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As the sun rises over the cliffs, a horse-drawn tram rattles along the promenade, ferrying schoolchildren, tourists and locals on their way to town. On the headland, Sir William Hillary, founder of the Lifeboat Institution, looks down from his pedestal on the sweeping sands lined with flower gardens and grand Victorian hotels. Palms rustle in the breeze and a new day begins in Douglas, capital of the Isle of Man.

Roughly 20 x 50 kms in the Irish Sea, this small island is big on surprises, luring discerning visitors with past and present all in one and scenery-wise, a microcosm of everything the British Isles have to offer. Here you find mountains and moors, wetlands, vast bays and tiny coves, shingle and sand, dramatic cliffs and wooded glens where waterfalls tumble among swathes of golden gorse and wild fuchsia.

Settled by the Celts and later the Vikings, fought over by Norway, Scotland and England, this self-governing nation claims the world’s longest running Parliament where new laws are still proclaimed once a year on the Tynwald Hill. It was the first country to give the vote to women in 1880 and in 2006 to young adults from the age of 16. The island embraces progress wholeheartedly, from tourism and finance to motorbike racing and movie making, but no one here would dare cross the Fairy Bridge without greeting the ‘little people’ and on the red flag, the three-leg emblem warns ‘ whichever way you throw me, I will stand.’

Four times a day in season, the steam train leaves the capital on its journey south, all polished wood and brass puffing through rolling countryside with tantalising glimpses of the sea. The tourists are amazed but for the Manx, this is every day transport with ‘time enough’ to spot four-horned Loaghtan sheep grazing in a meadow, a tail-less Manx cat sunning himself on a wall blooming with valerian or a strand of lilac rhododendron mirrored in a stream.

Thirty-seven minutes later, you reach Castletown, the former capital, and upon appointment, you may enter the Old House of Keys –once seat of Parliament- to debate issues from the past among quill pens and snuff pots. On the town square, barely changed since the 18th century, the limestone fortress of Castle Rushen looks down on a tidal harbour haunted by smugglers’ tales while across the bay, wildfowl and wading birds gather on the flat open land of the Langness peninsula. Meanwhile in Ballasalla, history lovers wander around the medieval ruins of Rushen Abbey, quietly recalling the Norse kings buried here and the Cistercian ‘white monks’ who were too poor to buy dye for their robes.

A few steps along the lane is Silverdale, one of the island’s loveliest glens, with a 14th century bridge and a well which pays homage to Manx ancestors. It’s a delightful spot to stroll in the shade, surrounded by wild flowers and twittering birds and water rushing over the weir. There’s even a boating lake and a brightly-painted carrousel powered by a Victorian waterwheel.

But as far as waterwheels are concerned, you cannot beat the Lady Isabella in Laxey, the world’s largest working example built in 1854 and named after the governor’s wife. Beautifully restored, it stands proud and bright in a verdant valley, sporting a diameter of 22 metres. Climb the 95 spiral steps to the top and you are rewarded with stunning views over lush pastures, hills covered in purple heather, the Mines’ Trail and the village where craftsmen weave the traditional tartan cloth in the mill.

The most scenic way to reach Laxey is on the vintage train from Douglas. This one is electric but it boasts the world’s oldest working tramcars and takes you at a leisurely if somewhat shaky pace past leafy valleys, whitewashed cottages and dizzying cliffs. Laxey is also the start of the narrow gauge mountain railway which snakes up through wood and moor land to the windswept summit of Snaefell, at 621 metres the island’s highest point. Up there on a clear day, they say the view extends over seven kingdoms, Man, Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales, Heaven and Sea.

This is great walking country, whether you like to set off on your own along the sign-posted trails or take part in the convivial Walking Festival week. The five-day island tour along the Gull’s Way is demanding but there is a daily choice of guided walks for all abilities and tastes, through woodland and glens, along the coast or in the hills.

An all time favourite is the cliff top path on the south western tip of the island, from the pretty harbour of Port St Mary, past spectacular chasms and rock formations until you catch your first glimpse of the Calf of Man, an emerald islet and nature reserve which seems to float between sky and sea across the tidal race of the Sound. There are seals wailing on the rocks, great flurries of seabirds, red-billed choughs, bluethroats, guillemots and many more, and occasionally a basking shark with black shiny fins slicing silently through the warm waters of the Gulf Stream. Sometimes you might spot dolphins, porpoises and pilot whales. Close the loop around the peninsula and the lovely resort of Port Erin comes into view, a jewel of a place nestling like magic in a deep blue inlet of the sea.

You could relax in the secluded coves of the south, on the broad sands of Peel, Douglas or Ramsey or the wild beaches of the north, ramble for hours through scented conifers and fern, look out for hen harriers in the Curraghs Wildlife Park, spot orchids and peacock butterflies hovering along the paths, but wherever you are, the past is ready to greet you. There are ancient stone carvings and Celtic Wheel crosses, remains of early Christian graves and chapels lost in the woods, and in the Folk Village of Cregneash, a scattering of thatched cottages devoted to traditional farming and crafts. The award-winning heritage trail stretches right across the island but for a taste of treasures to explore, make your way to Peel and the House of Manannan where the legendary sea god will be your guide, through 2000 years of ‘The Story of Mann’.

On the sunset coast, Peel is Manx through and through, its red sandstone cottages and winding lanes meandering down to the fishing harbour where the smell of kippers drifts from the Moores smokehouse, as it has done for over 230 years. When dusk falls on St Patrick’s Isle across the causeway, the ruins of cathedral and castle stand eerily against the sky while down in the pub, the locals dine on Queenie scallops and speak of the giant who threw boulders across the hills. Soon Douglas will switch on its garlands of lights but under the Fairy Bridge, the little people have gone to sleep.

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