Apart from the fact that the Island is a different country, with different culture and even a different language albeit not so widely spoken these days, one of the most difficult concepts for our visitors to wrap their heads around is Isle of Man weather.
The paragraph above was written by me on 6th April this year.
On Sunday morning, despite the good weather forecast not quite coming to fruition in Douglas, I performed my 'Granddad Duties' by taking young Harry for a walk in his pram as we were struggling to get him to settle, having been overnight babysitters.
It worked a treat and he was soon well away, dreaming of food as usual, judging by his constant suckling even in his sleep. As I wandered along North Quay, I reckoned Granddad deserved a treat, having risen for the morning feed on my day off and I stopped off at MASH, the café run by Jock Waddington's Parish Walk support maestro, Dave Dentith, intending to sit and watch the world go by over a coffee.
Unfortunately, I'd been beaten to the draw by my old chum, Gary Blackburn and his family and before I'd even had chance to obtain my drink, Harry had noticed the lack of motion and was announcing to the world that his evil grandfather had stopped pushing him and abandoned him on the pavement (within my view, I hasten to add, as I know Lucy reads my blogs.)
The trouble with North Quay these days and also the Promenade is that they're too smooth and hence not conducive to soothing a screaming baby, so it wasn't until I hit the flagstones underneath the Villa Colonnade that I was able to calm Harry again.
Well, that was the morning gone but we were looking forward to a lovely afternoon in the sunshine, in the south of the Island and perhaps would try the new facilities at Bradda Glen. We were all dressed up (clean shorts and tee-shirt rather than best bib and tucker) when the unheralded drizzle that had been falling gently for the last half an hour or so turn into proper rain. We looked at each other with draining enthusiasm, when all of a sudden the heavens deposited a job lot of stair rods.
That did it for us and we did an about face, Irene back to her ironing and I to catch up on some writing I should have already done whilst keeping a beady eye on the Tour de France (though it wasn't a day for our Manx Missile,) whilst simultaneously juggling Silverstone and the cricket with the TV bat.
I think it was a little bit of payback for the schadenfreude that I'd felt on Senior Race Day when for once it was pouring down in Ramsey (our friends in the north are forever boasting about their superior weather, so I'd felt entitled to that) and we had lovely sunshine.
Anyway, you've probably guessed by now that while the precipitation plus was absolutely bouncing in Douglas, just down the road past the Quarterbridge and indeed throughout the rest of the Isle of Man, they were basking under that big yellow thing and if they are all to be believed (I'm convinced it is all a big practical joke involving the whole population, just to make me feel paranoid) it hardly rained anywhere but here.
In my next blog, I'll explain how to win the Parish Walk. Or perhaps that's another of my own lessons, I've yet to learn?
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