MANCHESTER — They say half the fun of travelling is the people you meet and the new friends you make.

How true.

This past Tuesday night, I was milling around Old Trafford when I became famished and decided to trek down Chester Road to look for a place to eat. It was after I walked down the empty, desolate road for about 20 minutes that I stumbled upon a very special pub where I met some very special people.

From the outside, the Gorse Pub looks like your average English beer hall. A stone’s throw away from Old Trafford, the Gorse (as the locals call it) is a charming, intimate tavern that is in the heart of Manchester United country.

The people who drink in this bar are typical of the folks who live in this industrial, blue-collar city that was one of the key centres for the Industrial Revolution of the 18th century.

They are working-class blokes. Salt-of-the-earth people. They give a dollar’s work for a dollar’s pay, and then at the end of the day, they come into the Gorse and spend some of their hard-earned wages and catch up with friends.

I walked into the Gorse simply looking for a quick bite to eat and a pint to wash it down. What I found instead was something much more memorable.

Over in the corner, a group of football fans sat perched on their bar stools, drinking lager and talking about, among other things, the big game between Juventus and A.C. Milan.

Although they were strangers to me at the time, it wasn’t too long before I knew all their names.

There was Robin, the young fan of Manchester City (Manchester’s ‘other’ football club) who travels to every away game. Eddie, a quiet but articulate fan. Ian, another City fan with a wry sense of humour. Corky, a Manchester City season ticket holder for the past 25 years, and a loud and gregarious lad. June and Joe, the charming old couple who run the bar and seem to know every patron by their first name.

And of course David Pye, a football scribe with The Messenger, one of the local papers, and the lone devoted Manchester United fan in the group.

Just to give you some context, Manchester City and Manchester United fans are English football’s answer to the Montagues and Capulets. They are driven by their passionate dislike for each other, which made me all the more amazed that these guys were in a bar drinking together just down the road from Old Trafford. It would be like if Leaf and Hab fans broke bread together at a bar after a game at the Air Canada Centre.

While eating my fish and chips alone at a faraway table, June came over and astutely figured out that I was a writer from abroad. When I told her I was from Canada and was in town for the Champions League, she encouraged me to go and introduce myself to the guys.

With a pint of Boddingtons in hand, I walked over, tapped David on the shoulder and introduced myself. He invited me to sit down and I began to interview him for a column I planned to write that evening.

But after only a few minutes, I quickly put my pen and paper away and we began to simply talk. Not as reporter and interviewee, but as mates. Soon, the rest of the group joined in and we talked and drank for hours.

Though we came from different backgrounds, different cultures, and had different experiences, we had one thing in common: we spoke the universal language of football.

As the night progressed, they learned a little about Canada, I learned a little about England, and more importantly, we all learned a little bit more about ourselves.

While June was pouring me another Boddingtons, she asked how I was getting on with the boys.

“Great,” I said. “They seem very impressed that I came all this way from Canada just to watch a football match. They’re a brilliant bunch of guys.”

“Yeah, they’re great,” she replied. “I think you’ll find that blokes in these parts are the friendliest anywhere in England.

She was right.

Towards the end of the night, Joe made his first appearance and began to give the guys some friendly stick.

“Why is it you lads can’t ever have a conversation without talking about football?”

Seems the silver-haired fox is a big golf fan.

Corky quickly leapt to the group’s defence.

“Joe, this young man came all the way over from Canada just to talk football. Are you going to deny him that?”

I quickly added my two-cents.

“He’s right, sir. This is why I came over here. You have to understand that I’m the lone football fan in a country of 25 million ice-hockey fans.”

The rest of the boys laughed, and Joe cracked a smile before joining in on the conversation.

Although it was a joke, there was a small kernel of truth to what I said. Sometimes I feel desperately isolated back home, being such a big football fan but not having a group of friends I can talk to about it. When I booked this trip two months ago, I wanted to fully experience the colourful tapestry of football culture in this amazing country.

A big part of that culture has to do with hanging out with your mates in pubs like the Gorse and talking football.

As the bar slowly emptied that night, we drank some more and stayed until well past closing time, before June and Joe closed the lights and called me a cab.

The entire group sauntered outside where we said our goodbyes and I told them to look me up if they ever found themselves in Toronto. Robin and David stuck behind, making sure I safely got into a taxi, and David and I exchanged e-mail addresses, promising each other to stay in touch.

As the taxi wheeled out onto Chester Road, I looked back and gave the thumbs up to David, thanking him for his kindness. He returned the favour with a friendly smile.

It was a simple gesture on his part but one steeped in meaning. He knew how much his friendship that evening had meant to me because it meant just as much to him.

Wednesday’s game at Old Trafford, my first taste of live European football, was without question the highlight of my six-day stay in England.

But a close second was a very special night I spent with some very special blokes at the Gorse.

John is back in Canada now, enduring the endless rants of his hockey-addled friends.