More than Silence: My Meandering on the Isle of Man
~ part two ~
It took a bit longer than planned to sit down and continue this tale, partly because life had a way of throwing a few distractions my way since I returned. Actually even before my holiday, I managed to do what most people would think impossible – I "injured myself walking." Yes, you read that right. No daring escapades, no heroic sports feats, just an ill-timed, awkwardly angled step and bam! Torn adductor muscle. My friends were graciously baffled by how one manages such a feat without, say, catapulting oneself off a bike into the nearest tree (given my love for cycling), or at least attempting some ill-advised breakdancing in a crowded pub.
The reason I bring this up is that throughout the holiday, my injuries kept me from doing what I love most—nature photography. It was quite a bummer, to be honest. I half-expected it, even toyed with canceling the whole trip after the doctor’s grim face delivered the news about the recovery period. But I’m stubborn, so I went anyway. After that little medical misadventure (and a luxurious three-week stint of hobbling around on leave – read: laying in bed most of the time and changing bandages), there was a whirlwind of job changes: “New opportunities! Fresh challenges! I am delighted to announce everyone here on LinkedIn that I...” (translation: glorified panic attacks, nicely gift-wrapped in shiny corporate buzzwords). Long story short, there was no time to breathe, let alone reminisce.
But enough about present-day hurdles. These past few days I dusted off my 2024 summer holiday photo album, flicked through some slightly blurry shots (beer and camera focus really don’t mix as well as you’d hope), and decided it was high time to pick up where I left off. After all, I did promise you (and myself) a three, or even four-part blog series, and I'm a person of my word – at least when there are actual people reading it. Thank you, Iancu, for single-handedly propping up my readership stats.
So, where were we? Ah yes, the Isle of Man... where life moves at a gentle pace, and the average age is best described as 'gracefully silver.'
The next morning, I woke up bright and early, eager to kick off my island exploration. I had grand hopes of a picturesque seaside view to start the day - after all, I could hear the seagulls squawking like overenthusiastic alarm clocks, and the hotel had assured me that my room came with a “lovely seaside view.” Naturally, I was already picturing myself looking out at the Douglas promenade, waves gently lapping the shore, maybe even a stray sailboat drifting by. Alas, what greeted me as I drew back the curtains was... the inside garden. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t bad. Quite charming, actually, if you’re into potted plants and the odd, lonely lawn chair. But let’s just say that, in the dead of night when I checked in, this wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined. So much for the sweeping vistas.
Anyway, with a breath of floral-scented air (and a small sigh of resignation; but truth be told, the hotel I was in was quite nice – The Devonian, to those interested), I stepped out and started my morning walk. I took a look to the left, to the right, trying to decide which way would lead me to the promised land of coastal scenery. After all, when you're on an island, you're bound to hit the sea eventually, right?
Once I’d spotted the sea not far to my left (about 100 meters, if we’re getting precise), I set off down the promenade. The morning was quiet, with only the occasional jogger huffing past, usually trailed by an equally determined dog. I couldn’t help but notice there seemed to be an unusually high number of dog owners here. Perhaps it’s some sort of Isle of Man requirement – a “must love dogs” clause buried somewhere in the local bylaws. There were also a few cyclists, but they all looked far too energetic for my taste that early in the morning.
The waves gently crashed against the nearby shore, a calming rhythm that almost made me forget about the slightly menacing clouds lurking on the horizon. They seemed restrained though as I sat there for few minutes looking in the distance, as if considering whether to make a dramatic appearance or just hang back and observe. I hoped they’d take the latter option, at least until I could find a coffee shop, sit down, and plot out the day’s activities. Now, in my mind I thought that this first, simple task would be an easy win, but no. My morning quest for caffeine turned out to be more of a misadventure. I wandered through the center of Douglas, hoping to stumble upon a quaint little coffee shop with cozy seating and maybe even some friendly chatter. Instead, I was met with a series of empty storefronts, the kind that make you feel like you’ve missed some big memo or that you got here off-season. It seemed as though there used to be a fair number of small shops, cafes, and the like, but most were now just empty shells. A bit sad, really, like the island was quietly hanging a “gone fishing” sign in its window.
After trying my luck at one place that served up what could only be described as an underwhelming cappuccino (I suspect they slipped in almond milk without asking, because why not add insult to injury?), I eventually did what any self-respecting tourist would do when the going gets tough: I gave up and went to Starbucks. Not exactly the adventurous choice, but desperate times call for familiar, reliable franchises. Besides, I needed to sit down, get my bearings, and figure out where this island was hiding its charm. I wasn’t going to let an almond milk mishap derailing the morning mission.
After securing a solid caffeine fix and a quick study of the map, I decided to "stay on track" with my plan for the day—though, ironically, it was about to involve a bit of derailing. You see, one of the more charming ways to explore the Isle of Man is by taking either the vintage steam train or the electric tram, each lazily winding its way across the island. One heads south, puffing its way through scenic farmlands to the southern tip, and the other hums along to the north, with the coast as its backdrop. Both options offered that kind of old-world, scenic charm you’d expect from a place where time appears to have politely taken a breather. I figured I’d start with a journey up to Ramsey, the northernmost town, and take it from there. But before that, I decided to make a short detour to the island’s renowned Manx Museum. No trip is complete without a bit of culture, right? Plus, I needed to kill some time before the tram departed, and I thought, “Why not absorb some local history while I’m at it?”
