A riding (or cycling and walking) circuit which has a magnificent combination of ‘surf and turf’, beaches and mountains, all with wonderful views. 

35° and Bournemouth beach is packed. I wonder at this mindless leeming like quality in the British public who are prepared to tolerate long traffic jams to sit with hoards of other people. I am afraid I subscribe to the Sartre school of thought: ‘L’ enfer, c’est les autres’.

I am alone on a beach. My horse’s are the only hoof prints in the sand. There is a soft ethereal quality to the light and the sea is smooth, a soft murmuring. A black and white flight of oyster catchers skims the waves, seagulls and cormorants bob undisturbed.

I could be anywhere from Atutaki to Australia, on the flotsam fringed beaches off Highway 1 or the wild edges of the Beagle Channel: after all the same waters encircle the world. I am in suspension, immersed in seaweedy smells and big skies. And though our travels may be curtailed in these virus ridden times, the mind and the memory cannot be imprisoned. I am free to wander the beaches of the world.

I love walking and have done so in many places but it is a poor man’s sport. Being on horseback allows total immersion of the senses, a dislocation from the logistics of motion, a lightness of being in the moment.

I leave the beach at Kirk Michael, the road leading through the green summer lushness of bracken and bramble with shady sycamores and a little stream. Soon  I cross the main road and start the climb to the mountain.

And now we could only be somewhere of Celtic origin with old crumbling stone walls and a faded field system outlined by banks. Heather and gorse keep me company along with black faced sheep. The trappings of civilisation lie far below me. The hillside is filled with the buzzing of flies and the occasional bleat; my horse is breathing heavily from the steep climb: we have gone from sea-level to over 300 m.

The purple splodged sheep echo the vivid colour of the heather and I wonder wryly if farmers think of colour coordination but I doubt such subtlety. At the junction near the top of the pass we swing northwards and soon the northern plains come into view, a vivid patchwork from my bird’s eye viewpoint.

The final steep ascent to gentler climes passes isolated houses to regain the bitumen. At the TT course we go left then right to access the old railway track back to Ballaugh, the narrow trail hemmed in by elder and rapidly ripening blackberries.

A left at the village and a steady level mile back to the beach, the horse striding out on the homeward leg. We are on the road but it is quiet. Are the gateposts on the old Cronk church getting closer as they count down to midnight like the Armageddon clock? Quite possibly, this is not a time for dwelling on the future.

NOTES

This circuit, starting from Ballaugh Beach carpark, will take about 3-3.5 hours on a horse, probably near twice that on foot – there is a steep climb involved.  See mud map below for route (from Ordnance Survey map of Isle of Man).