Postcards from the Isle of Man: Immigrant Song

Everyone from the Isle of Man I’ve met has asked me when I’m moving over. I’m not sure how much each resident gets in finders fees from the IOM government but they seem dead keen on keeping us here.

The arguments pro-Island are strong. Davison’s is the best ice cream in the world. The countryside is stunning. The beaches are clean and beautiful. There are puffins (!) and basking sharks (!!) and wallabies (!!!). Trad Manx pubs are great, and local fruit wine is tasty. People here eat chips with cheese and curry sauce. I’ve fallen in love with the way one road will feel like the Pennines, and the next view will be Pembrokeshire, until the hedgerows move into wide, rolling meadows and you could swear you were in Herefordshire.

“It’s the winters,” I say. I’m not scared of the cold—I’m scared of being isolated on a rock for four months of howling gales and horizontal rain.

The answer is always the same: you hunker down and enjoy the cosiness. You feel glad you’re dry and warm. You can still go sea swimming in all weathers. There is beauty even on the bleakest days, they say. They are hardy people, even the recent relocators. I don’t think I’m made of the right stuff, the heather and the gorse and the mist. But they’ll keep asking. And I’ll keep imagining my cottage in Peel, windows glowing in the midst of a cold winter evening, the rain blowing in over the sea from the west.

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