WALK LONDON The London Loop[section 6]
Coulsdon South to Banstead (4½ miles)
Section 5 is one of the finest sections of the London Loop, while section 7 is so far the dullest. I therefore wondered which category section 6, through the outskirts of Sutton, might fall into. And the answer was neither, though nearer to 7 than 5, and with an especially purple highlight halfway through. [map]
My heart was telling me to leave Coulsdon South station and head for the hills, for a dead-cert lovely stroll up Farthing Downs and into Happy Valley. But my head told me I'd done that walk, and instead I should abandon those sylvan heights for the next unblogged section of the London Loop. That meant dipping beneath the Coulsdon inner relief road, a stilted bypass still less than ten years old and carrying Gatwick-bound traffic safely out of harm's way. Thence past a locked gate to CaneHill, Coulsdon's very own former mental asylum, mouldering since the 1980s and awaiting rebirth as 675 Barratt homes. And on towards the high street (tagline "Shop Coulsdon"), with the London Loop signage already so inadequate I was glad I'd brought a map with me. It got better.
To escape the town the Loop crosses the railway via a back alley. Here I stumbled upon a gyrating lady, busy dancing to an unseen audience viewing through a phone she'd propped up on a bollard mid-footpath. She seemed a bit embarrassed when one, then two people wandered through, then restarted her performance when she thought we'd passed and were no longer watching. A steady climb followed, starting at the Croydon Girl Guides centenary flowerbed and ending at the Jack and Jill pub. These semi-detached streets are part of Woodmansterne and then Clockhouse, a Sutton suburb named after the farm it replaced, and accessible to the remainder of the borough only by footpath. At long last, after a mile of road, the Loop takes one of those.
It's actually a bridleway, as the occasional mountain of poo attests, and part of the Sutton Countryside Walk. Before long it becomes a proper getaway, with a high hedge to one side and horsey fields to the other. Across the paddocks are the isolated wooden homes of Little Woodcote, a peculiar smallholding community established for troops returning from World War One. And beyond that, one of the joys of elevated outer London, a panoramic view of the centre. You have to look past trees and the occasional lamppost, but there's the BT Tower, and to the right a highly concentrated City cluster with the Shard rising to the fore. Best bit of the walk, this, not for the immediate locality but for peripheral vision.
If you spot the turnoff, the next field is a summer's delight, with flowers abloom while butterflies flap low above the long grass. It beats the next bit of lane, where serious car avoidance is required, but only as far as the edge of London where a stile permits escape. And as for the upcoming field, that's nothing special according to my Loop leaflet, but in reality it's very special indeed. This is the home of Mayfield Lavender, and for three months each summer it's ablaze with purple plants cultivated in dozens of photogenic rows. I may well have told you all about this yesterday. Time your walk right and you can wander off at will, but come out of season and you're restricted to a single path across the centre, and you can put your camera away.
The next highlight is immediately across the road, and that's Oaks Park. It's now a municipal park, and a fine one, but the estate was originally home to the Earl of Derby. He gave his name to the most famous race at Epsom, and his estate gave its name to the second. You'll not find his mansion here now, the Second World War did for that, but its outline is marked by a white line in the grass beyond the bakehouse. Today's visitors can enjoy food or ice creams from the cafe, one of the better ones I'd say, or a stroll through the walled garden. Just be warned that if you follow the Loop's signs you'll miss most of it in favour of a woodland walk along the edge of a golf course, so do make the effort to deviate properly.
Having made a good show of staying just within the London boundary at all times, the Loop now makes a break for Surrey. A narrow path rises from a private road, with the tang of horses never far from your nostrils. However far from built-up area this might feel, keep half an eye over the security fence to spot HM Prison High Down, an adult male category B penitentiary. Rather prettier are Banstead Downs at the end of the lane, another attractive butterfly-infested space, but divided by a railway and the main Brighton Road. Rather a lot of the Downs are golf course, and it's amidst the fairways and greens that Loop section 6 finally peters out. "Are you lost?" asked one particularly Surrey-looking player, seemingly trying to make me feel small for using the public right of way. But no, merely finished, and glad to be retiring to the station rather than continuing to section 7.
People do the strangest things in a field of lavender. They grin, they amble, they kneel, they gawp, but most particularly they get their cameras out and take photos of one another. Everyone looks good against an indigo background, so get to one sharpish and your image could be liked to high heaven on Facebook within minutes. It's fortunate, then, that London has its very own purple pasture, free to enter, and it's currently ablaze. [10 photos]
Mayfield Lavender is only just in London, indeed that's Surrey immediately beyond the hedge at the bottom of the field. But thereit sits, on a lane between Banstead and Purley, beyond where suburbia stops and a floral fantasy begins. You can walk if you're semi-adventurous, or even catch the bus, but most people choose to drive and park up along the top end of the field. Really quite a lot of people at this time of year, even on a weekday, so long as the sun's out.
You could just walk up and down the rows. There are dozens of these running parallel over the slope, most end to end, a few intersected by a sprawling oak. Three different types of lavender are planted in different parts of the field, each flowering at a slightly different time to stagger the harvest. The upper half is currently at peak bloom, and abuzz with bumble bees, while in the lower quarter the occasional employee cuts stalks for sale.
More likely you'll stop somewhere mid-mauve and get your camera out, it's irresistible. Perhaps kneel down so your lower half disappears into a sea of lavender... or if you're only small, toddling has the same effect. Several professional photographers may be present, creating pastel-perfect portraits for loving parents or couples. You might even stumble across the photo-shoot for an album cover, or whatever the digital R&B alternative is these days, so try not to wander into the back of shot.
Expect to see a high proportion of oriental visitors enjoying the spectacle. They love their lavender in China and Japan, so the opportunity to rediscover home on the Croydon Road is irresistible. Bring the whole family why don't you, and pose as a group over and over and over and over. A broad central path easily accommodates a wheelchair, if grandma wants to come too, but the real joy is to be had from stepping through the crop from one purple backdrop to another.
There is a shop in a tent selling locally harvested produce, be that bunches, pillows, or those toiletries you always buy for certain relatives because it saves thinking. At the cafe you can buy a lavender fairy cake or lavender scone to eat with your lavender tea or lavender lemonade (non lavender-based food options are also available). Once an hour, if that delights, you can even take a £2 tractor ride around the field. Mayfield's a wholly commercial enterprise, to be sure, but not in an especially intrusive way.
Come before June or after August and there's nothing much to see. The gates also close at six, restricting access to a single public right of way across the centre. And be warned that whenever the sun dips behind a cloud and the illumination changes, all that vibrant colour magic disappears and you're just left standing in a field. But time it right, as I managed earlier this week, and London's very own lavender farm is an unalloyed delight.
