Where is it?

The place describes itself as an ‘Independent Nation’, but is not represented at the UN. It has its own government, called the Tynwald, which dates from around AD 979, and is said to be the world’s oldest continuously existing parliament.

It issues its own passports and currency, produces its own postage stamps and has its own flag. It is located in the Irish Sea, geographically at the centre of the British Isles, but is not officially part of the United Kingdom, although its foreign relations and defence are the responsibility of the UK government. While it is not a member, it does have a customs deal with the EU.

 The Isle of Man is actually ‘a self-governing crown dependency’, and the head of state is Queen Elizabeth II, who holds the title of ‘Lord of Mann’. Confused? I certainly was, but having said that, I have always had a fascination for the quirky little countries, and the colonial anomalies and territories scattered around the world. My father has a lot to answer for: getting me started with a stamp collection at the age of four, so that before I even began school, I could reel off all of the countries of the world.

I was particularly fascinated by the little places that seemed to have a history and measure of independence against the odds. Gibraltar. Liechtenstein. Andorra. Self-governing nations in Europe with populations the size of a mid-sized English town.

As a former colonial power, the UK still retains quite a number of colonies and dependent territories around the world, but closer to home, we also have a number of small islands such as the Isle of Man, and the Bailiwicks of Guernsey and Jersey just off the coast of France, which are neither official parts of the UK, nor wholly independent, either.

In many people’s minds, the Isle of Man is associated with motorcycle-racing. The Isle of Man TT and the Manx Grand Prix are famous international road racing events that take place annually and which attract thousands of spectators.

For others, it’s a quaint, sleepy place, with a sedate pace of life. As I’m approaching the time of life where a pleasant country stroll has more appeal than a throbbing night club, I suppose I’m at the point where the Isle of Man has a definite olde worlde appeal for me.

First impression is of a place almost trapped in a time warp – an England of 30 years ago, where there are no huge malls or Costas and Starbucks, but small individual fishmongers, butchers and greengrocers. Traffic moves at a leisurely pace and the buildings are free of graffiti.

It is possible to reach the Isle of Man by air or a ferry, which glides gently into Douglas harbour after a pleasant three hour journey from mainland Liverpool, Dublin or Belfast. The first sight on arrival in the harbour is a small castle built on a sandbank in the bay.

A tourist office in the port offers free maps, assistance with hotels and friendly advice on where to go and what to do. For £15 (less than RO10) an island day pass gives you free access to all of the island’s transport, including buses, several electric trains, a steam train to the south and even a horse-drawn tram along Douglas promenade.

Five minutes from the ferry port, the elegant promenade offers up tall, beautiful, solidly-built Victorian buildings, many of which have been converted into welcoming guest houses. One in particular catches my attention. The steps up to the front door are overflowing with potted plants and a large signboard advertises afternoon teas.

A smaller sign asks the visitor to please close the door quickly as there are cats living in the house. As I enter the lobby, I feel transported to a bygone age: The hall is resplendent with colourful plants and wooden stands with exquisite porcelain ornaments and Japanese teapots.

I feel like I’m walking into a replica of an elegant, early 20th century stately home and quickly disrobe myself of my rucksack, terrified in case I should accidentally swing round and send some fragile, priceless ornament crashing to the floor. There is no one in sight. I call up the stairs. “Hello! Anyone there?”

A warm, friendly voice replies, “Come on up, love.” As I creep up the thick carpeted stair, I’m greeted by Jill, the landlady, who immediately engages me in friendly conversation, as if we have been friends for decades. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute. We had some friends just leave for the ferry – did you just arrive on it?’

The room is full of huge, comfortable leather armchairs nestling between towering hibiscus plants and shelves groaning with books and more china. “Have you got a room?” I ask tentatively.

“Of course I have – do you want this one? Oh – look. Oystercatchers.” Momentarily distracted, she gestures out of the window at the birds scurrying along the sand, pecking with their long beaks.

