Isle of Man - perception is not always reality

According to Wikipedia, the Isle of Man is a self-governing British Crown dependency situated in the Irish Sea between Britain and Ireland. Queen Elizabeth II is head of state and holds the title of Lord of Mann. She is represented locally on the island by a lieutenant governor.  In the past the territory has been ruled by both Norway and Scotland, but in 1399 came under the feudal lordship of the English Crown.  

Despite this the island never became part of the United Kingdom and has always retained its own internal self-government. That’s enough history for now, although you should be aware that insurance, online gambling, IT and banking generate much of the island’s revenue; and then there’s tourism which is where I come in.

The Isle of Man had been on my list of places to visit for some time, but when in 2010 the opportunity of a visit arose, in the form of CAMRA’s Members’ Weekend & AGM, I seized the chance and made the necessary arrangements for a brief, five day stay. By that time though, any romantic illusions I’d held about this 221 square mile chunk of rock, situated in the middle of the Irish Sea, roughly equidistant between England and Ireland, had been well and truly shattered.

If I’m brutally honest, I’m not really sure what these romantic illusions were, apart from perhaps those of a seabound kingdom where the wonders of coastline and countryside, sea and shore, meet in a place rich in both legend and history, influenced by the various settlers who, over the centuries, have made the Isle of Man their home. The reality, as always, is somewhat different as was revealed by the following two experiences. 

Now as there’s quite a story behind both these experiences, I’m not going to hold back, so if you’re expecting a detailed account of my first, and only visit to the Isle of Man, then I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait until next time. Instead, why not sit back and let me explain what exactly happened to sully my expectations about the island. 

Back in the day when we had our off-licence, we could occasionally rely on a chap called Andy to manage the shop, if we wanted some time off. Andy was a bit of a character and a real “jack the lad” who spoke his mind no matter what. But his heart was in the right place and, more to the point, he’d helped the previous owner on a regular basis. He was therefore reliable as well as knowing the ropes, and for a suitable cash inducement willing to assist for the odd evening or occasional weekend.

Andy was also a keen motorcyclist who would race bikes for the sheer fun and associated adrenaline rush. He was a regular participant in the Manx Grand Prix, which is a motorcycle event for amateurs and private entrants, that takes place in late August-early September. It uses the same 37 mile course as the world famous Isle of Man Tourist Trophy race, colloquially known as "The TT” which is run  over two weeks at the end of May, and into June.

One year, news reached me via a customer, that whilst taking part in the Manx Grand Prix, Andy had badly injured his leg. He ended up being flown off the island, by helicopter, and taken to the now demolished Kent & Sussex Hospital in Tunbridge Wells. I called into to see him one evening and found that he was not in the best of moods.

His leg had suffered multiple fractures and the consultant had told him that he’d been lucky not to have lost it altogether. We chatted about what had happened (he fell off at speed and collided with a hard surface). I told him that I was surprised that his fracture hadn’t been dealt with on the island, as surely such injuries are not that uncommon when motorcycles are racing at speed. At this point he laughed, shook his head and said that hospital facilities on the IOM were pretty basic.

This shocked me, especially given the importance of motorcycle racing to the local economy, but it appears that participants are expected to arrange appropriate insurance cover so, as in my friend’s case, they can be transported back to the mainland in the event of serious  injury. Andy’s experience was the first to alter my  perception of the Isle of Man; the second occurred a few years later.

In March 2007, after selling our off-licence business and returning to a salaried position in the healthcare industry, I treated myself to a week’s holiday in the Maldives. I’ve written about this well-earned break that I took before, and you can read more about my experience and reasons for going, here. 

I’d booked an all-inclusive package to the Island of Gan, in Addu Atoll. This is about as far south as you can get and still be in the Maldives, and the onward flight from the international airport at Malé involved crossing the Equator. The resort I stayed at was called Equator Village and was formerly the quarters for RAF service personnel stationed at the nearby airbase.

Despite the island’s former connection with the British Crown, most guests at the resort were German. The resort staff took care of this by sitting me with some other English guests at dinner that evening, and we soon got chatting. I became quite friendly with one couple over the course of the ensuing week, and it turned out they were from the Isle of Man.

Only one of them was a native of the island; husband Richie who was a tall, well-built Manxman, with more than a touch of Viking about him. His wife Mel was a shorter and dark-haired Brummie, who was much more talkative than her husband and, as I later found out, also rather fond of a drink.

I’m not quite sure how to explain this, but Mel sort of latched onto me for reasons I can only describe as loneliness. There wasn’t much to do in the evenings apart from congregate in the resort’s spacious bar and take advantage of the all-inclusive drinks package. It didn’t take long for me to get bored with the Bintang; a canned beer brewed by a subsidiary of Heineken, and imported from Indonesia. Unfortunately, it was the only beer available at the resort, so against my better judgement, I switched to shorts, finding vodka and orange a suitable and quite palatable alternative.

On two consecutive evenings towards the end of the week, for reasons best known to himself, Richie departed early, leaving wife Mel and I to neck back the vodkas and chat. One topic of conversation was the Isle of Man, and it was then that Mel made it obvious that she not only hated the place but felt trapped there. 

Because she felt stuck on this rock in the middle of the Irish sea, I asked her about transportation to the mainland, and whether discounted fairs were available for islanders. No cut-price offers were available, flights were expensive, and the sea crossings monopolised by the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company; something I discovered for myself, three years later when I booked my own trip to Man.

None of this was helpful for someone who disliked living in a tight-knit, local community, but for a woman used to the bright lights, big shopping centres and other attractions of Birmingham, it must have been purgatory. 

Now whilst I was quite prepared to lend a sympathetic ear, that was as far as I intended to go. With a wife and teenage son back home in the UK, plus the fact that Richie was more than capable of defending his wife’s honour, there was no way I was going to let the situation develop into something more serious – however flattering, and tempting that might have seemed. So, in that respect I was pleased when the final night came, and I helped this pleasant, but rather troubled lady back to her chalet.

Both of us were rather the worse for drink as we said our goodbyes, and the excess vodka did little to enhance my flight back to Malé the following morning. It had been rescheduled to depart two hours earlier than advertised, and after only around three hours sleep and a thumping head, I was certainly not at my best. To make matters worse, the air-conditioning on the plane was set at such a low temperature, that I was shivering by the time we touched down at Malé. 

I couldn’t help thinking about Mel on the long flight home. Her and Richie were staying on for another week, so I trust they found time to try and patch up their obviously troubled relationship. Leaving aside any feelings on my part, what Mel had said about life on the Isle of Man only served to reinforce what my friend Andy had said; a great place to go for a holiday and enjoy a couple of weeks, but not somewhere you’d want to spend the rest of your life.

Three years later I booked a return sailing by fast Seacat from Liverpool to Douglas and set off to discover the truth for myself.