Newspaper column - staying on the Isle of Man in winter
A gale rages. It is so rough outside, the wind is howling through tiny leaks in my hotel room’s double glazing. I watch as a wild, wild sea pummels the promenade. Spume and seaweed shower the sea-wall as gulls twist and turn above, riding the maelstrom as if it were nothing more than a summer breeze. Rain and spray lash at the glass, putting off my afternoon walk for another hour or two yet.
If I was on a summer holiday, I’d be miserable. But here in the depths of winter, I love it.
Dawn on a midwinter Douglas beach, Isle of Man
Indeed, I love the whole idea of exploring another part of Britain well outside anything that could be described as a tourist season. The so-called ‘shoulder months’ are one thing - early February is something else altogether.
Certainly, nothing much is happening here in Douglas on the Isle of Man, save for the busy, hectic, frenzied pounding of the sea. The famous trams that would be trundling just outside my window won’t be running for another six weeks, most seafront restaurants are shut, the mainland ferry has been cancelled because of the storm and even the excellent pub just along the prom’ can’t be bothered to open its doors at lunchtime. Why would it? Few potential customers are to be seen under the aerial dance of the wind-loving gulls. The horizon has gone on strike as cloud sinks to meet the sea and you cannot see the snow covered mountains which loom high above this old Victorian holiday resort.
Douglas, Isle of Man, in February
And yet… There really is a special magic about being by the seaside on a day when sleet and rain are blown in on something as violent as a Force 9 Gale.
There is also something special about being far from home in your own country during the dead-end of winter. There is, for example, something deliciously snug about taking a hot hotel bath after a morning’s wind-battered exploration of somewhere you’ve never been before.
And I have never before been to the Isle of Man. Now, I am pleased that I have made the effort to come here, despite today being so inclement.
But it wasn’t yesterday - and our dawn-til-dusk adventure took us all over this remarkable little nation (locals insist that is what it is). Under a bright winter sun we were delighted and astounded to discover some of the most scenic and interesting places imaginable.
That is what I wanted to write about here. The surprise of discovery. The thrill of finding that a place you’ve heard about all your life can be far far more interesting, scenic and welcoming than you’d ever previously dreamed it could be.
Before the British Guild of Travel Writers invited me to attend their world-roaming annual general meeting here this week, I’d never given this island much thought. If I did, I guess my shorthand thoughts went something like this…
“That’s where crazy blokes belt around racing two-wheeled rockets known as motorbikes and where greedy folk put their dosh to avoid taxes. And it’s where questionable folk hang out after they’ve sold our Government dodgy PPE. Surely, it’s nothing but a corner of England, Scotland or Ireland which somehow found itself removed from the mainland coast?”
If that is what I lazily and silently felt about the Isle of Man, then I’d like to apologise. It is a truly gorgeous and fascinating part of the United Kingdom and everyone ought to come here and visit the place at least once.
It is an island of fabulous beaches, impressive mountains and lovely countryside. It is a place that has more ancient culture and folklore in its little island finger than most large countries do in all their broad acres. It boasts miles and miles of truly scenic heritage railways. It enjoys a local food scene which is second to none.
As I’ll be writing about all this in a special travel piece, I won’t bang on any more about it here.
My point is that perhaps we all could and should do more to explore our own backyard. The UK is full of such places and yet most of us (me included) spend large sums on queueing at airports so we can flee the country on a temporary, but regular, basis.
There is also that issue of lazy-thinking or mis-preconception. The assumed or inherited thought that insists: “Oh, there can’t be much there to see or enjoy.”
I’ve even suffered from this in terms of my own home-county. For years I thought the Somerset Levels was just a flat damp place that could contain nothing or little of interest. I wanted dramatic coasts and magnificent moorlands - I was a man who adventured among hilltops and forests - I was the guy who’d travel thousands of miles to walk among mountains or bathe on the beaches of tropical isles. I didn’t want ditches and dykes.
And yet I was to discover that just down the road there was a place which boasted the best sky-scapes in all of Europe. An intriguing land of legend and mystery. A place where the very heavens are occasionally dominated by the mesmeric movement of birds.
No… If home is where the heart is, then everywhere and anywhere is the place where magic might reside. If you take the trouble to look for it.
