The Beard of Fallowfield

Sometimes as you travel out from the centre of big cities you come across what appear to be small villages, despite the fact that they are surrounded by the suburbs rather than green fields. They have a self-contained feel, an immediate sense of community.

I had that experience, today, when we took Charlie's belongings that I brought down from Edinburgh, last Tuesday, to her new place in Manchester. Once we'd ferried the boxes upstairs, we set off to find somewhere to grab some lunch. Our village experience was a place called Fallowfield.

OK, so it doesn't have quaint shops exactly - more along the lines of Starbucks and Subway - but we did find a lovely little place called 'Fallow', which, the Minx informed me, was the first place owned by Trof, the people behind the marvellous Deaf Institute, just off Oxford Road.

Upstairs, Fallow has an open deck where you can sit and eat. We - Abi, the Minx, Charlie and me - found ourselves a table and settled back in the sunshine, sipping our drinks and waiting for our food, which arrived just about when we were ready for it and was great.

Just across the road was a little mess of buildings, which had been graffiti'd in places. My favourite was the chap with the beard.