London's ten busiest tube stations (2013) 1) Waterloo (89.4m)2) ↑2 Oxford Circus (85.2m)3) King's Cross St Pancras (84.9m)4) ↓2 Victoria (84.6m)5) London Bridge (69.9m)6) Liverpool Street (67.9m)7) Stratford (54.5m)8) Canary Wharf (50.0m)9) ↑1 Paddington (49.7m)10) ↓1 Bank/Monument (48.9m)
London's ten busiest tube stations that aren't also National Rail stations (2013) 1) Oxford Circus (85.2m)2) Canary Wharf (50.0m)3) Bank/Monument (48.9m)4) Piccadilly Circus (41.7m)5) ↑1 Bond Street (39.6m)6) ↓1 Leicester Square (38.6m)7) Tottenham Court Road (38.1m)8) Green Park (35.5m)9) ↑1 Holborn (34.0m)10) ↓1 South Kensington (32.8m)
London's ten busiest tube stations outside Zone 1 (2013) 1) Stratford (54.5m)2) Canary Wharf (50.0m)3) Hammersmith (District & Piccadilly) (29.3m)4) ↑1 Brixton (27.2m)5) ↓1 Finsbury Park (27.1m)6) ↑1 Shepherd's Bush (22.9m)7) ↑1 Camden Town (22.5m)8) ↓2 North Greenwich (22.4m)9) Highbury & Islington (18.1m)10) ↑* Walthamstow Central (16.7m)
London's ten least busy tube stations (2013) 1) Roding Valley (236000)2) Chigwell (521000)3) Grange Hill (562000)4) Chesham (690000)5) Theydon Bois (823900)6) Moor Park (824400)7) ↑1 North Ealing (861000)8) ↓1 Croxley (921000)9) Fairlop (967000)10) ↑* Chorleywood (986000)
London's ten tube stations with the biggest percentage increase in passengers (2012→2013) 1) Blackfriars (+30%)2) Edgware Road (Circle) (+30%)3) Bromley-by-Bow (+22%)4) Canons Park (+20%)5) Wimbledon (+19%)6) Oakwood (+15%)7) Aldgate East (+15%)8) Woodford (+15%)9) Latimer Road (+15%)10) Queensbury (+14%)
London's ten busiest National Rail stations (2012/13) 1) Waterloo (96m)2) Victoria (77m)3) Liverpool Street (58m)4) London Bridge (53m)5) Charing Cross (39m)6) Euston (38m)7) Paddington (34m)8) King's Cross (28m)9) ↑* Stratford (26m)10) ↓1 St Pancras (24m)
London's ten busiest National Rail stations that aren't central London termini (2012/13) 1) ↑1 Stratford (25.6m)2) ↓1 Clapham Junction (23.6m)3) East Croydon (21.0m)4) ↑1 Vauxhall (19.1m)5) ↓1 Wimbledon (18.9m)6) Highbury & Islington (14.7m)7) Putney (11.1m)8) ↑1 Richmond (9.1m)9) ↓1 Surbiton (9.0m)10) ↑* Lewisham (8.2m)
The UK's ten busiest National Rail stations that aren't in London (2012/13) 1) Birmingham New Street (32.1m)2) Glasgow Central (27.2m)3) Leeds (26.2m)4) ↑2 Manchester Piccadilly (23.2m)5) ↓1 Edinburgh Waverley (18.9m)6) ↓1 Glasgow Queen Street (16.5m)7) Brighton (16.2m)8) Reading (15.4m)9) Gatwick Airport (15.4m)10) Liverpool Central (13.5m)
✉ Peel On the western coast of the island sits Peel, a characterful town, or perhaps even city. It houses the only cathedral on the island, hub of the Diocese of Sodor and Man, which might have looked more impressive at the weekend had it not been raining and half-covered in scaffolding. The building is a Victorian replacement for the 13th century ruins on the most atmospheric spot hereabouts - St Patrick's Isle. As a proper island, just far enough offshore to be both accessible and defensible, it was the obvious spot for a Viking fort. This slowly grew into Peel Castle, essentially a whopping stone wall around the perimeter of the island with a motley collection of towers and garrisonry inside. An artificial causeway later linked the Isle to the harbour, making modern-day penetration of the fortifications considerably easier. For a fee you can walk freely within, clutching an audio guide to your ear and typing in numbers to learn more. The commentary is narrated by a fruity actor, and listening to the architectural detail for too long merely confirms that very little of historical note actually happened here. Peer over the curtain wall for a panoramic view, and be sure to seek out the steps down into the crypt beneath the ruined chancel where now only noisy seagulls congregate.
Peel's other main tourist attraction is the House of Manannan, a much more modern interpretation of the island's Celtic and maritime backstory. "We're closing in an hour and a half," said the lady at the ticket desk, "and normally we recommend at least two." She wasn't wrong. A series of multimedia and audiovisual experiences follow, winding around a large building, part of which used to be Peel station. Your guide is the mythical god Manannan, spirit of the sea, who has a tendency for excitable overacting and could easily be related to Captain Birdseye. "Follow me," he cried, popping up on animated screens in a Celtic roundhouse, a Viking longhouse and a field of stone crosses. The largest room is filled by the Odin's Raven, a recreated longship that sailed from Norway to Man in 1979, while another gallery celebrates The Isle of Man Steam Packet Company, the oldest continuously operating passenger shipping company in the world. Don't wander through too fast, you'll miss the point, which is to pause and interact and learn. And OK, so I ended up giggling every time Manannan popped up, but he fell away as the history became more recent, and the overall experience was highly atmospheric*. * and free, to those of us with National Trust membership - The Manx National Heritage Trust runs a reciprocal scheme that saved me over £20 across the weekend.