And so began three of the nicest, most relaxing days I’ve spent in a long time. The leather armchair in the huge bay window offered unparalleled views of the harbour and miniature castle on the sandbank, the coming-and-going of the ferries, the horse-drawn tram tinkling along the promenade, and the oyster-catchers and seagulls swooping down over the beach, in search of an early dinner.

After an idyllic, uninterrupted eight hour sleep in a wonderfully comfortable bed, I am reluctant to rise from my slumbers, but a variety of Manx delights await me, starting with the breakfast.

As I step into the tearoom, a friendly voice greets me, “Morning! Full Manx?”

Never one to refuse a full breakfast, I nod in anticipation when John, the sprightly 75 year old husband of the landlady pops out of the kitchen and says: “The fishmonger has some lovely fresh smoked haddock – I’ll be two minutes – he’s just around the corner.” Five minutes later, I’m gorging on a huge wedge of smoked fish simmered in milk and with a poached egg on top. A rack of fresh toast, a real pot of tea and home-made marmalade accompanies it all. A perfect start to the day.

Though I’m sorely tempted to put my feet up and just gaze out into the bay for the day, I have my island pass to make the most of, so off I go.

1st stop: A short bus ride along a windy road leads from Douglas to the town of Laxey. The town’s name originates from the old Norse/Viking word, laxá, meaning salmon river, and suggesting bountiful times in previous centuries. The impossibly cute little electric train awaits its passengers.

The Snaefell railway pulls out of the village past a picturesque, wooden waterwheel, 15m in diameter, formerly used to siphon water from the zinc and lead mines in use since the 1780s. The train then meanders through turquoise fields with glistening white farmhouses and climbs slowly up to the peak, where the conductor walks the length of the train, gesturing enthusiastically, “Look over there – Northern Ireland. Now turn your head to the right – there is Scotland, Cumbria, Anglesey.”

The sea on the horizon is eerily still and we can indeed see four different ‘countries’ on this clearest of clear days. The conductor, eager to entertain as well as inform, says, “Yes, on a day like today, you can see seven kingdoms all at once with the naked eye.”

SEVEN? “So”, I answer, “Ireland, Scotland, England, Wales. That’s four. Oh – Manx. But what are the others?”

With a twinkle in his eye, and a suitable pause to catch all of the passengers’ attention, he says: “Well – the sea is number six, and if you look up to the skies, the seventh is…  Heaven!”

Manx culture is rich in myths and legends and many superstitions are associated with the sea. Moddey Dhoo was a fearsome black dog which haunted the passages of Peel Castle, known as the spectre hound of the west coast.

Manannán Mac Lir, the most important sea god in Celtic tradition was a noble and handsome warrior with magical powers, including the ability to make one man standing on a headland appear to be 100 warriors. He protected his domain with a cloak of invisibility, which some say are the mists that often shroud the island.

2nd stop: Another small wooden train leaves for Ramsey, a relaxing seaside town with colourful fishing boats bobbing in the harbour. It’s a place to try the best fish and chips on the isle. Other treasures of the sea are the famous Manx kippers, and ‘queenies’ – delicious, sweet, juicy scallops.

3rd stop. From Ramsey, the bus ambles along the west coast to the town of Peel, the cradle of Manx heritage, where the ruins of the dramatic St German’s cathedral date from 1226AD, and the narrow streets and lanes are home to generations of fisherfolk.

One day left and I’m torn between visiting the south of the island: the coastal village of Port Erin, with its sleepy harbour, beaches, heritage trails, a steam train and an ancient fortress, or a day with my feet up in the leather armchair watching the oystercatchers and the clip-clopping horse-drawn tram. The armchair wins.

At least this way I’ll have an excuse to return to the island I’ve grown incredibly attached to during my very short visit here.

Final morning, I wander downstairs to a familiar voice

“Full Manx?” You bet!