Everything seems to be going Marple’s way. It’s no surprise that Agatha Christie named her teacup sleuth after these parts. The 13,000-strong town in the southeastern corner of Greater Manchester is England in its cosiest pastoral garb: a network of canal walks and independent shops nestled in woodland on the edge of the River Goyt.
Once a retirement haven, now young professionals are decamping from the city, drawn by sourdough and the countryside. The high street of bygone Marple has been subsumed by a score of flourishing independents. A greasy spoon once plainly boasting “Hot And Cold Sandwiches” has become Tawny Stores, an unflinchingly upmarket kitchen decked out with sourdough and speciality wines. A beauty clinic has become Dig Inn, a florist-cum-record shop with its own selection of craft beers.
And the biggest change is still to come. In December, the town will unveil its £20m Marple Hub: a sustainable red-brick, glazed complex with a new library, a five-lane swimming pool, a gym, a clinic and a cafe. Most of it paid for by Levelling Up cash.
But some neighbours are not amused.
“Oh how nice for Marple, what about Hazel Grove? Nothing !!!” one Facebook user wrote. “Lovely for Marple! What about Reddish Baths?” Meanwhile, a Marple resident was asking for an update on the council’s plans for a sauna.
So, one of the richest areas in Stockport gets a pool with a moving floor, while trees grow out of the side of the rotting library in Reddish.
Country charm doesn’t usually win Whitehall funding. So who, or what, is behind Marple’s good fortune? The answer, it seems, comes down to a wily cast of local politicians, a population of civic campaigners, and a hillside too steep to build on. And a couple of otters.
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