Across town is a warren of back-harbour streets, boasting all the quaint shops that Castletown and Ramsey lack. One of these is the Peel Ink Tattoo Studio - surely a highly inadvisable name for a commercial enterprise (although I searched in vain for a potential counterpart, the Peel Sunbed Centre). Down by the marina is the red and white home of Moore's Manx Kippers, a Victorian smokery still going strong and offering Escorted Kipper Yard Tours a couple of days a week if you time your visit right. Instead I arrived on "Secret Gardens" weekend, which meant the alleys in the town centre were thronging with middle-aged couples clutching brochures and attempting to cross off as many horticultural hideaways as they could. There's culture here, of many a kind, in a most (and you'll have been expecting this) a-peel-ing town. [9 photos][map]
✉ St John's
Had I arrived on the island a few days earlier I could have experienced the joys of Tynwald Day. This is a Manx bank holiday held in the first week of July which celebrates the founding of the world's longest surviving parliament, and is crowned off by an open air sitting on Tynwald Hill. Don't think mountain, think artificialmound comprising four concentric discs of earth containing soil from all corners of the island. Oaths are taken, laws are proclaimed, and then a fair breaks out on the surrounding lawn. Alas, arriving at the end of Manx National Week all I saw were lots of flags by some roadworks. [map]
✉ Spooyt Vane "No really, it's up here," I told BestMate as he manoeuvred our hire car up a narrow lane off a narrow lane. I'd been expecting a sign on the main road, given that Spooyt Vane was supposedly one of the island's highest waterfalls, but there was nothing, not even a sign on the footpath after we'd successfully parked. A five minute trudge revealed little, until a slight stream trickled gently, and nigh horizontally, beneath a thin stone bridge. "Have faith," I said, "the Ordnance Survey says it's here." And so it was, through a wooded glen and down umpteen steps into a leafy hollow. A volley of white water descended through a notch in the rocks, then tumbled again down a broad tongue of sandstone into a deep pool below. It had rained a lot the day before so we were more fortunate than some, indeed sometimes the gully is so dry that bikers chance their arm riding the approach. But there are post-storm days when the entire 50m descent is gushing with spray, and we didn't get that... just an imposing feeling of naturalsolitude in a secret spot most non-locals never find. [2 photos][map]
✉ Niarbyl
Off the coast road to the south of Peel, amid one of the remoter stretches of coastline, is a headland called Niarbyl. Its name means 'tail' in Manx, which is a good description of the low spine of rocks stretching out into the Irish Sea. Look down from the cafe's back garden and you might spot basking sharks and dolphins lurking in the bay... I only saw seals, but that was pretty good in itself. Head down to beach level and there are two thatched cottages, picture-postcard friendly, but the finest panoramic views from Peel round to Calf of Man are to be had from higher up. [2 photos][map]
✉ Calf of Man
And finally, right down at the southernmost tip of the Isle of Man, is a sizeable islet called the Calf of Man. It doubles up as a bird sanctuary, indeed you can get across if time and tide are right, but more likely you'll have to stare across from the mainland. Some of those rocky things are actually seals, if you stare carefully, but be warned that some of the seal-like things are actually rocks. For a protracted stare step inside the squat slate-topped circular building which looks like a Bond lair but is actually the Sound Café. During the day drinks and light refreshments are in order, but on summer evenings, assuming you can drive here, an a la carte menu is served. The premier seats are in a curve along the window, from which you can watch the sun set across the Irish Sea... or at least that would be the plan. A few minutes before BestMate and I turned up a sheet of cloud crept across from Ireland and obscured the entire spectacle, bar a few tantalising streaks of pink through the relentless grey, which was most frustrating. Instead we concentrated on our steak and chips, and the birthday party erupting on the long table behind us, and on the slowly rising tide around a darkening isle. As the other diners drifted away, eventually the only obstacle to an unobstructed view of the Calf was our own hire car, a true scenic own goal if ever there was one. But we still drove away from a highly memorable meal in full daylight - the sun sets at nearly ten during a Manx summer. I suspect we'll be back. [3 photos][map]
✉ Manx Electric Railway Los Angeles may have its Hollywood sign, but Douglas has the Electric Railway. Fifteen illuminated letters beam out across the bay, welcoming passengers to the far end of the promenade for a heritage ride. The Manx Electric Railway runs up the eastern side of the island from Douglas to Ramsey, with its main intermediate station at Laxey roughly halfway. It doesn't run direct either, following a sinuous 17 mile route along the coast, around headlands and across the tops of steep wooded valleys. Local residents could use it - there are innumerable request stops - but generally don't, it's far quicker to drive or take the bus. But the MER is ideal for tourists who want to take it slow and enjoy the view, plus there's an interchange at Laxey for those taking the train up the mountain. Just avoid the rush hour if you want to get a seat.
The first train of the morning looked to have plenty of space, but the luxury coach pulled up alongside should have been a warning. An entire walking party duly poured into the observation trailer from the platform side, squishing in with rucksacks and poles, creating a situation reminiscent of peaktime on the Northern line. And then we rattled off up the hill, past the bungalows and apartments on the edge of town, a hooter buzzing for every sideroad and farm track we crossed. The railway's twin tracks and electricity poles closely follow the main road, occasionally crossing it, before eventually careering off alone through clifftop fields. The first important stop is at Groudle Glen, the original 1890s terminus, where you can alight for yet another heritage railway, or a pootle down to the ruins of a Victorian pleasure garden. The walking party alighted at Fairy Cottage, which I was disappointed to see was a corrugated iron shelter, and then everybody else on board departed at Laxey. Which left BestMate and I with the entire service to ourselves, soaring over crystal blue bays and past goat-infested fields, to a tiny request stop at the top of a waterfalledglen. A proper treat and, if you avoid the busy stretch at a busy time, about as far away from the Northern line as it's possible to get. [7 photos][map]
✉ Douglas
The capital of the Isle of Man spreads out along a broad curved bay on the southeast corner of the island. Arrive by ship, say aboard the Steampacket from Liverpool or Dublin, and you'll disembark in the shadow of the Sea Terminal. This 1960sconcrete creation resembles a raindrop splashing in a bowl of water, or maybe a gasring, and may be the most Modernist chunk of architecture on the island. It's under threat of demolition, naturally, as the Manx government recently launched plans to replace it with "a new landmark gateway to the island" incorporating cruise liner facilities and commercial opportunities. Cruise liners are a growth area for the town, with one anchored offshore on Sunday disgorging its holidaymakers by shuttle across the bay. They might have enjoyed a walk along the promenade, with its arc of grand hotels and fluttering Manx flags, or taken a ride on the Horse Tram (which is yet another of the island's heritage railways).
Douglas is as close to UK-ordinary as the island gets, with parks and schools and housing estates. The main shopping street has several well-known household names, although I was disappointed to see that TK Maxx hadn't rebranded with an 'n' instead of that first 'x' - surely an opportunity missed. Residents have to get their entertainment where they can, hence the Gaiety Theatre sometimes welcomes acts from the mainland (it's John Newman next month), but more likely puts on a Gala Concert or Abba tribute. Sir Norman Wisdom was a huge fan of the island and spent the last 30 years of his life here. A hotel bar on the seafront is named after him, and a bronze likeness sits on a bench outside the front window, cloth cap on head, should you fancy a photo. If you can stand his cheery demeanour, this 5 minute TV clip promoting his favourite island gives a pretty good overview of the place. [12 photos][map]
✉ Ronaldsway
The island's main airport is perched on a flat plain by the coast, so you're likely to fly in low across the waves before touching down. Ronaldsway's departure lounge was opened 20 years ago by Nigel Mansell, another motorsport-related resident, and there's a decent view from the windows of planes taking off if you can't stick watching Channel 5 movies on the big screen telly. That scary-looking dark tower opposite belongs to King William's College, the private school with the nigh impossible general knowledge quiz the Guardian prints every Christmas. [1 photo][map]
✉ Castletown
Before Douglas took the administrative crown, the island's capital was Castletown. And that was for several centuries, when the Isle of Man had its own line of royalty and an entirely separate history to the rest of the British Isles. The Kings of Mann had a castle built here to protect them against the Vikings, the Scots and the English, with the current structure dating back to at least the 12th century. Castle Rushen is one of the best preserved medieval castles in the world, what with a dynasty to support and few marauding armies ever getting this far. And as such it's therefore a fine place for a visit, indeed its completeness is likely to make crumbling ruins elsewhere seem almost ordinary. Taking the tour involves climbing a spiral staircase in stages to the roof, or indeed several roofs, and enjoying the view down over town, harbour and Co-Op. More effort has been made on the descent to depict how the Lords of Mann might have lived and entertained, with some finely decorated rooms and a steward who'll tell you all about 17th century banqueting in fine detail until you manage to thank him and walk away.
