Bury /ˈbɛrɪ/ is a town in Greater Manchester, England. It lies on the River Irwell, 5.5 miles (8.9 km) east of Bolton, 5.9 miles (9.5 km) west-southwest of Rochdale, and 7.9 miles (12.7 km) north-northwest of the city of Manchester. Bury is surrounded by several smaller settlements, which together form the Metropolitan Borough of Bury, with Bury as the largest settlement and administrative centre.
Historically a part of Lancashire, Bury emerged during the Industrial Revolution as a mill town centred on textile manufacture.
Bury is regionally notable for its open-air market - Bury Market - and its popularity has been increased since the introduction of the Manchester Metrolink tram system, which terminates in the town. The market is known for its supply of a local traditional dish - black pudding, served hot or cold and can be eaten either as a takeaway snack, or more commonly as an accompaniment or main ingredient of a meal starter or main course.
One of Bury's most notable residents was Sir Robert Peel, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and founder of the Metropolitan Police Service. A monument to Peel is outside Bury parish church and another, the austere Peel Monument, stands on a hill overlooking the locality.
Read more about Bury: Governance, Geography, Demography, Landmarks, Transport, Education, Sport, Notable People, Twin Towns
Famous quotes containing the word bury:
““Now bury your bird,” the wind it bawled,
“And bury him down and down
Who had to put his trust in one
So light-eyed and so brown....””
—Gwendolyn Brooks (b. 1917)
“... in the cities there are thousands of rolling stones like me. We are all alike; we have no ties, we know nobody, we own nothing. When one of us dies, they scarcely know where to bury him.... We have no house, no place, no people of our own. We live in the streets, in the parks, in the theatres. We sit in restaurants and concert halls and look about at the hundreds of our own kind and shudder.”
—Willa Cather (1873–1947)
“Slavery and servility have produced no sweet-scented flower annually, to charm the senses of men, for they have no real life: they are merely a decaying and a death, offensive to all healthy nostrils. We do not complain that they live, but that they do not get buried. Let the living bury them; even they are good for manure.”
—Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)