Alderley Edge is a pretty, leafy and lovingly-maintained village in, what locals call, Cheshire’s ‘golden triangle’ of wealth, footballers and celebrities.
It has everything the 4,777 residents would hope for. And more.
A thriving Post Office, its own Waitrose, a decent Indian restaurant, superb fish and chip shop as well as a cricket and tennis club.
There are also leafy walks galore into the surrounding countryside and a series of pretty planters along the main shopping drag of London Road, tumbling with geraniums and petunias. And not a scrap of litter or a homeless person anywhere to be seen.
In fact, it’s all so lovely on a sunny day in autumn, what with the leaves turning red and the pavement cafes packed, that it takes a moment to register that this is not like any other village in the UK.
Women straight from The Real Housewives of Cheshire in designer jackets, skin tight leggings and full faces of makeup walk their immaculately groomed dogs. Men suck on Montecristo cigars the size of saveloys outside Costa Coffee.
Cyclists pedal past on £13,000 carbon fibre bikes. Drivers leave Lamborghinis, Bentley SUVs and bright blue McLarens on double yellow lines outside the Bubble Room restaurant and bar.
And, come the weekend, the whole place is completely swamped.
The pretty Alderley Edge becomes inundated with day trippers from Manchester, influencers, content providers, celebrity spotters and, lately, hundreds of teens and young men who gather on the street benches and in the laybys and coffee shops, waiting with their cameras at the ready.
They’re not here to spot a rare bird. Or even a Manchester City striker. But for the unofficial supercar meet every Saturday afternoon, when 25 to 30 cars (usually worth between £250,000 and £3million apiece) converge on the village.
And which, despite a dispersal order put in place by Cheshire Police back in March, is worse than ever, according to exasperated locals.
Up and down London Road these luxury cars drive, for hours. Music blaring. Revving their engines and generally annoying everyone in earshot.
‘Poseurs’ Mile’, we call it,’ says Mark Dobson, 68, who works in aviation and tells me that he drives a rather more sensible Honda Civic. ‘It gets very congested and it’s very boring. And then in the wee small hours, they get on the bypass and really gun it. And yes, there have been a couple of crashes.’
Luke, who’s been working at Morrisons Daily for 16 years, is not a fan.
‘It’s really noisy when I’m trying to work at the weekends,’ he tells me crossly. ‘I wish their exhaust pipes would just fall off.’
Or Julie in the charity shop.
‘I just think, “Wow, you’ve got an engine in your car. Bully for you”’ she says.
Nor is Gareth Foster, proprietor of David Beckham’s favourite fish and chip shop, Fosters.
‘We’re used to rich and famous here, we’ve had them all in,’ he says, proudly showing me a huge red and white display board bearing the names of all the celebrities who’ve come in over the years – everyone from Ewan McGregor to Noddy Holder, Wayne Rooney to Coronation Street’s Bill Roache and Sir Geoffrey Boycott.
‘But these aren’t even footballers. This lot have come from all over, just to rev their engines and show off. It’s quite pathetic really and not very classy.’
Of course, Alderley Edge (along with Wilmslow and Prestbury) has always attracted the great, the good and the flash of the North West including industrialists, businessmen, sports stars and showbiz – none of whom were known for their austere lifestyles.
And, as a result, ‘the Edge’, or ‘the village’ as locals call it, has been in and out of the news over the years as the champagne guzzling capital of Britain, boasting most millionaires per head, most footballers per square foot and dubbed the ‘Knightsbridge of the North’.
Thirty minutes by train to Manchester. Fifteen to the airport and just over two hours by train to London with lush green countryside all around – it’s always been a destination.
Back in the 1990s and beyond, it even had its own nightclub, Brasingamens, with a strict no denims and no caps rule, which meant that London Road was awash with paparazzi desperate to catch a shot of dishevelled footballers staggering home.
Now though, it’s a different sort of wealthy that has infiltrated the picture perfect village – crypto multimillionaires and tech entrepreneurs – whose personal balance sheets dwarf that of even the top premier league player.
‘These days the footballers are not the big players anymore, they’re more likely to be pretty low key – drinking coffee in The Village Cafe,’ says Stephanie Ledigo, an events planner who organised boxer Tyson Fury’s birthday party and has lived here all her life.
‘This new lot are young rich guys with supercars who rent in the village because of the status, and all the wealth here,’ she says.
Some have made their money in Dubai and the UAE. All are on the way up, ambitious, materialistic, drawn to the cache and the wealth.
Which, once you’ve got your eye in, is astounding.
The main road is a mix of aesthetics clinics, bespoke kitchen showrooms, a bike shop called Velo where the cheapest model will set you back £4,000 and has customers flying in from all over Europe, and Flannels – a top end designer boutique.
The bakery is so posh it doesn’t actually sell bread – only exquisite cakes and designer pies.
Meanwhile, in Waitrose, the extensive champagne section – including all the £145 bottles of Bolly and all bar one of the £280-a-pop Cristal 2013 – has been plundered, and the aisles are populated almost entirely by women buying fresh tuna and broccoli in designer Pilates gear with swinging pony tails.