The Queen is now the Lord of Mann, but only infrequently pops over to exercise her rights. Across the road is the Old House of Keys, formerly one of the houses of the Manx Parliament which, as you may know, is the oldest continuous parliamentary body in the world. This rather understated building was its home in the 19th century, then became a bank, and is now an intriguingly democratic tourist attraction. Visitors are invited to vote on historic motions from the island's past, including the one which gave women suffrage in national elections earlier than any other country in the world. A couple of othermuseums on the seafront give tourists alternative options for infotainment (the world's oldest yacht, anyone?), although the town centre itself is a bit small, and I can see why those elected representatives relocated. [4 photos][map]
(If protracted non-London reportage is getting you down, rest assured that later in the week I'll be bringing you all the latest news from Sutton)
✉ Point of Ayre The northern coastline of the Isle of Man is a low sand-duney place, curving round to a shingly tip at Point of Ayre. This remote spot is the closest the island gets to the British mainland, just 16 miles from Dumfries and Galloway in Scotland, and is also the location of the island's oldest lighthouse. This was designed and built by Robert Louis Stevenson's grandfather almost 200 years ago, and the signal is doubled up by a shorter metal "winkie" on the beach. The adjacent twin foghorn is a dramatic feature, ideal for an album cover design I'd say, but was decommissioned in 2005 thanks to the march of technology. A proper get-away-from-it-all spot (but mind your step amongst the pebbles so as not to disturb the nesting arctic terns). [2 photos][map]
✉ Ramsey
The second largest town on the island is Ramsey, with a well-protectedharbour and a lacklustre seafront overlooked by ill-advised apartments. The main shopping street runs from an independent ironmongers to a proper family drapery called Looneys via an actual Costa Coffee (their caffeinated tentacles get everywhere). It didn't seem the sort of place to stop for long... [3 photos][map]
✉ Maughold
...whereas this village, on a sticky-out headland to the east, was charming. A group of cottages hugs a crossroads by an ancient church, in whose graveyard are some of the oldest Celtic crosses on the island. To find the lighthouse head out the back gate and up the lane, and there it is at the foot of the cliffs. More impressive is the view inland across the Sheading of Garff, which ought to be a Game of Thrones dominion, with rolling fields rising towards not-so distant mountains. Sunday was Maughold's Parish Day, reluctantly postponed from a very rainy Saturday. Villagers were massing on the festooned field above the car park, while a bank of wooden chairs had been lined up on the tiny village green ready for the crowning of the Parish Queen, her throne a couple of rugs and some triskelion banners draped over a low stone memorial. [5 photos][map]
✉ Laxey
The one Manx tourist attraction everybody knows is the LaxeyWheel, which is the world's largest working waterwheel, and proper massive. Its size is due to a geological quirk - there is no coal on the Isle of Man, so when Victorian technology on the mainland turned to steam the locals here were forced to maximise their water power instead. The wheel's 72 feet high, six feet wide, and has three feet on the front (this a whopping great triskelion visible far down the valley). Water from the stream below is forced up the tower under pressure and dribbles over into the slatted buckets on the circumference causing the wheel to spin at three revs per minute. Motion is transferred to a lateral crank which pushes an incredibly long rod back and forth. This sits on casters along what looks likea Roman aqueduct, but was in fact a means of powering the drainage pumps in the zinc mine 400 yards up the valley. The Great Laxey Mine was once the richest metal mine in the British Isles and employed 600 men, with their wives doing more menial washing work lower down in the town.
As well as being desperately photogenic, the wheel's other attraction is the opportunity to ascend. A first climb takes you above the dripping base for a close-up of that three-legged logo, then a second brings you to axle level. Only Manx National Heritage Trust staff can step across the barriers to check the mechanics, and some fairly hefty restoration work is planned before next spring which should keep them busy. As for the next set of steps, spiralling around the outside of the water tower, I tried to force myself to climb them but a wobbly bit at the back of my brain said no. "Come on, you're only here once," I told myself, but when the prize for ascent was to stand on an exposed wooden platform with the wheel whirling beneath, I jellied out. Sheepishly I waited for BestMate to pop up and pop down, but even he returned with vertigo on his mind, so I felt less bad about missing out. Instead there were the old mineworkings at the top of the glen to investigate, these eventually higher than the top of the wheel had been, but at least on solid ground. Much to see, and rightly a tourist treat. [9 photos][map]
✉ Snaefell Mountain Railway Forget hiking, the most popular way to reach the top of the Isle of Man's highest mountain is by train. The Snaefell Mountain Railway starts from Laxey station and wiggles its way up to the summit along ratcheted rails. Best pick a decent day for it, else you'll get to the top and see nothing but the cafe. The service is run using six wooden-bodied electricrailcars, five of which are the originals from 1895 and were built in Birkenhead. Take a window seat if you can - the right-hand side's better for the first half up the valley, and the left-hand side's better for the spiral round the mountaintop. Some of the windows slide open, which is more useful on some days than others, but don't lean out else your camera, arm or head might be thwacked by one of the central posts supporting the overhead wires. Halfway up the five mile ascent the tracks cross the TT Course at Bungalow station, watched over by a giant goat, then continue up ever more exposed slopes to reach the top.
Trains pull up outside the Summit Hotel, 2096 feet up, with the option of exploring the proper peak or hiding inside where it smells of chips. Best I think to climb the ramp to the triangulation point, from which an almost 360° panorama can be seen, blocked only by two whopping mobile phone masts. A mixture of lesser mountains, glens and coastal plain should be visible, and on a really good day all the home nations on the horizon. And then the railcar will take you back down in half an hour flat, making this mountaineering for the lazy, but none the less exhilarating for that. [11 photos][map]
• The Isle of Man is one of those exotic bits of the British Isles where lots of people live, but that most others never visit.
• Getting there requires a boat or a flight (the latter about an hour from London), which can be expensive.
• Administratively and financially it's quite like Guernsey and Jersey - a Crown Dependency - and has a similar population (although the climate's not so good).
• Geographically, the north of the island is very flat, while a hilly mountainous swathe runs across the centre before falling away to a coastal plain to the south, where the airport is. • The island's emblem is the triskelion - three armoured legs with golden spurs. It's everywhere - on buildings, on banknotes, and flapping on banners and flags in several gardens - which gives a unified sense of national pride across the island.
• The Isle of Man is famed for the TT races that take place annually around the end of May. A 37 mile circuit of roads is appropriated for competitive use, and motorcyclists career round at speed trying not to crash into bends, stone walls, spectators and each other. The circuit is marked by black and white kerb tiles, by empty scaffolding located around the route (used for camera positions and spectator seating) and by thick crashbags tied to walls to protect life and property. It's an astonishing course, in part for the mundane way it passes through villages and built up areas, but also for the moorland stretch that rises up along a vertiginous ridge to cross a mountain pass. The views on the ascent can be spectacular, although in low cloud and mist must be considerably less so. Various points, including the highest part of the course, have high footbridges solely for use by spectators and local residents while the racing is taking place. Having (been) driven around the entire course, I am amazed that any bike can complete the circuit in under 20 minutes.
• The island is just over 30 miles from tip to tail, and about half that from side to side, so there's a lot of land to explore, but getting around by car is really quite manageable.
• Getting around by public transport is also fairly easy, with a comprehensive bus service and two heritage rail services along the east coast linking most of the main towns (except in the winter).