The Manx Museum was an absolute must-see; it’s hard not to be intrigued by the story of how it came to be. The Manx people, as it turns out, are fiercely proud of their Viking heritage. You can't walk two blocks without stumbling across something with a knotwork design, and I don’t blame them. It's not every day you get to trace your roots back to a time when longboats ruled the seas and everyone seemed to have a cool Norse name. But this pride hasn’t always been so outwardly celebrated. Apparently, if you look back about 150 years, there was a time when some locals thought their own history was so insignificant that the idea of a national museum was met with ridicule. “What’s there to see?” they’d say. “A couple of old fishing nets and a rusty sheep bell?” The thought of filling even one small room seemed laughable to some. But in 1922, driven by ambition and, perhaps, a healthy dose of stubbornness, the townsfolk did just that—they opened the Manx Museum. It might’ve started as a humble collection on a small island, but today it stands as a testament to their rich past, filled with everything from ancient Viking relics to Victorian oddities. Walking through its halls, you get the sense that the Manx people have a certain quiet pride, like they’ve finally realised that just because you’re small doesn’t mean you can’t be mighty.
With the museum ticked off my list, it was time to hop on the famous electric tram to Ramsey. Now, allow me to set the scene a little: this isn't some modern, ultra-smooth affair. No, the electric tram is wonderfully old-fashioned, a small, slightly wobbly contraption that’s been around for over a century. The sort of tram where you can feel every bit of the track beneath you, yet it’s all part of the charm. It’s well-maintained, polished to a shine, and a perfect throwback to simpler times.
As we rattled along the coast, the tram swayed like a tipsy old uncle at a family wedding, but that only made the journey more endearing. The view, meanwhile, was spectacular—the rugged coastline on one side, rolling hills on the other, and the sea stretching out to the horizon, dotted with fishing boats that looked like tiny paper models. It’s the kind of scenery that makes you forget about email notifications and instead makes you ponder simpler, finer things. Like, for instance, watchmaking. Ah yes, watchmaking... A passion that might seem odd to the casual observer but has long been a favorite topic on this blog. And there was a very specific reason why I chose to head to Ramsey, beyond just tourist curiosity - though that, too, had its role. You see, tucked away in this quiet, unassuming town is the workshop of none other than Roger Smith, a name that sends horology enthusiasts into a hushed, reverent silence. Smith, you might know, is the spiritual heir to George Daniels, the man credited with single-handedly reviving British watchmaking. Together, they represent a legacy of craftsmanship that makes a modern smartwatch look like a mere trinket.
I had harboured a hope, however slim, of seeing this legendary workshop for myself. After all, when you’ve spent countless hours reading about the intricacies of a co-axial escapement or the perfect hand-finished dial, the idea of standing where such pieces are born is nothing short of thrilling. But alas, my inquiries were politely but firmly declined by sir Roger’s wife, who informed me (apologetically, I might add) that only a select few – press members and direct clients – get to step inside the sanctum. I can’t say I was surprised. After all, genius has its boundaries, and it doesn’t open the door for just anyone wielding a camera and a notepad.
Still, it was enough just to be in Ramsey, to feel the quietude of the town and know that somewhere nearby, one of the world’s finest watchmakers was meticulously crafting timepieces that will outlive us all. It’s almost poetic, isn’t it? In an age of fleeting digital everything, there’s something wonderfully reassuring about a man on a remote island, tinkering away in his workshop, building time the old-fashioned way.
Now, with the scenic electric tram ride behind me and a head full of Viking trivia, I found myself wandering the quiet streets of Ramsey. My first stop? A bit of liquid courage (strictly for research purposes, of course) at the island’s only distillery. Yes, it wasn’t even noon, but when a beautiful young lady offers you a guided tour and a chance to sample three locally crafted gins, and a rhum you don’t say no. So there I was, sipping my way through notes of juniper, citrus, and something distinctly Manx, soaking in the mix of modern craftsmanship and island tradition. With a slight buzz and a warm smile, I ventured back out into the town, ready to explore more.
There was more to Ramsey than just spirits and scenic views - not just the picturesque seafront and charmingly old-fashioned shops – although there weren’t that many if I’m being completely honest. Anyway, as I explored, things took a slight turn (and no, I don’t mean on the tram tracks or the effects of that morning distilled juniper). Let’s just say I had an unexpected gastronomic adventure that left me less than thrilled, and my very cozy hotel room suddenly became my hideaway for the next entire day. After that minor setback, I was back on my feet, determined to make the most of my remaining time on the island. There’s still much to share – Peel’s medieval charms, a seaside castle that feels straight out of an Arthurian legend, and a final laugh on the way back to the mainland.
Stay tuned for Part Three, where I’ll walk you through my bittersweet (and slightly tipsy) day in Ramsey, followed by a dash of history in Peel, a pinch of drama, and a very memorable ferry terminal conversation that brought my Isle of Man adventure to a close. It’s been a trip of unexpected turns, gentle landscapes, placid-looking sheep, and more than a few odd but endearing characters. Until next time, take care, and maybe avoid almond milk cappuccinos for a bit!