The elders were busy with the jubilee
preparations when Mr. Campbell landed in our community. So it was down
to us young ‘uns to welcome him. Little Gull Quirk first heard his
launch approaching, not from the Big Island but from the open sea.
Never a noisy child, she just stopped playing and stood pointing
westwards, until the rest of us had also ceased our games and followed
her gaze. Emerging from the mist was a small motor-launch being piloted
by a dark giant. And standing in the prow dressed all in white was a
tall man. An improbably tanned hand was holding in place a white
fedora, which made his silver hair appear an unnatural blue.
It was probably his attire and particularly his salt ‘n’ pepper
moustache and goatee beard that prompted Niayabal Kinvig to exclaim,
“It’s Colonel Sanders!” The Colonel’s recent arrival on the Big Island
had caused quite a stir amongst our Manx cousins, and several of us
wondered if he was planning an outlet on Mannin Beg.
“If he fries all the chickens what will we do for eggs,” asked the
mischievous Polaris Mylchreest, casting a sly glance at Gull, who let
out a squeal of fright and grabbed her pet bird Pecker and scuttled for
cover in the settlement.
Meanwhile, the launch had discharged its passenger and was retreating
behind the curtain of mist. “The Colonel” was tentatively trudging up
the shaley shore towards us. In the absence of any elders one of our
number would have to greet this unusual apparition. We glanced at each
other, none of us keen to volunteer; before Niayabal piped up, “Sky
you’ll have to go, you’re playing the Great Juan in the carnival. It’s
your duty.”
I was unable to argue with this logic and with a shove from my
compatriots I stepped forward and gave our traditional greeting to
outsiders. “Greetings Stranger, on behalf of the Independent Republic
of Mannin Beg. I welcome you in the spirit of fraternity, fairness, and
freedom but request that the bitterness, rancour and duplicitous
double-dealing of Mann and man be left at our shore-line.”
---
It was something of an honour for me to utter these words to our
strange guest. Since the earliest days of our nation, this imprecation
had been the first words heard by every boatload of American tourists
searching for the “genuine” Celtic-Hippie experience and every visiting
dignitary from the Big Island. It was incumbent on the most senior
Begite present to welcome all visitors to our community in this manner.
Even though I had heard the greeting everyday of my life and had
memorised the liturgy as a Christian boy would the Lord’s Prayer, to
use the phrase to a visitor was a significant moment for me.
I was so full of pride that I remained standing bolt upright when “The
Colonel” fell to the ground at my feet and began kissing the shingle
beach, whilst my playmates scattered, and raced back to the village,
babbling about our new arrival.
“The Colonel” was doing a fair bit of babbling himself, had I been a
Holy Roller I would have believed him to be speaking in tongues.
Eventually I was able to make out some of his gobbledegook, “Oh, how
I’ve longed to hear those words!” and standing up again he shook my
hand and said in a surprisingly reasonable tone of voice, “My name is
Hieronymous Campbell and I request asylum from the noble state of
Mannin Beg.”
In my experience this was an unprecedented development, outsiders
generally didn’t ask to stay, they smoked a bit of pot and left
clutching a hand-crafted memento of their visit. Feeling suddenly out
of my depth I gestured to Mr. Campbell to follow, and made off in
search of Illy Cooil