retiredmartin

September 2026. Flixton. Greater Manchester.

By Tuesday I was itching at the bit to get out of Sheffield, determined to walk off that leg injury I don’t like to talk about.

Ideal, then, that Flixton in the middle-class suburbs of west Manchester Trafford has the UK’s largest collection of crumbling pavements, commissioned to increase orthopaedic referrals to Trafford General.

And that’s a relatively flat patch.

Flixton (10,786) is tucked between the Manchester Ship Canal and the River Mersey, between Trafford Centre shops and the Carrington training grounds where United practice lumping the ball up to Maguire.

It gets few visitors, bar a well known pub blogger making a trip to the Conservative Club a decade ago.

And there’s not many pubs, either. A dalliance with craft at Brew Chimp has just ended,

and a half hour hobble brings no further pub sightings in commuterville.

You’re well outside the Holt heartland here, so the highlight is a row of shops starting with “S” in the shopping arcade.

At last ! Our Beer Guide newbie.

A large dining pub for gentlefolk isn’t going to be as much fun as a Holt boozer,

but Star Pub’s Fox is very welcoming and would probably have given me a taster of one of those obscure beers if I’d wanted one.

I choose a seat away from the main diners, one without the cutlery and serviettes that then have to be brought to my table, and am immediately joined in close proximity by the local kennel club.

The nice lady wanted to offer me a choice of menus, ranging from OAP to lunch special, but I’d done my research. Just as Tim Taylor Landlord is the bellwether pint, so the house burger is the test of a good lunch.

It really was brilliant, the beer GOOD, the soundtrack VERY 1987. Phil, Heart and Belinda.

The main pub drama, though BRAPA would have scented out more, came when a genteel lady left a half drunk bottle of Old Mout on the bar counter. And Old Mout ain’t cheap.