Gail Mooney
Isle of Man

The Isle of Man pulled me in from the start. I felt that I belonged there, that I had been there before, perhaps in another lifetime. The air was cool and pure, with a constant wind that blew from one sea to the other. Cinematic vistas—a patchwork of every shade of green you can imagine—stretched from the barren uplands to the deep blues of the sea. The sea, always present.

The island is small, with many moods. I would sit for hours atop the soft green cliffs, watching the drama of light play on folds of land and strips of water. Some days were soft, more subtle. There was a magical feel, and I thought fairies must surely live there, somewhere in the glens, beneath the ferns or beside the waterfalls.

There’s a legend that every time the Queen comes to the Isle of Man, the great god Mananan covers the island in a mist, so that she won’t find her way there and take the isle back. The night before I left, a dense fog enveloped the isle, and I thought the gods didn’t want me to leave. I felt the same way they did.

Gail Mooney is the photographer of Provence and a contributor to TRAVELER’s 50 Places of a Lifetime issue.