The pub that changed me: ‘I saw an Isle of Man that had been largely unknown to me’

The Woodbourne hotel, Isle of Man

I felt eyes on me the second I stepped into the pub. It was as though we were interlopers in a sacred space – everyone turned to look. Self-consciously, I walked to a door labelled “BAR” and pushed it open, and was met by further stares at me and my female companion. Only once we had got our pints and sat down did we notice the “GENTS ONLY” sign on the wall.

It was 2011 in the Woodbourne hotel, a red-brick establishment on the Isle of Man, where I was born and raised. I was barely old enough to drink but heard this pub, affectionately known as “the Woody”, had some of the best beers on the island. I didn’t know it was also one of the last holdouts of an Isle of Man where people still spoke with thick Manx accents mixed with Gaelic and knew each other’s families going back generations. It was constantly packed, with older men propping up the bar while younger groups played pool.

I visited regularly in the summer before I moved away for university – always bringing a friend or two for support – and saw an Isle of Man that had been largely unknown to me. Except for a few slang words, I had been raised without Manx Gaelic, and had grown up with teachers telling me it was a waste of time to learn because “we all speak English nowadays anyway”.

The arch above the main door of the Woodbourne in Douglas. Photograph: BigTom/Alamy

But here, English mixed vividly with the Gaelic language as locals gathered around the TVs and slot machines, drinking pints of Okell’s Manx pale ale (a golden, malty beer brewed just down the road) and greeting each other with fastyr mie. It was a glimpse of somewhere with its own culture distinct from England’s, one I had only previously seen through my grandparents with their thick accents and connections to Manx community life. The Manx saying traa dy liooar (literally “time enough”) reigned here: nobody could be rushed; there was always time for another pint and another conversation.

Over the course of that summer, we gradually found that the gents-only bar wasn’t enforced and the old signage was kept up for nostalgia’s sake. The regulars softened and stopped looking at us when we walked through the door. For a brief period, my friends and I joined them as part of this crammed, chaotic, noisy piece of Manx culture.

When autumn rolled in, I left the island for London, where I would settle, study and build a life for myself. The summer I spent in the Woody stayed with me, though – I’ll always look out for Manx ales and I still doggedly try to keep my Manx accent. And now, whenever I enter somewhere full of suspicious locals, I know that they’ll warm up in time.