Day 9 (July 9):  Isle of Man

Trains reign here, unless it’s TT time.  I’ll explain.  Heritage railways (steam, electric, even horse-drawn) hug the shore and climb the hills.  The steam railway station is a couple of blocks from my hotel.  I wandered over and found myself in a gift shop surrounded by Thomas the Tank Engine paraphernalia.  Turns out that the Isle of Man steam railway inspired the setting and characters on the Isle of Sodor in the book and TV series.  (I looked around for Mr. Conductor, but Ringo must have had the day off.)

For me, a great joy of traveling is chancing into interesting conversations with strangers.  While I was waiting to board the train, an elderly English chap said hi, and I soon heard about his career in the British Army, serving everywhere from Northern Ireland to Cyprus, and his post-service travels in the Far East.  He, like several other Brits I’ve talked to, asked when America was going to do something about its gun problem.  I told him what I’d told the others:  probably never.

Soon a delightful English woman asked me if I was a railroad buff.  She was leading a party of 24 Brits on a tour of heritage railways throughout the UK, and her charges were visibly excited by the prospect of riding the steam train.  She was disappointed to hear that people in America generally are not passionate about heritage railways.

The journey itself was lovely.  Not only were the views pleasant, but I lucked into another great conversation with a couple from London; we covered world travel, trains, hiking, and UK and US politics – including, of course, when America was going to do something about its gun problem.

After an hour‘s train ride, I got off in Port Erin, a pretty seaside town on the southwest coast.  I walked around for a bit, had the obligatory fish and chips lunch, and then found a tiny bookshop with an impressive selection of history and travel books – and a proprietor who was thrilled to spend time comparing our favorite authors.

On the train back to Douglas, a couple deep in their own conversation sat in my compartment.  For once, I was glad to be left to my own thoughts.  They were Scottish, and I could barely understand them.  Instead, I let the sun streaming through the window work its magic and closed my eyes.

The TT, by the way, is an insane motorcycle race around the island in which people routinely suffer grievous injuries or even die.