• Motorbikes and holidaying bikers are everywhere, not just throbbing around the TT course, and certain pubs overflow with late-middle-aged blokes in bike leathers at the end of the day. • The Isle of Man is very much a wheeled-traveller's island, not just for the racing but because of the network of twisty car-commercial-friendly roads. Listening to the local radio news at the weekend, the whole of one bulletin was devoted to car racing, bike racing and damaged mountain bikes. It's no surprise to discover that Jeremy Clarkson has a house here, presumably with a very large garage.
• Roads are numbered in a familiar way, from the A1 upwards, although the A2 gets a bit hairy in places, and by the time you reach the A10 you might want to slow down a bit. Only a couple of hundred yards of dual carriageway exist, immediately outside the airport.
• Car numberplates all contain the letters MN or MAN. A lot of people have hung onto prized plates that are solely MAN and a number.
• The Isle of Man is also very much a Daily Mail island - there are huge piles in every newsagent, to be read in conservatories, retirement apartments and on patios in trim detached gardens.
• Seafood is a speciality, not least the Manx kipper (I had them for breakfast two days running). Another local delicacy are Queenies - small sustainably-fished scallops - a bowl of which (with bacon and sauce) unexpectedly proved my favourite dish of the weekend.
• If you like walking, a network of well signed footpaths covers the island, and encircles it along the 90 mile coastalpath.
• They use our coins but have their own banknotes, which you're likely to get back in change (and which aren't legal tender over here).
• Contrary to expectations the IoM isn't all full of tax exiles, with about half of the population having been born here, and just as long a queue at the Iceland supermarket as you'd find on the mainland.
• The island has its own internet domain (.im), which is begging for creative use.
• There is a surprising amount to see and do on the island, so much that I could easily go back for another long weekend to fill in the gaps.
• And no, you don't need a passport to get here.
Isle of Man quiz
Before I drone on about where I went at the weekend, have a go at this short quiz to see how well you know the island. Select the correct option from the drop-down menu, then check your answers in the comments box.
1) The Isle of Man is in the . 2) The nearest country is . 3) It a member of the United Kingdom. 4) It a member of the European Union. 5) Its population is about . 6) Its area is about that of Greater London. 7) The capital is called . 8) The highest mountain is called . 9) The national speed limit is . 10) The top rate of income tax rate is .
"So," said BestMate, "how do you fancy going away for a long weekend this summer?"
"Great," I said. "There's bugger all in my calendar apart from the second weekend in July, when there's something going on in Finsbury Park, so let's try to avoid that."
"It has to be the second weekend in July," he said. "It's that or nothing."
"No problem," I said. "It was only a load of old buses, and I've seen a load of old buses before."
Ah yes, today is Routemaster 60, a diamond jubilee celebration for London's favourite bus. The first Routemaster appeared in public in 1954, and it along with 140 of its fellow vehicles will be lining up for adoration and free rides at a big event in Finsbury Park. Something very similar happened ten years ago, and I went to that, and this'll just be the same thing but bigger and with a larger number on the front.
The event's also on tomorrow, in case that helps you to get along, but it doesn't help me because I'll still be overseas. So if you'd like to go on my behalf, and maybe bung a report in the comments box, or even email it to me, that'd be great.
"I mean, it's only a load of old buses," I said, "and I can see a load of old buses some other time."
But if anyone else is planning on inviting me on holiday in the future, please note that the second weekend in July in fifteen years' time is already taken.
Every summer a long green shoot pokes up out of the pot on my balcony and brings forth flowers. It only does this once - last year in August, this year about a month earlier. A string of red buds appears, each encased in green, and slowly, in turn, each unfurls.
A highly predictable sequence ensues, as each day one more flower opens, then three days later closes for the night and slowly shrivels. Equally predictably, somewhere around day two, the whole stalk topples over and snaps. And then I have to rescue the flapping flower by making a clean break and bringing it indoors to live out the rest of its life in a vase. Every bloody year.
I should get a cane or something to support my gladiolus as it grows. But every year its growth spurt catches me unawares, and anyway who pops down to the garden centre midweek for a single stick? I did look round the flat this year in case I had some other long, thin but rigid household implement that might double as scaffolding, but no, it's not a likely thing to have stashed away.
Then this year something unusual happened, in that the plant seemed finally capable of supporting its own weight. It rose almost vertical from the soil and brought forth one, two, three of the anticipated half a dozen blooms without falling. I was quite excited. Had the plant finally learned not to extend too far, or was one year's additional growth finally enough to shift its centre of gravity? Whatever, it looked like I might finally get to see all six flowers open in situ, as nature intended, without a calamity occurring.
Not so. On Wednesday afternoon a windy interlude proved too much for the ever-extending plant, and I caught a flash of red out of the corner of my eye as the stalk descended. I sighed and went to check the damage, and yes, the fold was too great to leave the thing in situ. So I filled up my emergency vase with water and inside the gladiolus came, as every previous year.
And there it is today, over by the window, living out the remainder of its life cycle as a prize cutting rather than a living plant. Bloom one has already shrivelled and bloom two is going the same way. Blooms three and four were yesterday's proper pair, whereas today four and five are in their prime, and six is on the verge of opening. Shame I'll miss it.
I'm leaving London for a few days, like you do, which should be just long enough for death to creep its way up the stalk and extinguish the entire display. So I thought I'd share a photo from earlier in the week so that my gladdy at least gets a virtual audience over the weekend rather than withering alone. Treat the image as a sort of intermission, if you would, if that's OK with you.
For the second half of my visit to Tandridge I'm visiting the commuter section to the north of the M25. Many of the towns and villages are connected to London by bus or train, indeed had the boundary with Surrey been drawn differently then Caterham and Warlingham could very easily be part of the capital. But they're a bit dull, sorry, so allow me to start by visiting an unsung stately home instead. Try not to giggle. [14 photos][map]
Somewhere historic: Titsey Place
Stop that. The village of Titsey appears in the Domesday Book, and had an important strategic location on the Pilgrims Way at the foot of the North Downs. The manor house has been around for centuries and was owned by the great Tudor financier Sir John Gresham, the Richard Branson of his day, whose wares were furs and fabrics from the far east. Titsey Place lies in a beautiful location, wrapped round to the north by a bend in the chalk downs, the slopes entirely covered by trees. Too nice, as it turned out in the 1770s when the latest Sir John Gresham had the manor house rebuilt and moved the entire village out of the way! He didn't like seeing cottages and the church from his window, so had the whole lot shifted a few hundred yards to the east to open up a panorama. That view too is rather lovely, if you can ignore the noise of the M25 half a mile away screened only by trees. Clacket Lane Services are just out of sight, if that helps you to locate Titsey more precisely.
In 1804 the last Gresham heiress married a Leweson Gower (pronounced Leverson Gore), which introduced a whole new set of heraldic symbols around the house. Later descendants became Major Generals, poets, MPs and archaeologists - the latter made easier by having a buried Roman villa in the grounds. But the last of the dynasty died 20 years ago, and the estate passed into the hands of a Foundation... who open it up to the public every summer. No, I'd never realised either. You drive in, or walk, down a long lane from Limpsfield, eventually passing through a herd of cattle secured safely behind electric wires. This is the pedigree Titsey Herd, now 75 strong, and available for appearances at barbecues and restaurants as required.
