Ochone, ochone, you have stirred a tender piece of my heart gurls, with your talk of that lonely Manx spot, the Black Dub, or Dubh.

A memory most dear of the most lovely man, Bill Whittingham. He of the KG5 chinfur & moustache and oft-forged nom de plume for MGP entries in the nineteen- thirties (so as to protect his standing as Head of English at a renowned educational institute).

Dear Bill offered me a welcome cuppa from his marshall's flask after I careered sideways through Quarry bends, the rear Dunlop slicked with R40 oil from unknowingly bust tank after Ballaugh's tender bounce; 90% grip reduction meant inevitable disaster, but tank-slappers and dumb terror only resulted in me ending up slumped, smoking,dripping in his tiny slip lane, glad to be alive.
"What HO! Fancy a cuppa? Interesting slide there old chap!"
Of a great age he most certainly was, but Bill's eye had the twinkle which betrayed his sporting soul. We hit it off as pals despite the sixty years 'tween us.
He was the only person I ever heard say "Toodle Pip" or "Jolly Good!" in all seriousness.
Sideways Sid was a jibe he used in his cups.

Much later that Manx week, Bill volunteered to station himself at the Dubh, because my recalcitrant machine had failed to complete sufficient laps for me to qualify, even though the few done were well under the time Jackie had set. Re-fuelling regs at that time forbade any topping -up of tanks in the last practise, so my last session was critical to qualify , and four laps was the minimum requirement; the ould banger's petrol tank had not enough capacity.
Problem. Bill to the rescue again. His idea:-open an illicit petrol station on the Mountain, with a very exclusive clientelle. Me. Dubh seemed the spot best suited.

So Bill sat there patiently in the mist, early doors, frozen and uncomplaining while I roared past twice......third time, I was to stop, guzzle a gallon or two of Shell 135 octane into the Enots alloy hole there (avgas purloined perfidiously per Prestwick's Propellor Powered private Pipers,) and roar off before anyone noticed........ HAR! Four laps here we go!
Alas, the Norton blew itself apart on the penultimate lap of success, and so poor Bill had waited with Avgas in hand in vain, in mist, drizzle and fog.

Bill spannered and made amazing bacon butties at more road races with me, turning up un-announced in his battered VW camper, perhaps recently arrived from a jaunt across Europe alone.
We had an epic trip across Eire one dark night to purchase a Norton crankshft so as to race the enxt morn in Fore, our engine was blown in practise on Saturday.........got back to Fore at 6am Sunday, having driven all night, and set to building the yoke for the race at 12.
Did it, too.

Bill passed on some time ago,a beautiful man, with a measure of gentleness and kindness rarely seen in this hurried world today.
I missed his company, and knew nothing of his illness. Kindly, his nephew sent me his last words on a written letter intended for me:
" I trust the Western Sky still delights ..."

This was his tribute to West coast sunsets of my Scottish home, and his love of them; something Bill saw and treasured his whole life.

The Isle of Mann TT and MGP brought me such friends.

Thanks IOM. Thanks Bill.