While the Isle of Man may only lie 30 miles from the coastline of County Down, I was already 21 when I set foot on it’s glorious shores for the first time. A further four years would pass before I’d do it again. The rationale on this occasion wasn’t so much for sightseeing purposes, but rather for the Christening of my young cousin Joshua.

It was his Father who descended from this part Celtic, part English, entirely Manx island plunked directly in the middle of the Irish Sea and there had already been a Christening in Belfast, so it was apparently only fair to give the other bunch a look in, too.

To get there, myself and 10 members of my close and immediate family would have to rise at the scrake of a very cold and icy dawn, travel to Belfast City Airport – or George Best City Airport as it’s more popularly known – and proceed to cram onto a forty year old Czech plane that better resembled a cardboard box with wings and a tail attached than a bona fide aircraft worthy of placing the survival of an entire family line upon.

If any reassuring was needed, this soviet era workhorse had plenty of experience plouging the skies on short hops all over the globe – it had operated in all kinds of pioneering sphere’s of the aviation world, such as in Haiti, Honduras, Ukraine, Guatemala, and in much of Sub-Saharan Africa. Oh, and the Isle of Man. Furthermore, it had only been involved in 6 fatal crashes in the past 4 years. Not bad at all, and certainly nothing to feel even mildly queasy about.

Belfast!

The green fields of County Down.

Strangford Lough.

Approaching the Isle Of Man.

Lining up to land.

Our plane in the foreground.

It did – with the grace of God – deliver us safely to Douglas, and back (you’d think I was religious), and in between those two points, a surprisingly pleasant day was had.

The Church service was held in the village of Port St. Mary, in the far Southwest of the Island. Prior and subsequent to the proceedings, we were kindly driven around the local area by Julian’s friends and relatives – firstly down to the harbour for a walkabout and overview, and then to the most southerly tip of the Island looking out at the striking Calf Of Man, before later having a wander in and around the small deserted port town.

Joshua, learning to walk.

Me, amazed to be alive.

It was all rather nice. The kind afternoon light and brisk winds of the Irish sea brought alive the sensation that I was somewhere different yet familiar, and simple yet pretty. And while I doubt it’s a day Joshua will remember in any great detail, I know it’s one that I will.