Breakfast this morning was delicious but bittersweet. As a solo traveler joining a group, I’m never sure what to expect. These past few days, though, have been extraordinary. As I immediately felt when I met our group last Sunday, this was a special bunch. From our excellent guides to my fellow hikers, everyone was personable, funny, caring, accomplished, and interesting. I’ve never laughed so often and so much with any other group.
With one last nod to Dylan Thomas, “a man may journey still within the island gates/through valleys and … over hills slag-black or grey as slates/or through fat lovely fields all lying green/under their flower folds.” I did all of that and more, and in wonderful company.
After a sluggish ride to the Bristol Airport – all the cars we didn’t see for the past week were on the M4 this morning – and a painless check-in, I’m now on the Isle of Man. The airport here is one of the smallest I’ve ever seen. From plane door to airport door is no more than 200 yards. The bus into Douglas (the capital) had more than a little in common with the Knight Bus (Harry Potter reference for any heathens out there); we careened around curves and stopped precipitously, though I didn’t see any trash bins or lamp posts jumping out of the way.
I took an immediate liking to the Isle of Man: on the 20-minute ride from the airport we passed both a Cat Sanctuary and a Home of Rest for Old Horses (after all that hiking, I might apply). I’m staying at the Claremont Hotel, which overlooks the harbor, has enormous rooms, and even has a TV in the shower. (I guess it’s for watching soaps?). After a dinner of fish and chips, I strolled along the waterfront, which is lined with elegant 4- and 5-story Victorian rowhouses, many of which have been converted into hotels.
PuffinlessTravel 