Where a beach can be two things, and a castle is a bird sanctuary.
Peel, on the west of the island, is a Viking settlement and fortress, with a ruined castle and interior chapel still gripping to the craggy islet of St Patrick’s amidst the foam and spray of the Irish Sea. Once, it was only connected to the Isle of Man by a causeway, but now the Fenella bridge can swing open or closed to let walkers visit and fishing boats out of the harbour.
Here there are fulmars and gannets, guillemots, manx shearwater and even puffins. Standing with my back to the castle looking out towards Ireland, which was out of sight under grey skies, sea birds scooped and speared across the water, and picked their way across the jagged rock.
Waking up to the sound of waves is a luxury, and when we moved the van across town to the Fenella car park for breakfast I watched the crashing and spilling over the cliffs from my cosy bed. An update from Race Control warned of rain later in the day and wet roads from a dousing overnight, so rather than speed back to Douglas we settled in for a morning on Peel harbour, enjoying perhaps the only few hours of sunshine of the day.
The night before, and the whole reason we came to Peel, the beach was dug into pits and peaks for the sand race. A 40 year tradition, we were told!
Black Dog Pizza, where thin crusts border on flammkuchen and the outdoor yard is a very cool place to sit and drink and eat and overhear people talk about the glass deposit system (recently imposed, apparently people were walking off and chucking their plastic cups into the sea.) We very much enjoyed our pints of Norseman lager and thyme roasted mushroom pizza, and I’d like to come back when the crowd is more typical (aka. I want to meet some genuine IOM hipsters. Do they exist? I’m intrigued.)
Pints before bed came from the excellent seafront pub The Marine Hotel, somewhere I’ve walked past maybe a million times, but never been inside before. I was cold from watching the sand races, I was thirsty for beer, it was perfect. Built in a sort-of pentagon shape with the bar in the middle, rooms are sectioned off for exploring, the front room being the busiest, the back room for dining, the side snug for pictures of Elvis, etc. etc.
We will be coming back here for food. The menu of pies and butties was exemplary, and there was black forest gateau on the pudding board. If you think I’m not eating pub black forest gateau, you are gravely mistaken.
After our first pints we were gently accosted by a man in a red bandanna and gold hoop earrings who wanted to discuss ghost apparitions. Only too happy to oblige.
The only way to eat breakfast in Peel, in my opinion, is to scoff a Manx kipper bap with cream cheese while walking along the front.
The Fish Bar, a little cabin in-between the castle and the prom, is where to get one. The lovely man will fry your salty, smoky kippers in butter in front of you while you look at the beautiful tubs of pickled shellfish you might snack on later. A bite is strangely like the best bacon butty you’ve ever eaten—crisp but meltingly fatty, salt balanced by creamy cheese spread, except with the scent of the sea all around. Eat on the move while the butter drips down your wrist and the fish is still hot from the pan.
