Leaving on a jet plane. Or not.

Manx legend says that when Mannanan mac Lir wants to protect the Isle of Man from unwanted visitors, he throws his great cloak of mist around it so that it can’t be found. Well, last Friday morning someone on one of the flights coming in must not have been welcome, because the cloak was being used to great effect, mostly around the area of the airport.

Growing up, I used to wonder how a bit of mist would keep people from finding the island. But flying through the fog bank that sat along the shore in front of the airport, unable to see the ground when we were just metres over it, unable to really see the wing of the plane even though I was sat just behind it – then it was easy to believe that boats on the Irish sea might easily miss such a small island completely, let alone find a safe place to land there. It’s easy to believe there’s a sea god looking out for it.

I wish I had managed to take a photo of that fog bank before we flew into it. It looked solid.

Still, we landed in the end, after three hours sat on a runway at Gatwick, and two attempts at landing, and thanks to the skills of the pilot.

There followed a weekend of family time. Hanging out with my two favourite nephews, having lunch at Noa Bakehouse with the family, pub lunch on Sunday, drinking with my sisters on Saturday night for the first time in a long time – silly conversation, reminiscing, some revelations, a bad decision involving chips, cheese and gravy (local delicacy) from a takeaway. Time spent with my parents, just chatting and catching up, a bit of book shopping. Pottering around at the rural science mini-farm with my older sister and her husband, where I met Emily the pig, who sits for apples, and helped feed the rams.

There were no problems on the way back.

 

In news of writing stuff:

The week leading up to that trip I dubbed (in advance) Rejection Week, because I knew I was due three responses to writing submissions. I was admonished for calling it Rejection Week, and it does seem a bit harsh, especially since the rejections I got were really the nicest kind you can get. The high point was being long-listed for the next issue (69) of Magma. It’s good of them to let people know they made it that far through the process. I still feel like a pretender when it comes to writing, so a bit of encouragement is welcome.

Is there a point when you stop feeling a bit skulky and rubbish about writing stuff?

 

In news of swimming, biking and running:

Thank goodness for long, light evenings, because I might actually get some proper training in.