Sunday visitors can pay to enter the walled kitchen garden, which is beautifully maintained, and currently ablaze with colour. A comprehensive variety of plants are neatly laid out within, and spill out into the estate beyond which is also open for roaming. The ornamental lake is fed by springs at the head of the Eden Valley, or take a pew on the south terrace to enjoy Sir John's village-free view. But come on Wednesday or Saturday, and pay a little extra, and a guided tour of the house is thrown in too. And this is fascinating. Nine rooms are open to view, and your volunteer guide will whisk you through in one hour flat topped off with copious facts and anecdotes. The history of the family is intriguing enough, because a banking fortune means you can do pretty much anything. Yes those are four real Canalettos on the dining room wall, purchased direct from the artist, while all the Georgian panelling in the Gallery Bedroom was shipped in from elsewhere. I enjoyed the variety of styles and decor, along with touches that indicated this is still very much a family home, even if the original families have all died out.
I struck lucky and got the least busy of the day's three tours - the other two would have meant schlepping round with a rather larger group. But I have no hesitation in recommending a visit to Titsey Place if you're a history/antiques/gardening/tearoom sort of person. Indeed the cream tea slipped down a treat, complete with choice of three types of freshly baked scone, because it seemed the right way to round off a visit. Your only issue may be getting here if you don't have a car because local buses are infrequent, and the nearest station is about an hour's walk away. I walked out via the woodland paths on the escarpment, these steep and indirect, but leading eventually to a lofty view south across the Weald. On a sunny summer's afternoon, high atop the North Downs Way, where better? OK, so it was raining by the time I finally reached Tatsfield, but this Surrey village is surrounded on three sides by London and so has a perfectly regularbus service. Titsey's just about accessible by Oyster, if you make a clean breast of it. by train: Oxted, by bus: 464, by local bus: 595
Meridian Interlude - Titsey Plantation Or you can exit Titsey to the southwest towards Oxted. The walking route again follows the North Downs Way, a long distance path I'm becoming increasingly enamoured with thanks to its linear elevation. This particular mile-long section runs along the foot of the escarpment, with thick woodland above, rapeseed fields below and dry chalk underfoot. On the map it looks straight, whereas the reality is a light wiggle, occasionally diverting around a toppled tree trunk blocking the path. Only the motorway broke the silence, otherwise it was just me and the butterflies and the occasional surprised rabbit. And then partway along I found the Meridian marker I'd been hunting for. I think the panel was meant to be at the very top of the field but midsummer growth had encroached somewhat, forcing someone to trim a deep notch in the hedgerow so it could still be seen. The plaque was installed by Surrey County Council and the Vanguards Rambling Club, the latter custodians of a 66 mile trail from Croydon to Newhaven. I'd seen nobody on either route, indeed I saw no other walkers whatsoever during two hours of traipsing Tandridge's byways. But here at this random spot due south of Greenwich, alone with nature, I'd not have had it any other way.
Somewhere random: East Surrey Museum
Not only is East Surrey apparently a thing, it also has a museum. You'll find it in Caterham, a few yards up the hill from the station, inside a building that looks suspiciously like a house. I think I surprised the steward at the weekend by being a visitor, whereas he was expecting another volunteer to keep him company during a long shift. This is a very local museum, with a focus on Caterham and district, despite claiming to be a repository for the whole of Tandridge. See Old Caterham in postcards, learn about the coming of the railways*, and see dug up bits from nearby Chelsham Roman villa. One room out back has the obligatory collection of ancient relics and stone age flints, including a 13th century water jug shaped like a grinning horse - he's nicknamed Rudolph and is the museum's mascot. Throw in a Children's Room with exhibits targeted at primary school groups and, well, the place has some charm but not much to show for it. by train: Caterham, by bus: 407
* Caterham itself seems to have little history** apart from that generated by the railways turning up. Their arrival in the 1850s turned a village into an end-of-the-line dormitory town, with pleasant villas to be occupied on the valley slopes. Steep contours have created an unusual situation further north where two railway lines run parallel yards apart on either side of the dip, with entirely separate stations and heading for different destinations. The two closest stations are Whyteleafe and Upper Warlingham, 37 minutes apart by train but only three minutes on foot.
** Obviously Caterham does have some history, as two boards by the floral roundabout explain. For example the Asprey Fountain, which was donated to the town by Charles the famous jeweller, and whose single lamp became the town's very first streetlight. The Metropolitan Asylum survived here in Caterham for over a century, its most famous resident being Joey Deacon (if you're of a certain age, you'll know his name well). The most recent heritage highlights, apparently, were the replacement of the station car park by a Waitrose in 1982, and the demolition of the Valley Hotel to create the Church Walk Shopping Centre. So no, sorry, not really much history at all*.
I'm continuing my outer orbit of London in Tandridge, East Surrey. It's possibly the least well known of the seventeen administrative districts touching the capital, even though it's quite big, and can be found clinging onto the bottom of Croydon. The northern strip is spacious suburbia, while to the south are a selection of minor towns and tiny villages amid rolling fields. Alas, Tandridge is not over-endowed with places of interest. I discovered this by downloading the council's "Your Guide to Tandridge" booklet off their website, only to discover that the majority of their "Places to Visit" were in fact in neighbouring districts. But I found a few worthy of investigation, and at least two of them turned out to be much more interesting than I was expecting.
Somewhere pretty: Oxted
I've always liked the name. Short and snappy, with an Anglo-Saxon feel, and of course that lovely X. This may just be because I grew up somewhere similar, but I'd always wondered what the place was like. Relatively small it turns out, indeed Croxley's technically bigger, but Oxted hosts the council offices and is administratively far more important. The main shopping street's split in two by the railway, with the west side shorter and more Mock Tudor. It's really rather nice, and includes cafes, a proper ironmongers and a second hand bookshop. Plus there's an adorable-looking cinema whose wooden beams might appear 16th century but are really 1929, ditto the Barclays Bank nextdoor. But then Tandridge is allegedly Housewife Central, with the highest proportion of economically inactive women in Britain, so it's as well they have somewhere to go.
I had feared that, bar the shops, there'd be little in Oxted to write about. Thank heavens then that I'd arrived on the one afternoon the town lets its hair down and parties... at the OxtedCarnival. Held every first Saturday in July since 1966, this annual shindig takes over Master Park at the bottom of the hill, and is unashamedly local. You might walk in from neighbouring Hurst Green or Limpsfield, but the carnival is really an opportunity for residents and organisations from Oxted to come together. The Rotary Club had a paddling pool full of rubber ducks to fish in, for example, while the Cystic Fibrosis tent housed a bottle tombola to put the nearest supermarket to shame. On the fringes an army officer, or a man dressed convincingly as one, waited patiently for anyone to approach so that he could talk to them about centenaries and stress. It being a bit early the bar tent hadn't quite taken off, and the Barn Theatre ladies were still declingfilming the sponges in their tea tent. But I swapped two pound coins for a tasty hotdog at the carnival committee's gazebo, this pure profit what with all the bread and squeezy ketchup having been kindly donated by Morrisons.
