Manchester and Lancashire.

There’s a link on the site where you can book a free family history consultation with no obligation to commission me for any work.

Have a good weekend.

Like many working people at the turn of the twentieth century, Annie Gledhill was reluctant to tell a doctor she liked a drink.

Admitting she supped four cups of beer before bed to ease her bronchial cough might have left her liable to having her children taken.

So every time she was seen by Mr Allen at Hulme Dispensary about the pains in her legs, Annie …

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Step into Gallery One at the People’s History Museum in Manchester and you will come face-to-face with one of democracy’s greatest heroes.

Known as the father of the American Revolution, Thomas Paine was the British subject who fired up the spirit of US independence against his own country.

In the gallery you’ll find the desk where he wrote one of his def…

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It’s a Saturday morning in July 2024 and I’m leading a group of Angel Meadow descendants on a tour of the district.

These are the same streets that Friedrich Engels walked 180 years ago. The same streets where my Irish ancestors lived.

With its residential towers of steel and glass, modern day Angel Meadow is a different place to the one visited by Engels.

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It’s 1844 and a well-dressed man is walking through the streets of Manchester.

His ears are tuned in to the music of the world’s first industrial city:

The flying shuttles thumping across the cotton looms like a heartbeat.

The click-clack of the clogs on the cobbles.

The man spins left off the street …

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Welcome to the Meander — my new series exclusively for paid subscribers that explores offbeat paths in Manchester and Salford…

If one street could symbolise the different faces of Manchester and Salford, it would have to be Chapel Street on the right bank of the Irwell.

Standing just a stone’s throw from Manchester’s most fashionable shops, much of Salford’s “old chap” awaits the march of the developers.

With a number of abandoned shops and empty pubs, a walk down here feels like wandering into a different era.

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It’s a hot day in May 2025 and the sun is blazing down outside the Home arts venue in Tony Wilson Place.

A group of office workers in short sleeves and white trainers are chatting over lunch at a row of trestle tables.

Nearby, a signboard is advertising a breakfast butty with a hot drink for £6.50 with unselfconscious aplomb.

Friedrich Engels, standing th…

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It’s an overcast day in the autumn of 2012.

Inside the archaeologists’ hut at the bottom of Dantzic Street, I’m picking over the Victorian artefacts that have come up from the trench.

The bowl of a clay pipe that still whiffs of tobacco. The delicate handle o…

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It was a cold Friday morning in November 1814 and a queue was forming in Manchester’s Fountain Street.

Outside the churchwarden’s office, the town’s poor were gathering so they could plead for a few pence to survive another week.

When the door finally opened, a woman limped forward to the desk of the relieving officer and waited for the usual questions ab…

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If you’re looking for something to do over the summer, I’m back on the road with my Angel Meadow tours.

More than 500 people have been on the tour since I started it last year.

Following requests from a few people, I’ve now added the following dates for June and July:

• Saturday, 7 June (sold out)

• Saturday, 21 June

• Friday, 27 June

• Friday, 11 July

• Friday, 25 July (sold out)

• Saturday, 2 August

I don’t like to have large groups where people can’t here, so to keep the tour personal I keep the numbers small, which means that the dates sell out pretty quickly.

🎟️Click on this link to book tickets and find out more information. You can also read reviews here.

The price of your ticket includes:

• A 90 minute guided walk through the streets of Angel Meadow with Dean Kirby, the leading authority on the area’s history.

• Walk alongside the River Irk, through the tree-lined Angel Meadow park and down streets where new apartments stand alongside former ragged schools.

• Regular stops where you’ll hear about the unusual characters who called this place home and historic incidents that took place right where you are standing.

• Small group sizes so you can ask questions and have plenty of time to take photographs.

• If you have bought a copy of my Angel Meadow book, bring it along and I'll sign and dedicate it for you. Or click to buy a signed copy at the ticket checkout.

• Personalise your tour: If your ancestors lived in Angel Meadow, contact me when you buy your ticket with their details and I'll do my best to mention them during the tour.

• New start point for 2025 in Sadler's Yard off Hanover Street with convenient public transport access.

Do come along if you want to find out more about the story of the people who built the world’s first industrial city.

P.S: While you’re here, would you consider subscribing to my Manchester History Club newsletter?

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