| Isle of Man 11.03 | ||
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The
usual reaction, when I tell people where I'm going away for a break,
is: "Why there?" It's okay, don't worry about hurting my feelings,
I'm used to it. I know that my tastes in holiday destinations are,
um, unusual. Over the past year I've visited a mausoleum in Oslo,
a nazi holiday camp, I've been inside an artificial cloud, and I've
had a queer pretend family holiday in Disneyland, the (alleged)
home of white bread mom and pop values. Lying on a beach for an
annual fortnight's vacation is not my style, although I wouldn't
mind having a go at that one day. People usually lighten up a little
once I've explained my reasons for going, but never in my life have
I had to justify any weekend getaway as much as I had to with my
trip to the Isle of Man.
For the record, this is why we went 1. Kay knew someone who had won a pair of plane tickets from London City Airport to the Isle of Man, they were too scared to fly, so were only too happy to sell them to us. 2. We'd been looking at the island on the giant map of Britain that Kay has tacked to her front room wall. 3. I'd just seen the Cremaster film that was made in Ramsay. 4. It's a bit of a mystery place, like the land that time forgot. 5. Homosexuality was decriminalised ten years ago, and they abolished the death penalty a year later, so it's quite a liberal place these days, we were sure we'd feel right at home. 6. Manx cats. Inbreeds We flew there in a tiny plane that was full of really weird-looking people. It was like being in a Dan Clowes comic. The flight was bumpy and scary, not helped by my new found fear of being in the air, or the Tara Palmer-Tompkinson-a-like sitting next to me, gripping my arm in fear. We landed in the middle of a big storm, it was dramatic. Jeez, Ronaldsway airport felt like the last place on earth Douglas on a stormy Friday night in November... ... Is a bit quiet. The pride of the Manx capital must surely be the cinema halfway up the hill. It's a small affair, where you can chat to the woman behind the desk, just pass the time of day until it's time to see Kill Bill. Money Being a tax haven, they print their own. The coins are the best I've ever seen. The 50p has some aggressive TT racers on it, the 10p that fabulous three leg symbol thing, and the inscription: Quocunque Jeceris Stabit, meaning "Whichever way you throw, it will stand." How to pass the time when there's not much to do The Manx Museum is open, thank god. It's kind of dull, although allegedly award-winning, but it's got a great tea room. There's bugger all about the cats, or the Loughton Rams, special rare Manx sheep that have four horns. The best thing is a skeleton from a giant elk, and the material about the island in its seaside holiday heyday, back in the 30s, featuring The Manx Mermaid (a random chubby lady) diving off a rock and swimming around like the Man from Atlantis. There's also a moving exhibit about the WWII internment camps on the island, all those poor German intellectuals who had fled the nazis, only to find themselves banished to this grim place. The Tower of Refuge In the night we could see a flashing green light out to sea. I assumed it was a buoy. In daylight I was amazed to see a miniature castle on its own island right in the middle of Douglas bay. It looked like a the kind of castle a kid might imagine, all battlements, all stone, unforgiving. It looked like a symbol of a psychological state. William Wordsworth wrote a poem about it. Anyway, it was built in1832 to help shipwrecked sailors. How to pass the time when there's not much to do, part two Buses. They are cheap so we use them to explore the island. What do we find? The rich people live on the west coast, it seems, near Peel, a good-looking town. We drive past various grand houses, set back from the road by their tax-haven owners, possibly the same inbreeds with whom we shared the flight in. It's a beautiful place, there are rugged coastlines, lush meadows, incredible mountains in the distance, birds fluttering all over the place, those three-legged things on flags everywhere, palm trees, even the ancient parliament, the Tynwald, which is like a weird grassy mound. Oh yes, and our commentary throughout the journey is provided by two thicko lads comparing farts with each other. I can't do that here Overheard in a charity shop in Ramsay: "People here are lovely, they're the best." Yeah, so lovely that when a gigantic evil seagull shits on Kay's new coat they're queuing up to offer their unwanted mirth at her misfortune. I turn to give them the finger but Kay tells me: "It's the North, you can't do that here." I can't help wondering how Matthew Barney coped in these circumstances. The Dad On the bus journey back to Douglas we earwig in on the king of dads opining to his two kids. He talks to them as though they are adults and they clearly love it. It's obvious that he's on some kind of visitation weekend. He bitches about their mum, hinting none too subtly that she's an alcoholic and slagging off her new boyfriend. He keeps saying: " I shouldn't say this but..." and then just can't help himself. He talk about his hopes for the kids, who musty be about nine or ten years old, saying that one day they might get a job for "a reasonable amount of money," then they can get a mortgage, find a girlfriend, settle down, maybe have some kids of their own. Their future's going to be great. How to pass the time when there's not much to do, and it's a Sunday The bastards at the airport have no left luggage facility, so we're forced to cart our suitcases around with us all day. Should have just stashed them under a bush somewhere, no one would have noticed. What to do? We drag them to Castletown, making a huge racket with the plastic wheels, maybe the biggest noise that this place has ever experienced. On the edge of town is the world's smalled municipal swimming pool. Hallelujah, it's open, so we go and swim. The pool is as big as my sofa. I show Kay how to do tumble turns. Everybody knows each other. Fat kids do belly flops. All is well. Castletown at dusk It's like The Wicker Man and Portmeirion all rolled up together. Very spooky, kind of pagan and ancient, but pretty in a funny way too, like a toytown with those three legs adorning the ironwork. The mist comes off the sea at dusk, everywhere is quiet. Rumpy The closest we get to a Manx cat all weekend is Rumpy, a plush toy cat with no tail on sale at the airport shop. Bah. |
              
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