A very mild stir was caused by the arrival of Tandridge's Chairman of the Council, that's Councillor Elizabeth Parker, in a Ford Fiesta driven by her Consort Robin. He traversed the carnival in his hatchback and parked up on the grass by the ice cream van, because you're totally allowed to do that when your wife runs the place. Exiting the car in chains, Elizabeth was resplendent in cardigan and straw bonnet, but was outshone by the feathery attire of the town crier and her big bell. Meanwhile on the other side of the park, the carnival procession (theme 'Toys and Games) was lining up prior to its tour round the town. One local school had dressed up collectively as Angry Birds, while another group disguised as Duracell bunnies bounced around to music in the far corner. One float with guitarists and drummer was decked out as "Roxted" (see what they did there?), practising silently as the time for departure approached. And right on schedule out came Oxted's householders to watch the parade from their front verge, its musical soundtrack echoing all the way to the town's outskirts. And that's where the similarity between Oxted and Croxley finally struck me, one with its Carnival, the other its Revels. Each a community celebrating its individuality and togetherness annually in friendly style - I felt very much at home. by train: Oxted
Meridian Interlude - Oxted The Greenwich Meridian runs down the east side of Tandridge, approximately in line with the East Grinstead railway, including a direct hit on Oxted School and the Ellice Road Car Park. My target was the town's one public manifestation of the zero degree line, which is a centenary plaque on the front of Paydens the Chemists at the bottom of the parade. This is a splendid Tudorbethan pharmacy, its interior laid out rather how Boots used to be, with bottles and creams stacked neatly on shelves and a proper prescription counter at the rear. Look down low by the left of the front door and there's the meridian marker, cast in 1984, below a window display of small town pharmaceutical perfection. Lined up on the meridian itself are a strawberry-themed shower hat, a box of three rose-perfumed soaps and a St Moritz self tan applicator mitt. The first toiletry in the western hemisphere is an RHS Sweet Pea Body Balm, positioned close to the pièce de résistance - a bottle of blonde-pigtailed Matey bubble bath. It's the finest meridian marker I've seen in many a year. Meanwhile nextdoor, firmly in the eastern hemisphere, is Paydens Bookshop. Again it's everything you'd hope an local independent shop would be, with books giving way to an eclectic range of non-poncey stationery as you walk through. I succumbed, zero resistance.
Meridian Interlude - Lingfield
The Greenwich Meridian oh so nearly swipes through Lingfield racecourse, but not quite. Step a hundred yards or so past the entrance to the hotel car park and there, on the other side of the railway bridge, is a small stone monument set into the pavement. It was installed by the parish council to celebrate the millennium, and is oddly hard to read for a memorial so young. Still, it's better placed here than on the opposite side of the road outside the Lingfield & Dormansland Rifle & Pistol Club hut. I wonder if they have a meridian-sighted target lined up inside.
Somewhere sporting: Lingfield Park Yes, Lingfield's where the racing is. It boasts one of the handful of all-weather racecourses in Britain, always usable but not always used. Last Saturday was an off-day, save for a team of groundsmen tending to the non-artificial bits, and the Arpa & Hemanshoo Wedding in the Pavilion Suite. The owners have made sure that the course is almost, but not completely, invisible from the road outside. Stand outside the main gate, which is a peculiar wooden-topped glass box with some turnstiles inside, and you can see a fraction of the outer rail, while a bit of the parade ring is visible through the conifers a little further down the road. So that was well worth my train ticket and a lengthy yomp across Tandridge, I thought. A dedicated footpath leads from the far end of the northbound platform, via which those coming by rail arrive at the races. More typical visitors come by car, and park up in fields labelled No Trespassing at all other times. Ah but this is more than a racecourse, this is the Lingfield Park Resort, complete with golf course for swinging executives and a four star hotel with jockeytastic views. I imagine many a corporate conference takes place within, although the reality next weekend appears to be a Whitney and Beyonce Tribute for all you Ladies out there.
OK, so the sporting end of Lingfield proved rather dull, but the centre of the village was gorgeous. An unlikely mega-cluster of listed buildings swirls around the medieval church, itself Grade I, on the site of a Saxon structure. The current St Peter and St Paul's owes its existence to a dynasty of crusaders, and its most prominent feature is the ostentatious tomb of Sir Reginald de Cobham and his wife (resting her feet on a small dragon), plonked directly in front of the high altar. It's a fine building to explore, but first and foremost a place of worship rather than any fossilised heritage asset. Likewise the surrounding cottages, still very much family homes... and then there's The Guest House. Built in Wealden style for guests of the neighbouring college, this timber-framed beauty turns out to be full of books, and perchance the only 15th century public library in Britain. by train: Lingfield
On the western coast of the island sits Peel, a characterful town, or perhaps even city. It houses the only cathedral on the island, hub of the Diocese of Sodor and Man, which might have looked more impressive at the weekend had it not been raining and half-covered in scaffolding. The building is a Victorian replacement for the 13th century ruins on the most atmospheric spot hereabouts - St Patrick's Isle. As a proper island, just far enough offshore to be both accessible and defensible, it was the obvious spot for a Viking fort. This slowly grew into Peel Castle, essentially a whopping stone wall around the perimeter of the island with a motley collection of towers and garrisonry inside. An artificial causeway later linked the Isle to the harbour, making modern-day penetration of the fortifications considerably easier. For a fee you can walk freely within, clutching an audio guide to your ear and typing in numbers to learn more. The commentary is narrated by a fruity actor, and listening to the architectural detail for too long merely confirms that very little of historical note actually happened here. Peer over the curtain wall for a panoramic view, and be sure to seek out the steps down into the crypt beneath the ruined chancel where now only noisy seagulls congregate.
Across town is a warren of back-harbour streets, boasting all the quaint shops that Castletown and Ramsey lack. One of these is the Peel Ink Tattoo Studio - surely a highly inadvisable name for a commercial enterprise (although I searched in vain for a potential counterpart, the Peel Sunbed Centre). Down by the marina is the red and white home of Moore's Manx Kippers, a Victorian smokery still going strong and offering Escorted Kipper Yard Tours a couple of days a week if you time your visit right. Instead I arrived on "Secret Gardens" weekend, which meant the alleys in the town centre were thronging with middle-aged couples clutching brochures and attempting to cross off as many horticultural hideaways as they could. There's culture here, of many a kind, in a most (and you'll have been expecting this) a-peel-ing town. [9 photos] [map]
"No really, it's up here," I told BestMate as he manoeuvred our hire car up a narrow lane off a narrow lane. I'd been expecting a sign on the main road, given that Spooyt Vane was supposedly one of the island's highest waterfalls, but there was nothing, not even a sign on the footpath after we'd successfully parked. A five minute trudge revealed little, until a slight stream trickled gently, and nigh horizontally, beneath a thin stone bridge. "Have faith," I said, "the Ordnance Survey says it's here." And so it was, through a wooded glen and down umpteen steps into a leafy hollow. A volley of white water descended through a notch in the rocks, then tumbled again down a broad tongue of sandstone into a deep pool below. It had rained a lot the day before so we were more fortunate than some, indeed sometimes the gully is so dry that bikers chance their arm riding the approach. But there are post-storm days when the entire 50m descent is gushing with spray, and we didn't get that... just an imposing feeling of natural solitude in a secret spot most non-locals never find. [2 photos] [map]
Los Angeles may have its Hollywood sign, but Douglas has the Electric Railway. Fifteen illuminated letters beam out across the bay, welcoming passengers to the far end of the promenade for a heritage ride. The Manx Electric Railway runs up the eastern side of the island from Douglas to Ramsey, with its main intermediate station at Laxey roughly halfway. It doesn't run direct either, following a sinuous 17 mile route along the coast, around headlands and across the tops of steep wooded valleys. Local residents could use it - there are innumerable request stops - but generally don't, it's far quicker to drive or take the bus. But the MER is ideal for tourists who want to take it slow and enjoy the view, plus there's an interchange at Laxey for those taking the train up the mountain. Just avoid the rush hour if you want to get a seat.
