Marjorie Dunning has won an over 90s short story competition, writing about her wartime memories of the island.

The 92-year-old lives in Oxfordshire and has longstanding ties to the island.

She met her husband Norman here in 1949, where they had both been staying at a hotel in Port Erin.

In the years since they would take walks on Bradda Head, and before he died Marjorie said she had mentioned that she would one day like to dedicate a bench to him.

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Norman said it was a good idea and even gave her the inscription: ’In memory of Marjorie and Norman Dunning who loved the Isle of Man’.

This bench currently stands at a scenic spot on Bradda Head, selected for Marjorie by Andrew Kneale of the forestry division.

The story, which won the competition on the website ’Growing Old Disgracefully’, follows:

I am half Manx and half Scottish. My Manx family were named Christians, a very common name in the Isle of Man. Many of my earliest memories were of the island, but my first memory was at seven.

One morning I went into my mother’s bedroom and found her very ill. I went to our next door neighbour’s for help.

On my return from school I was intercepted by another neighbour. She told me that my mother was in hospital, and gave me my tea. Her husband took me to the room where he kept dozens of budgerigars.

The neighbours were very kind, but my Mother endured ill health for the rest of her life.

For this reason my Manx uncle, Hubert Christian, would take me over to the Isle of Man to visit my grandparents. We would take the night steamer from Liverpool to Douglas, spending the time on deck, and watched the sea lit up by glow worms.

I learnt to love the island, and absorb its traditions, folklore and heritage.

The scenery was spectacular. From the top of Snaefell mountain you could see seven Kingdoms: England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, The Isle of Man, the Kingdom of Heaven, and that of the seas. The beautiful glens lead down to sheltered sandy bays.

The island is known for its tailless Manx cats, its kippers, and the TT races.

The island is ruled by its own government, called Tynwald.

It meets once a year on an ancient mound of seven layers, each from a different area.

The fairies were of particular interest to me, and I think it’s fair to say that they were interested in me as they knew I loved them. Hence I felt their influence for the rest of my life. Whenever you crossed the Fairy Bridge you had to wave to them.

In 1939, when I was 11, war broke out. In 1940 I went with my parents to see another Manx uncle, ill in hospital in Birkenhead. On the way we walked from Lime Street Station, down Lord Street, to the ferry across the Mersey to Birkenhead. That night we heard the German bombers on their way to Liverpool. We stood outside and watched Liverpool burn. I remember it well.

Two days later we made the return journey.

No one stopped us as we walked up Lord Street to the station. It was in ruins, raised to the ground, and smoking.

Rationing was dire in England, but on the island food was plentiful.

Sweets were short at home, so I filled my suitcase with them.

Once we were chased by a German submarine on the way back to Liverpool, but when the captain heard that we were a passenger ship he let us go.

I met my husband on the island. We were married for sixty seven years. I have a bench on Bradda Head in his memory, where the weary walker can rest awhile.