After our little plane touches down amid scudding wind my wife, as wives do, checks her phone. There’s a message from her service provider announcing that we’re now in Guernsey and promising low-cost internet rates. No, this is definitely the Isle of Man; there’s the bright red flag with three furiously wheeling legs, and those are the Manx hills rising up from the foamy sea. No, we’ve come to the right low-tax holiday isle.
First we want to get our bearings on Man (which in an odd case of linguistic uncertainty is often spelt Mann). For us that means driving to the island’s highest point, Snaefell. The route winds through gently rolling farmland, over roads empty but for the odd vintage Jag. Suddenly we’ve risen up to peaty moorland and we park where the ancient Snaefell railway intersects with the route of the Isle of Man’s famous and treacherous TT race. It’s then a 40-minute yomp to the 2,000ft peak. An improbably large statue of a mountain goat marks the way. From the top of Snaefell, they say, you can see the seven kingdoms — of Mann, of England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, the sea and the heavens. We, however, can only see an eighth kingdom of low cloud cover. On the way down, though, the mists part (this is a place of “island weather”) and, in the late afternoon glow, the views of hills, dales and emerald sea are heart-stirring.
Then it’s off to our lodgings. For “come-overs” like us, Mann’s abrupt changes of scenery are a surprise. The capital, Douglas, is just ten minutes away but it’s like driving out of the Scottish Highlands and bumping into Eastbourne. The sweep of stuccoed hotels around the bay, the Frank Matcham-designed Gaiety Theatre, the lack of concrete carbuncles all recall a Victorian heyday of charabancs and holiday steamers. In summer there are horsedrawn trams. The 21st century doesn’t seem to have intruded much here.
For dinner we head to Tanroagan in Ridgeway Street, reputedly the island’s best seafood restaurant. The scallops ceviche and soft, buttery sea bass are excellent. So good in fact, that we try a similar meal the next night at the Courthouse in Athol Street. This too is impressive, though a boisterous soundtrack of old Specials and Stranglers tempers the sophistication of the cooking.
For day two, we abandon the car and hop on the steam railway that covers the south. It’s not just the TT racing — few small islands can have such a fascination with transport, most of it eccentrically antique. As well as a string of narrow gauge railways, there are six transport museums on its 30-mile length.
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Sitting in a carriage dated by our guard at around 1930, we puff away through the farmland. Mann’s wildflower-strewn, billboard-free countryside has stood in for olde England in films such as Miss (Beatrix) Potter and Harry Potter — or olde Ireland in Waking Ned. Cabbage palms are evidence of the Gulf Stream and in summer fuchsias grow wild.
At Castletown, the buildings cluster round the grey hulk of Castle Rushen. It’s one of the world’s best preserved medieval fortresses, thanks to no one getting round to attacking it or pinching the stones for other building projects. There are fine views from the battlements — unlikely to have been enjoyed by the generations of island prisoners who eked out dank lives below. At Port St Mary we stop at the Patchwork Café for crab toast and proper oxtail soup. The cafe doubles as the local cinema, unfurling a screen every Thursday evening. There doesn’t seem to be a lot else going on in the delightfully sleepy place, which recalls a Cornish fishing village. Here though you suspect the fishermen’s houses are owned by men who actually go to sea rather than second-homing bankers.
We take the bus back to Douglas passing over the Fairy Bridge. Mann is big on the little folk, with a Fairy Cottage, fairy mounds and an Elfin Glen. But my advice would be to ignore the guidebook suggestion to say “Hello fairies” as the bus passes over the bridge unless you want to attract weary stares.
You’ll often hear that the island is stuck in the rustic past. But our final day starts with evidence to the contrary. The Noa Bakehouse in Fort Street, Douglas, is urban-kitchen hip. It’s a sourdough bakery, café and events venue run by a former film-maker. In a warehouse-type space with bare wooden tables and John Coltrane on the speakers we eat eggs royale and mushrooms fried in sherry on sourdough toast.
Another walk is required. We head west, passing several ornate gateways to what must be discreetly hidden mansions. Among the island’s claims to fame are the tailless Manx cat and its population of super-rich, who keep themselves to themselves, we’re told. We see neither, except for a stuffed specimen in the Manx Museum (that’s the cat, of course).
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The walk along the cliffs at Niarbyl, with its photogenic white cottages, is spectacular. Beyond the glittering sea we think we can just make out the Mountains of Mourne in Ireland. Then it’s north to Peel. If Douglas is all Victoriana, this town is older. Amid its narrow streets, here’s a perfect TV setting for a tale of smuggling, skulduggery and tricorn hats. Again, an old castle glowers over the harbour, this one started off by Magnus Barefoot, an 11th-century Viking king of Mann. We pop into the Creek Inn for Manx kippers, Manx queenies (more scallops) and a pint of Okell’s smooth before the drive back to the airport.
So that was Mann. It’s like Britain with the ugly bits removed: no high-rise, no congestion charges, no Big Mac wrappers floating in the breeze. In its 221 square miles, alternately rugged and pretty, Mann packs a lot in — the north flat like eastern England, the central hills like Scotland or the Lakes, the south green and rolling before a hint of Cornwall. Everywhere except, perhaps, Guernsey.
Need to know
John Bungey was a guest of Visit Isle of Man
Where to stay
Claremont Hotel, Douglas (claremonthoteldouglas.com, 01624 617068) is on a prime position by the bay. Behind a traditional Victorian façade lies a sleek and modern hotel with muted colour schemes and an air of unfussy luxury. B&B doubles are from £110 per night.
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Getting there
Flights to the Isle of Man depart from London City, Gatwick, Manchester, Belfast, Birmingham. Liverpool, Dublin, Glasgow, Newcastle and Gloucester. A return flight from London Gatwick starts from £49.98 with easyJet.