‘That’s the Alderley Edge uniform,’ says Ledigo. ‘They all know that.’
Even the charity shops are different, attracting TikTokers from all over, who video themselves raking through the rails of Armani, Gucci, Versace and Boss.
Although according to Julie in Marie Curie, the stock is a shadow of what it used to be. ‘Because the really rich never give – they sell it all on Vinted!’
It goes without saying that the village is big on ‘wellness’ and enhancement. At all levels.
So while Kerry Katona still roars up to The Style Room on London Road in her bright green Lamborghini for her treatments, the real money head to One Aesthetic Studio.
There, it is all so discreet that Dr Jonquille Chantrey, who trained as a surgeon, has a six-month waiting list and offers treatments starting at about £950 a pop for patients – more than a quarter of whom are now men.
‘They’re presenting younger and younger – from about 35 years old – they want to look less tired, sharper,’ she says.
Even in Strutt & Parker estate agents, Crispin Harris, posh and perfectly presented in tweeds and tie with little collared dogs on, fills me in on the booming housing market where prices are up 11 per cent, year on year.
There are currently between 80 and 100 properties available in the prime £2million to £6 million range in a five mile radius of the village.
But for me the most shocking thing about Alderley Edge is the cars. Not just the Saturday afternoon show-off supercars, but the ‘just popping out for a pint of almond milk and a £260 jar of retinol cream’ cars.
Because pretty much every other vehicle here – and I promise I am not exaggerating – is a top of the range Porsche SUV, Land Rover, Range Rover, Bentley, or Mercedes.
They line both sides of London Road. They’re outside the post office, the trendy Studio 34 Pilates studio and idling in the Waitrose carpark.
Such is the demand that the local Texaco garage has dedicated four of its eight pumps to super unleaded and diesel fuel – designed for supercars. (It is also the first petrol station I’ve been to which boasts two temperature-controlled humidor stuffed with expensive cigars).
All are huge, mostly black, and spotless. Some, like the Lamborghinis, growl. Others are weirdly silent.
The locals might be furious about the noise, but the supercar dealers – Rolls Royce, Bentley, Lamborghini, Porsche – dotted all around the golden triangle, are thrilled.
Of course they are. They’re making hay.
Sam in Aston Martin salesman tells me that they sell between 20 and 25 sales cars a month – ranging from a used Vantage, for about £90,000, to a £3.2million limited edition Valkarye.
‘Yes, it’s mostly entrepreneurs. Tech guys – 21 year olds who trade in crypto and no, they don’t usually need finance.’
Then on to McLaren, where the air smells of money, prices for the limited edition models start at about £1million, and a customer in skinny jeans and trainers and who looks about 17 years old, is umming and ah-ing between a couple of cars in electric blue and purple. Who knows, maybe next week, he’ll be one of those revving on London Road.
But the old football stars and their families are leaving as this new vanguard in their Lamborghinis take over.
Coleen and Wayne Rooney, who used to live just up the road, have now moved to a new build red brick mansion, High Lake Manor, near the airport, some people unkindly compared it to a branch of Morrisons.
But not here. In fact, just the mention of Coleen has faces softening all around town.
Julie in the charity shop tells me she often saw her around. ‘They pull up in the car outside and Shrek, that’s what I like to call [Wayne], sits tight and she pops across to Nero for a coffee.
Even Luke in Morrisons got a bit flustered when she popped in. ‘I’m not very good with footballers, or celebrities, but when she came, I’d just that minute put a magazine with her face on the front on the rack!’ he says. ‘I’m not sure she noticed, but she was very friendly.’
But she’s not here much anymore.
And in Fosters the chippy, while the hundreds of photographers on Saturdays provide a good new trade, they seem a bit wistful. Harking back to the good old days when Becks used to pop in every day for his tea after training with Man U.
‘Victoria was a huge fan, too!’ says Gareth.
Really – of fish and chips?
‘Yes, yes, when she was pregnant, she had a massive craving for mushy peas!’ he says. ‘Or come to think of it, perhaps she just had a pot of peas.. yes, that’s more likely.’
Alderley Edge has always been about aspiration and ambition. But also about community and the long standing and long suffering locals, who clearly loved their celebrities. But less so this new influx of showy ostentation.
Later, as I sit along from a couple of men at the lovely bar at San Carlo – Alderley’s answer to Annabel’s in Mayfair, with its roaring fires, artfully arranged ceiling foliage and chintzy loos – I can sort of see where the longstanding locals are coming from.
These newcomers are very young. Sharply dressed. Brash. And loudly discussing various women they’ve been on dates with in a deeply unflattering manner as they drink chilled white wine and take photos of each other’s enormous watches.
Afterwards, as I walk back to my hotel, I meet two wannabe influencers with expensively balayaged hair and very white teeth, making content outside a bar.
‘This is the place!’ they tell me. ‘We’d give anything, anything to live here. One day.’
Gosh ladies, rather you than me.
