10 years on - looking back at the Isle of Man

Douglas, Isle of Man, was the venue for the 2010 CAMRA Members’ Weekend & AGM, but the weekend will really be remembered for the travel disruption caused by the eruption of the Icelandic volcano; the one with the unpronounceable name! For me, it will go down as my first visit to the Isle of Man and the chance to see and enjoy much of what the island has to offer visitors in terms of scenery, heritage, pubs and means of getting around.

I travelled on my own across to the island, by the fast Sea Cat Catamaran service from Liverpool, arriving in Douglas shortly after 10pm. It was Wednesday evening in mid-April, and prior to boarding the ferry, I’d spent the afternoon exploring a few of Liverpool’s finest pubs. After stepping off the ferry in Douglas, I walked along the brightly lit promenade to my pre-booked guest house. 

The proprietors  knew the arrival times of the ferry and were expecting me, but by the time I’d booked in and been shown to my room I decided that a relatively early night was in order, and that I would leave my first pint on the island, until the following morning.

I slept well and after enjoying an excellent breakfast of Manx kippers – what else? I headed out explore the island. Before doing so, I phoned Mrs PBT’s, and it was then that I learned that all European airspace had been closed because of the enormous ash cloud emitting from the Eyjafjallajökull volcano in Iceland, and that all flights had been grounded. Until that moment I’d been oblivious to what had been going on in the outside world.

I was due to meet up with a couple of friends from my own West Kent CAMRA branch, later that morning, and with a group from Maidstone CAMRA. My friends had flown over the day before, whereas the Maidstone contingent had, like me, travelled over by ferry. It seemed that most of the delegates had also arrived the same day, so the conference went ahead almost as though nothing had happened.

I spent the first two days in the company of friends Iain and Carole, plus Kent Regional Director Kae. We travelled first to Laxey, by means of the wonderfully eccentric Manx Electric Railway, which operates several sets of restored vintage trams, over a 17 mile stretch of narrow-gauge track between Douglas and Ramsey.  

After alighting at Laxey, where we spent some time admiring the impressive Laxey Wheel, which is the largest working waterwheel in the world. Iain and I climbed the winding staircase of the supporting structure, and as the photo's show, there was quite a view from the top.

We then journeyed onto Ramsey but made the mistake of riding in one of the semi-open carriages. The sun may have been shining, but there was still a real chill in the air; a factor made worse as the railway continued to climb into the rugged hills, before making its final descent into Ramsey. I felt stiff and seriously cold by the time we arrived in what is the second largest town on the IOM.

We found a pub to warm up in, and to partake of a spot of lunch. Unfortunately, the notes I took at the time have gone missing, so the name of the pub escapes me, but after looking at a map on WhatPub, and remembering that it was close to the station, I am guessing that the pub was probably the Swan.

The beer was Okell's - no surprises there,  and my first beer since setting foot on the island. The sandwiches though were a real disappointment, consisting of white, thinly sliced, supermarket bread - pappy and bland. Strange how you sometimes only remember the bad parts! Afterwards we took a stroll along the quayside, before diving into Trafalgar Hotel, where we met up with the contingent from Maidstone CAMRA.  

We returned to Douglas by the same mode of transport, but this time we sat in one of the fully enclosed carriages. We stopped off en route, at the village of Old Laxey, which involved  a steep descent from the main road, down towards the picturesque old harbour. There we enjoyed a drink at the atmospheric Shore Hotel.

This comfortable pub has a nautical feel and attracts many additional visitors in the summer owing to its proximity to the nearby sandy beach and promenade. Our reason for stopping was slightly different, but no less important, as the Shore Hotel is the island's only brewpub, and its single house-brewed beer, the malty Bosun's Bitter was much appreciated.

It was a steep climb back up to the main road, and then just a short tram ride to the Mines Tavern, a real gem of a pub nestled in the picturesque, semi-woodland setting of the Laxey Tram Station. The trams run right past the pub, and some of the outdoor tables are practically on the station platform. 

The Mines has a good reputation for food, so I’m fairly confident that we ate there. Unfortunately, I only have vague recollections of the place, and that might be down to the amount of beer I’d sampled by that point in the day. I didn’t even take any photos!

We’ll call it a day now, as there’s more to come when I describe my second day on the IOM and how we went on to explore the other side of the island.

Best stay at home today, folks!

I took the decision not to venture out today, or at least go no further than my own back garden. The weather is glorious, with wall-to-wall sunshine, and a gentle cooling breeze – ideal under normal conditions for a walk to an idyllic country pub. But conditions are far from normal at present, and the government have urged people to stick to the guidelines and stay at home.

If the scientific and health experts are correct, the next two weeks could be critical in flattening the curve, and slowing down the spread of this insidious virus, but with warm spring conditions, at least for today, the authorities are concerned that people will head out in their droves to parks and local beauty spots, potentially un-doing the containment that’s already been achieved.

My neighbours and I are fortunate in having large gardens to enjoy and to exercise in, should we wish, so I do feel for those confined to apartments or high-rise flats, but the situation is was it is even if this is of little comfort to city dwellers.  I had this conversation over the fence yesterday, with Terry next door, keeping at least 2 metres away from each other, of course. His sister has lived in Italy for several decades, and her and her family are under complete lock-down, which is still being rigorously enforced. As he said to me, you wouldn’t want to argue with the Italian police!

So, it’s the back garden or nothing for the Bailey family today, but yesterday, son Matthew and I did go out for walk. Our destination was the grounds of Somerhill House, a Grade 1 listed Jacobean mansion, set on a hill to the far south-eastern edge of Tonbridge. The grounds are about 10 minutes’ walk from Bailey towers, so a stroll through the grounds, and up to the house and back seemed eminently do-able.

Somerhill House is home to several independent, fee-paying schools, which are obviously closed at present, so we weren’t sure if the grounds would be closed as well. They were open, but with a prominent notice advising people to keep to the footpaths – more on that later. We therefore passed through the ornate wrought-iron entrance gate and into the grounds.

I have walked this route on numerous previous occasions, mainly whilst out with friends on walks out to the pubs in Tudeley or Capel, but with no welcoming hostelry waiting at the end, it was a stroll to the top of the hill, and then back down again. 

The first part of the route follows a paved road, which then crosses a bridge across the opening of a large, ornamental lake. Such man-made areas of water are a common feature of stately homes up and down the country. After passing a substantial lodge, the path then deviates to the left, and this was the route we took. 

There were people out and about, but overall, they were few and far between and in sensible numbers. There are however, a couple of observations I wish to make, and they concern social-distancing. First, if you are an obviously un-fit or overweight jogger, please consider others as you come lumbering towards them, puffing and panting thereby releasing all sorts of nasties as you approach. 

Second, whilst it’s fine for families to be out in the fresh air, taking some exercise, why walk four a-breast, forcing others to take evasive action as you approach them? A little consideration and thought for your fellow citizens goes a long way in helping to bring the end of this pandemic that little bit closer.

There’s not much more to more to report, apart from saying how beautiful the English countryside is starting to look, and that applies to carefully managed, artificial parkland areas as well.

Enjoy the photos, they speak volumes about what I have just said.

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.