YES, MAN IS AN ISLAND
In the Irish Sea between England and Ireland, this little treasure is all dramatic landscapes and magic spells, writes Lynn Haken
There is a gorse-studded island that was once the centre of a powerful sea kingdom that dates back to before the Ice Age. Its coastline is hugged by the Way of the Gull footpath, which carves its way through its Viking heritage. It rose from the feats of warriors, thrived upon the dealings of merchants, and is still swept by the winds that blow in from the Irish Sea. The Isle of Man sits proudly, a self-governing British Crown Dependency, nestling between Great Britain and Ireland. We were fortunate to be given a private tour of the island, visiting the Lady Isabella in Laxey, the largest surviving water-wheel of its kind in the world — a feat of Victorian engineering.
Onwards to Ramsey, we visited Maughold Head, where the sea has dipped away to reveal a massive shingle beach with a lone lighthouse standing sentinel.
Upwards over the 620m Snaefell Mountain, we followed the route of the TT races, the famed world motorcycle event. The route hugs the mountains, twisting and curling down to the sea by Kirk Michael, and the skill required of the riders is evident in the severity of the hairpin bends and tricky cambers.
A FORBIDDING CASTLE
The former capital of the Isle of Man, Castletown, is watched over by the broody Castle Rushen, whose medieval walls rise from the gnarled cottages and hobbled houses, supplicants to its fierce fortress. Originally built for a Norse king, it has been home to both a mint and a prison in its chequered career. The ramparts are sturdy and forbidding.
The town of Peel on St Patrick’s Isle, a small tidal island on the west coast of the isle, with fishing boats and circling gulls, holds its own castle, Peel Castle. It was also once a royal residence, centre of government and military stronghold. The residents’ faith in fairies is evident in tiny doorways set in the side of cottages — a “welcome” sign for the wee people.
There are signs of an ageless society. The Isle of Man Steam Railway still chugs through the countryside and we enjoyed a sumptuous supper on board one night whilst travelling from Douglas to Port Erin, with steam billowing, whistles blowing and waving trainspotters lining the small, bluebell-framed stations of Santon,
Ballasalla and Colby.
IN THE CAPITAL
The Douglas Bay Horse Tramway, an iconic Victorian creation, was undergoing a revamp and due to open soon. The tramway horses are large Shires and enjoy a calm and privileged retirement at a sanctuary that relies on donations to keep them comfortable. The Manx look after their own. The Isle of Man is steeped in the past — its modern-day finance hub in the capital of Douglas is juxtaposed with fairy culture, Neolithic passage graves, tailless cats, crofters’ cottages, chasms in cliffs which hold a furious ocean like a trapped wasp against a window, and fourhorned Loagthan sheep — all giving rise to the belief in mythical creatures, customs and lore.
THE SUSPICIOUS COP
Our time there was like a scene from Game of Thrones and one could be forgiven for imagining clashes between noble dynasties and the sea god Manannan rising and quelling disturbances.
But as our trip ended, magic and spells fell away to the normalcy of everyday life. As we left this beautiful island on the ferry back to the mainland, an Irish security officer decided to search our car. He was polite but bore a sense of officiousness.
“Please step out of da car, sir,” was the request to my husband, who duly complied.
Mr Clipboard asked a few questions, one of them being, “and are you da owner of da car, sir?”
“No.”
Eyebrow raised. “Who IS da owner of da car, sir?”
“Avis,” was the response.
This elicited a frisson of excitement. He pointed his pen at me.
“And would dat be Mrs Avis in da passenger seat, sir?” LS