Round the bend
The Isle of Man is a land that embraces its eccentricities, discovers Dixe Wills, as he takes a ride in a horse-drawn tram and beds down in the 19th century
Scratch the surface of any society and you’re almost bound to uncover one or two traces of eccentricity.
The apparently staid Germans have their lederhosen; the sombre Norwegians eat half-fermented trout at Christmas and pretend to enjoy it … I have been told, however, that on the Isle of Man no surface scratching is necessary, that the populace is so relaxed about the island’s manifold quirks and idiosyncrasies that it rather rejoices in them. Mind you, if your self-governing British Crown Dependency is named after an obscure Celtic sea god (Manannan Mac Lir, since you ask) and your national symbol is a three-legged figure bereft of either body or head, perhaps having a slightly tangential world view comes naturally.
As it is, I experience some of the Manx take on the world before I even set foot on the island, for she has disappeared under Manannan’s cloak. Reportedly, the sea god protects the isle from her enemies by draping his cape of mystical mistiness over her so that they sail blithely past. Thankfully, modern navigational equipment is wise to this ruse and my ferry docks safely, allowing me to invade the island, albeit in a mild-mannered, touristy way.
The next day, leaving my hotel in Port St Mary, in the south of the island, I take it into my head to visit the 621-metre summit of Snaefell, Man’s highest peak (while desperately holding in jokes about Man’s highest peak actually being the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel).
I share a platform of the local steam railway station with a woman who tells me she is off doing her weekly shop. This is not anything so contrived as a restored heritage line. It opened in 1873 and has simply never been updated. The narrow-gauge engines and beautiful rolling stock (lovers of polished wood are in for a treat) are the same ones the Victorians used.
