As I arrive at Finigans, the poor lass is run off her feet. The pie has a proper sticky glaze to bite into whereupon there is a mash of potato with small chunks of beef to chomp into. It’s bursting with flavour, strong seasoning but a highly traditional taste, like a pie from yesteryear, before people saw fit to continually scaremonger over salt content. This is potentially one of the finest Southerly staging posts of meat and potato pies in the North West before you traverse into oatcake and faggot (pardon?) country.