AN ISLAND NOT SO FAR AWAY.
By Anthony Toole.
This
article was written following a trip as a guest of Isle of Man Tourism.
Snaefell and North Barrule 
On a clear day, the Isle of Man is visible from
the coasts of Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales. It appears just to hover
there, blue, detached, like a magic mountain above the horizon. It could almost
be an afterthought, a small pile of earth left over from the creation of the
British Isles, dropped into the sea to fill a gap, or complete the picture.
The air of not seeming to belong is
reinforced by the knowledge that it does not belong, but is its own little
political unit, independent of any other government. But that is only one of
the many surprises that it unfolds as you get to know it.
The first impression one forms, on flying
into Ronaldsway Airport, is that the island is bigger than those vague views on
the horizon suggest. This is quickly replaced by the realisation that it is much
smaller. Measuring 53 kilometres by 21, it can be driven around comfortably in
a day, or half that if one takes advantage of the absence of a speed limit.
In its topography and place names, it is
Ireland in miniature. The coastline is that of Kerry or West Cork. The hills
are the rounded humps of Wicklow. To the north are the Kildare flatlands.
Everywhere there are ancient monastic relics, Celtic crosses and the dolmens of
the Burren. And the many glens reflect those beauty spots that we all like to
keep as our own special secrets.
The hills maintain the character of the
miniature. Six summits rise above the 500-metre contour, and only one of these
exceeds 600 metres. The Isle of Man therefore is a place for walking rather
than mountaineering. Nevertheless, it does encourage the fickleness of mountain
weather, and the hills often look and feel bigger than they are.
North Barrule from Cashtal yn Ard
On a breezy day, we gathered at the Black
Hut, near the highest point on the TT motorcycle circuit. A misty Snaefell rose
above us on one side of the pass, a clear, though hazy Clagh Ouyr on the other.
Heading for the latter, we crossed a short boggy stretch, then continued up
grassy slopes, and within twenty minutes, stood on the summit. The effort had
been slight, yet this was the third highest point on the island. Ahead lay
three more of the 500-metre tops, linked by a ridge, which though grassy, was
sufficiently narrow and steep-sided to have a mountain feel about it.
The wind remained cool and strong, and
blew in the occasional shower and wisp of cloud. A gap in the cloud, as we
reached North Barrule summit, opened a view down to Ramsey and its pier, which
at 650 metres, is longer than Snaefell is high.
We dropped off the ridge to the south and
found immediate shelter from the wind. As we approached the abandoned farm of
Park Llewellyn, the sky cleared and Snaefell began to part the clouds beyond
the valley head. Along the floor of the valley were the ruins of a number of
keills, cells used for meditation by the early Celtic monks. Elsewhere were the
more recent relics of a now dead mining industry. By the time we reached the
side of Clagh Ouyr, before dropping back to the Black Hut, even the sea haze to
the east had thinned, to reveal the Cumbrian coast and the vague outlines of
the Lake District hills.
Park Llewellyn 
On another day, we left Ballaugh, near the
west coast, for a walk up the hills on that side of the island. This time, it
was the morning that glowed with sunshine. A narrow, surfaced road took us
steadily uphill for about a kilometre, then gave way to a more broken track.
The view to the north opened out over the plains of glacial deposits that the
locals humorously refer to as the hill country.
We followed the track southward for a
further four kilometres to a col, then up the slope to the summit of Slieau
Freoghane. From here, not only could we clearly see the southern coast of
Scotland, but to the west, could just make out the hazy shapes of the Mourne
Mountains.
After returning to the col for lunch, we
followed a right fork in the track across open moorland, past Slieau Dhoo and
Mount Karrin, and steeply downhill through woodland and into the village of
Sulby. As we returned to Ballaugh along an old railway track, the sky darkened.
Rain began to spit, but only turned heavy as we reached our morning’s starting
point.
The southern half of the Isle of Man is
less hilly than the north, but compensates with a multitude of hidden beauties.
Dalby Mountain, with its internationally rare heathland nature reserve, forms
one apex of a triangle. To its north is the narrow, wooded Glenmaye, thought by
many to be the most beautiful of the glens. And to the west is the equally
beautiful Niarbyl Bay. From the narrow rocky promontory of Niarbyl, the coastal
hills reach south to Port Erin, over a line of spectacular cliffs, with the
Calf of Man just peering round the side of Bradda Head.
On arrival at The Sloc, the high point of
the road that touches the col between Cronk ny Aree Laa and Lhiattee ny
Beinnee, we were greeted by a small flock of choughs, heading for a nearby
cliff. These members of the crow family were once widespread throughout the
British Isles, but are now confined to a few pockets along the western coasts.
A few minutes later, a hen harrier flew over us. Like the chough, this is a
bird that is quite common in the Isle of Man, but rare elsewhere.
The track up Lhiattee ny Beinnee was steep
but short. Cloud hung over the top, robbing us of the view, though we remained
aware of the 300-metre precipice that fell away into the sea from just a few
metres to our right. The convex ridge gradually steepened, and brought us out
of the mist and down to the pebbly shore of Fleshwick Bay, locked in by
Lhiattee ny Beinnee to the north and the more formidable Bradda Hill to the
south. The charred black soil of Bradda Hill, exposed by a major heath fire the
previous winter, lent a grim atmosphere to the scene, already darkened by the
overcast sky.
Bradda Head and Calf of Man
The day we climbed Bradda Head was warm
and sunny. Our track took us around the north of Port Erin Bay, from where we
could watch the huge bulk of a basking shark circling lazily close to the shore.
We climbed up past a folly built to commemorate a local benefactor, and
continued across the burned heath. From a point on the edge, we looked down
toward some abandoned mine workings that clung precariously to the cliffs high
above the sea. The rocks themselves were, in places, stained a vivid green by
the copper salts that still leached out of the drifts.
On a shoulder of Bradda Hill, just above
where the slopes began their steep descent into Fleshwick Bay, we came across a
series of interconnected stone circles. These had been uncovered by the
previous year’s fire, and until then, their existence was unknown. Their age
and origin remain mysteries.
The hills of the Isle of Man lack the
fierce ruggedness of the high mountains of the British Isles, and perhaps have
little to satisfy those who seek only that kind of challenge. But anyone who
can appreciate more subtle beauties will find them here in abundance. And the
island is easily accessible for a weekend or a break of a few days. For those who
prefer company, there is an annual walking festival at the end of June. But why
wait until then?
Though its resemblance to Ireland is quite
marked, it does retain its unique character. A first visit is very unlikely to
be the last.