Cindy-Lou Dale

Folklore claims a warring Irish giant threw a fistful of earth at his Scottish rival, but that it fell short and landed in the Irish Sea. The ancient sea god later named this mound of earth the Isle of Man.

 

Following endless delays, I finally reached Ronaldsway airport, on the Isle of Man, some nine hours behind schedule; only to lose myself in the fog threaded low-lit streets of Castletown. My headlights swept through bullets of shiny drizzle, that special English drizzle that hangs in the air and saps the spirit. Clutching an inadequate little map, I felt a stab of despair as I knew I was lost in a world devoid of color. A whimpering panic set in. I now also needed the loo.

 

Out of the salty mist, the street name which had escaped me thus far suddenly appeared. I lunged down a side-street in Port-St-Mary and instinctively felt cheered, knowing I had made the correct decision. I became quietly excited when I found myself in a handsome district of substantially privileged homes all afforded dramatic sea views.

 

When the buxom figure of Kath, the Cook, stepped through the front door of Aaron House, onto the porch of the elegant beachfront Victorian Guest House, a small cry of relief escaped me. Kath typified a middle-aged Victorian maid with tightly drawn back hair, rosy cheeks and an ample bosom encased in a white apron. We exchanged excited waves.

 

Evidently the anxieties of the day were clearly etched on my face. As I lumbered up the steps with my baggage in tow, Kath enquired, “Cuppa tea, luv?” To this day I remain impressed by the ability of Britons of all ages and social backgrounds who draw comfort at the prospect of a hot beverage.

 

Aaron House is a grand and sympathetically restored 12-bedroomed Victorian home, built in 1897, with truly splendid views across Chapel Bay. Owned and managed by the Berrie family, Aaron House was re-created in authentic Victorian flavors, complete with staff dressed in period costumes, bringing an authentic nineteenth century atmosphere into the home.

 

Stumbling onto the black and white marble floored foyer, my eye was caught by a pair of tall riding boots propped up beside an antique dresser. Arranging my luggage beside an Elizabethan style chair, I stooped over a period table and filled out my details in the Guest Book. Moments later Kath reappeared with an elegant tray containing an antique tea set and a small selection of home-made cakes. She motioned me to the downstairs parlor which housed a striking cast-iron fireplace and elegant period furniture. Supported by a tripod on one of the window-seats, stood an attractive brass telescope offering a closer look at passing sail boats. For true authenticity, the color scheme throughout the house has been skillfully chosen from the Heritage period.

 

Aaron House can accommodate up to ten people in five double bedrooms, with en-suite or private bathrooms and Victorian roll-top baths. A heap of rawhide luggage embellished the first floor landing; the second floor’s landing was adorned with a selection of hat boxes. All the bedrooms, most of which have views across the bay and harbor beyond, are individually colored and decorated with a diverse combination of fixtures such as brass beds and other ancestral pieces, with quality soft furnishing from Laura Ashley’s.

 

I retired with a plate of sinful cakes, snuggled down into comfort with a hot chocolate drink and drifted off to sleep to the sound of crashing waves. The Berrie’s definitely made no compromises on the luxury front – I had never slept as comfortably as I did in one of their feather bed’s.

 

When I rose, the world was bathed in that predawn light that seems to come from nowhere. Gulls wheeled and cried over the water. I was hoping for some prized sunrise photo opportunities. I took a sip of my tea and grew momentarily thoughtful, contemplating the sky which was low and heavy. The steel grey sea along the front was vast and restless.

 

I grabbed a quilted jacket and my canvas camera bag then quietly slipped out the front door. I drove over whaleback hills dotted with small coves and hidden beaches washed by a frothing and uncertain ocean. I rounded a bend to a hang-glider’s visa over a meandering river and landscape of fields and woodlands stretching off to the distance with motionless, seriously discontented-looking sheep staring back at me. This, I thought, was a photographer’s paradise.

 

When I returned I found my way into the breakfast room and took a seat at the bay window, watching the world outside sparkle weakly under a pale wintry sun. The flickering oil lamps in the breakfast room illuminated the little bead-edged lacy croquette covers draped over jugs on the table. The homely aroma of freshly baked bread wafted through from the kitchen.

 

Kath takes great pride in serving food made from superior locally sourced foodstuff’s - free range this, corn-fed that, organic the other. I eventually settled for a pot of coffee and buttermilk pancakes cooked on a bake-stone, served with lemon. Kath got wind that I had a busy day scheduled and insisted that I ‘top up’ with Manx kippers, poached eggs, home-made brown bread and preserves.

 

Guests at Aaron House receive continuously varying menus with an assortment of remarkable fruit compotes, caramelized grapefruit and peaches poached in wine, home-make mueslis, breads, scones and muffins, served with an assortment of preserves and marmalades. There is also a vast selection of cooked dishes such as creamy porridge, smoked salmon, scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages.

 

I bade a fond farewell to Kath and Reg, her husband, and the property’s restorer, who waited on the top step to wave me off. They were still waving when I turned the corner.

 

Later that day, as I journeyed home I reflected on the isle’s long views over sharply defined valleys, laced with wandering slate walls, woodland clumps and low white farm houses against a backdrop of blue beckoning hills. A landscape so timeless and fetching, so companionably rooted to an ancient past that I already felt drawn back to it. Once, I recalled, generations ago, there used to be a kind of unspoken nobility about living in Britain; I think I’ve just stumbled upon a little pocket time forgot.

 

 

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