✉ Douglas
✉ Castletown
The northern coastline of the Isle of Man is a low sand-duney place, curving round to a shingly tip at Point of Ayre. This remote spot is the closest the island gets to the British mainland, just 16 miles from Dumfries and Galloway in Scotland, and is also the location of the island's oldest lighthouse. This was designed and built by Robert Louis Stevenson's grandfather almost 200 years ago, and the signal is doubled up by a shorter metal "winkie" on the beach. The adjacent twin foghorn is a dramatic feature, ideal for an album cover design I'd say, but was decommissioned in 2005 thanks to the march of technology. A proper get-away-from-it-all spot (but mind your step amongst the pebbles so as not to disturb the nesting arctic terns). [2 photos] [map]
✉ Laxey
Forget hiking, the most popular way to reach the top of the Isle of Man's highest mountain is by train. The Snaefell Mountain Railway starts from Laxey station and wiggles its way up to the summit along ratcheted rails. Best pick a decent day for it, else you'll get to the top and see nothing but the cafe. The service is run using six wooden-bodied electric railcars, five of which are the originals from 1895 and were built in Birkenhead. Take a window seat if you can - the right-hand side's better for the first half up the valley, and the left-hand side's better for the spiral round the mountaintop. Some of the windows slide open, which is more useful on some days than others, but don't lean out else your camera, arm or head might be thwacked by one of the central posts supporting the overhead wires. Halfway up the five mile ascent the tracks cross the TT Course at Bungalow station, watched over by a giant goat, then continue up ever more exposed slopes to reach the top.
• The island's emblem is the triskelion - three armoured legs with golden spurs. It's everywhere - on buildings, on banknotes, and flapping on banners and flags in several gardens - which gives a unified sense of national pride across the island.
• The Isle of Man is very much a wheeled-traveller's island, not just for the racing but because of the network of twisty car-commercial-friendly roads. Listening to the local radio news at the weekend, the whole of one bulletin was devoted to car racing, bike racing and damaged mountain bikes. It's no surprise to discover that Jeremy Clarkson has a house here, presumably with a very large garage.
Isle of Man quiz
Or you can exit Titsey to the southwest towards Oxted. The walking route again follows the North Downs Way, a long distance path I'm becoming increasingly enamoured with thanks to its linear elevation. This particular mile-long section runs along the foot of the escarpment, with thick woodland above, rapeseed fields below and dry chalk underfoot. On the map it looks straight, whereas the reality is a light wiggle, occasionally diverting around a toppled tree trunk blocking the path. Only the motorway broke the silence, otherwise it was just me and the butterflies and the occasional surprised rabbit. And then partway along I found the Meridian marker I'd been hunting for. I think the panel was meant to be at the very top of the field but midsummer growth had encroached somewhat, forcing someone to trim a deep notch in the hedgerow so it could still be seen. The plaque was installed by Surrey County Council and the Vanguards Rambling Club, the latter custodians of a 66 mile trail from Croydon to Newhaven. I'd seen nobody on either route, indeed I saw no other walkers whatsoever during two hours of traipsing Tandridge's byways. But here at this random spot due south of Greenwich, alone with nature, I'd not have had it any other way.
Beyond London (3): Tandridge (part 1)
I had feared that, bar the shops, there'd be little in Oxted to write about. Thank heavens then that I'd arrived on the one afternoon the town lets its hair down and parties... at the Oxted Carnival. Held every first Saturday in July since 1966, this annual shindig takes over Master Park at the bottom of the hill, and is unashamedly local. You might walk in from neighbouring Hurst Green or Limpsfield, but the carnival is really an opportunity for residents and organisations from Oxted to come together. The Rotary Club had a paddling pool full of rubber ducks to fish in, for example, while the Cystic Fibrosis tent housed a bottle tombola to put the nearest supermarket to shame. On the fringes an army officer, or a man dressed convincingly as one, waited patiently for anyone to approach so that he could talk to them about centenaries and stress. It being a bit early the bar tent hadn't quite taken off, and the Barn Theatre ladies were still declingfilming the sponges in their tea tent. But I swapped two pound coins for a tasty hotdog at the carnival committee's gazebo, this pure profit what with all the bread and squeezy ketchup having been kindly donated by Morrisons.
The Greenwich Meridian runs down the east side of Tandridge, approximately in line with the East Grinstead railway, including a direct hit on Oxted School and the Ellice Road Car Park. My target was the town's one public manifestation of the zero degree line, which is a centenary plaque on the front of Paydens the Chemists at the bottom of the parade. This is a splendid Tudorbethan pharmacy, its interior laid out rather how Boots used to be, with bottles and creams stacked neatly on shelves and a proper prescription counter at the rear. Look down low by the left of the front door and there's the meridian marker, cast in 1984, below a window display of small town pharmaceutical perfection. Lined up on the meridian itself are a strawberry-themed shower hat, a box of three rose-perfumed soaps and a St Moritz self tan applicator mitt. The first toiletry in the western hemisphere is an RHS Sweet Pea Body Balm, positioned close to the pièce de résistance - a bottle of blonde-pigtailed Matey bubble bath. It's the finest meridian marker I've seen in many a year. Meanwhile nextdoor, firmly in the eastern hemisphere, is Paydens Bookshop. Again it's everything you'd hope an local independent shop would be, with books giving way to an eclectic range of non-poncey stationery as you walk through. I succumbed, zero resistance.
Yes, Lingfield's where the racing is. It boasts one of the handful of all-weather racecourses in Britain, always usable but not always used. Last Saturday was an off-day, save for a team of groundsmen tending to the non-artificial bits, and the Arpa & Hemanshoo Wedding in the Pavilion Suite. The owners have made sure that the course is almost, but not completely, invisible from the road outside. Stand outside the main gate, which is a peculiar wooden-topped glass box with some turnstiles inside, and you can see a fraction of the outer rail, while a bit of the parade ring is visible through the conifers a little further down the road. So that was well worth my train ticket and a lengthy yomp across Tandridge, I thought. A dedicated footpath leads from the far end of the northbound platform, via which those coming by rail arrive at the races. More typical visitors come by car, and park up in fields labelled No Trespassing at all other times. Ah but this is more than a racecourse, this is the Lingfield Park Resort, complete with golf course for swinging executives and a four star hotel with jockeytastic views. I imagine many a corporate conference takes place within, although the reality next weekend appears to be a Whitney and Beyonce Tribute for all you Ladies out there.
