There’s a magic pool in Ballaglass Glen. Scored deep into the ancient flagstone, amid the oak, larch and beech, it’s fed by a cascade, spangled with shafts of sunlight and probably hides mooinjer veggey – Manx Gaelic for the mythical “little people”. As I slid my tired legs into the numbingly cold water, I felt a sense of exhilaration.
It had been the most glorious of days, tackling my first of the island’s eight new summit walks; between them, these medium-to-challenging routes conquer 25 of the Isle of Man’s 300-metre-plus peaks. The island might not be big – just 33 miles by 13 miles at its longest and widest points – but it has plenty of rugged terrain and satisfying highs.
And – according to Kate Bergquist, an Isle of Man walking ambassador and the founder of Soul Adventures – untapped adventure. Kate helped create the summit walks to entice hikers away from the coast, to show there’s more to Man than sedate sightseeing and seashore. “The uplands are very different,” she tells me. “You get the big views, of all seven kingdoms: England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Man, Sky, Sea.”
I’d taken the ferry from Liverpool to the island to see if I, woman, could master Man in three days, car-free. Day one, on which I met Kate aboard the Snaefell Mountain Railway – which has been joyfully clattering up to the island’s 620-metre zenith since 1895 – was a win. The wind was insistent but the sky clear and blue as we left the train-trippers for the seven-mile north-east summits five peaks challenge route. “She’s a bit juicy,” Kate grinned.
We were following an empty, undulating ridge, bound for pointy North Barrule – at 565 metres the island’s second-highest peak. Along the way we chatted about all sorts, from the reinstating of Manx-language place names on maps to the Moddey Dhoo, a black dog said to haunt the land. We ate Manx bonnag, the most delicious spiced soda bread. And we gazed over everything: the flat northern plains, the ravine-nicked south, the navy chop of the Irish Sea, the distant Lake District.
Kate is passionate about the benefits being in nature can have on mental health. “No one’s ever felt worse after a walk in a forest,” she asserted as we descended through the bracken and into Ballaglass. “And cold water – it’s the most powerful thing.”
I certainly felt very well after the whole escapade, which ended with me sticking my thumb out at Cornaa, a request stop near the glen, and pootling happily back to Douglas aboard the island’s electric railway.
My plan for day two was to follow part of the 10-mile central east summits route, which starts a short taxi ride from Douglas. But things got off to an inauspicious start when my driver missed the trailhead – the ominously named Windy Corner – because of heavy rain and cloud erasing the uplands of defining features. He backtracked, and I stepped out into a dispiriting pea souper. Wondering at the wisdom of my decision, I headed off across a trackless moor, disappearing to the knees in wet tussock.
When the cloud thinned for a moment, I spied gullies dropping to one side. Relying on my OS map, app and prayers, I made it to a stile in a stone wall. Briefly buoyed by a pretty patch of woodland, I continued, soon joining a wide, clear track. But it was harsh and rocky underfoot, and the rain was now coming in rods, testing the limits of even Type II fun. By 546-metre Beinn-y-Phott – which I couldn’t actually see – I decided to abort, hitting the mountain road for a damp, dreary, traffic-dodging schlep to Bungalow station; from here, sodden and defeated, I caught the mountain railway down to Laxey.
Kate had told me her favourite of the eight walks was the 12-mile south-west summits and Niarbyl coast route, which I’d discounted for being tricky to reach. But it just so happened there was a bus from Douglas to tiny Niarbyl the next day. I reckoned I could detour and add on a bit of coast path to reach the little beach town of Port Erin (bringing the total to around 15 miles); if it all worked, I’d ride back to Douglas, triumphant, on the 150-year-old steam railway. I checked with Kate. Her verdict: “Epic plan.”
On Saturday morning the sun was shining as I boarded the bus across the island. The only other passenger was, he told me, also planning a Niarbyl hike. He also told me about the annual Parish Walk, an 85-mile foot-race between all the island’s churches, held each June and dating back to the 1850s. He’d won it in the past, he revealed. When we alighted at the road-end by the sea, he bade me well and sped off. I took my time.
Kate was correct. This route was magnificent. First, I headed north, on road, then through sweet-scented gorse and bracken. Where the mouth of Glen Maye met the beach, I followed the valley inland; leafy, burbly, slender and sinuous, with a secretive waterfall crashing at its end, it was even more fairytale than Ballaglass. Beyond Glen Maye I picked up a trail along a shallow river, sun dazzling the rust-hued waters and iridescent damselflies.
It was a short, stiff out-and-back to summit 483-metre South Barrule, which I was keen to tick off having conquered its namesake in the north. South Barrule was a Celtic iron age hill fort; excavations here unearthed remains of many circular huts. The huge panorama, on a clear day, explains why this was a strategic spot.
I descended, then almost immediately climbed uphill again, to top 437-metre Cronk ny Arrey Laa (the Hill of the Day Watch). This is where islanders would look out for Vikings. Now it’s a fine spot for ground-nesting birds, and for views of the wild west coast. My summit walk officially headed north back to Niarbyl here. But I went rogue and forged south instead, determined to reach Port Erin and take in a bit of the Raad ny Foillan, the path that wraps around the island’s coast.
It was tough. It’s in the south-west corner that the Isle of Man’s shore gets highest and craggiest; most steep, most spectacular. I had battles with undergrowth; faced calf-twanging hauls. But then I’d look up to see a sea of molten silver sparkling all the way to Ireland; bounding rabbits and wheeling gulls; cliffs jutting, slipping, dipping, soaring.
Finally the 19th-century crenellations of Milner’s Tower heralded Port Erin Bay. A mile or so more and I was on the town’s curve of soft sand, swigging a cold beer from the beach bar.
I surveyed the damage: scratched limbs, hair wind-wild, odour questionable. But alive – and buzzing.
The trip was provided by visitisleofman.com. Mannin Hotel in Douglas has B&B doubles from £105pn. Soul Adventures organises guided walks, wild swimming and other activities. Liverpool-Douglas foot-passenger returns from £52pp. Ferries also run from Heysham and Belfast.
