A wooden cross tightly wound with wool was nailed to the front door of Aaron House, a restored 12-bedroom Victorian home in Port St. Mary, a former fishing village on the southwestern tip of the Isle of Man. I studied the cross for a moment, then dismissed it as a Christian ceremony I was unfamiliar with.

“It’s the crosh cuirn,” the guesthouse proprietor announced, when he saw my perplexity. “Every year, on April 30, we fix a wooden cross to the inside of our front door. Keeps the wicked fairies out.”

Then as an afterthought, he added, “But it must be bound with sheep’s wool.”

I wanted to ask why, in particular, sheep’s wool, then thought better of it. “Do all the islanders do this?” I asked.

“Aye, most of us have experienced the fairies, so we know what to do.”

He nodded knowingly then disappeared into his office.

Sheep’s wool, tightly wound, is used to craft the crosh cuirn, a wooden cross said to dispel evil spirits.

The indescribably beautiful Isle of Man lies in the untamed waters of the Irish Sea off the northwest coast of England. It’s a patchwork landscape in shades of willow green, lime and sage, sprinkled with azure and indigo waterways, and punctuated with snowy white sheep on the hillsides.

The 227-square-mile (588 km²) island is rich with history, with standing stones left by the Vikings protruding from the earth like daggers; Celtic forts that predate Christ along the shores’ serrated edges; and primeval burial sites that have frowned over the valleys for four-thousand years. Such history undeniably influences folklore and the mystique surrounding this ancient kingdom.

I was curious to learn more about the island’s supernatural attractions, and asked around for some guidance. “At the end of the lane,” I had been directed by a gas-pump attendant, “the little white cottage, overgrown with wild fuchsia, that’s Uncle Neil’s.” Uncle Neil, as he prefers to be called, is a mystic. It’s said that he has contact with the underworld.

After much telephonic coaxing, he agreed to meet me for a drink and divulge some of the island’s fables.

My car rolled onto the stone drive of the fuchsia-encased cottage. Before me was a setting of incomparable splendour — a quilted countryside in hues of moss, pine and mint, interspersed with mauve heather and lemon-colored gorse.

When I rang the ornate brass bell the door opened a crack. I introduced myself, the crack widened, and I made eye contact with a single, dark iris.

“He’s gone the pub, he has,” the eye croaked.

I inquired as to which direction the pub lay, and was directed by a spidery hand waving vaguely toward Ireland.

I eventually found the remote pub in the little hamlet of Niarbyl, near the village of Dalby, on the west side of the island.

The Ballacallin House Hotel’s handful of patrons fell silent when I walked in and watched as I strode toward the proprietor, inquiring about Uncle Neil. He gestured with an incline of the head toward a solitary figure sitting by the window.

I approached what appeared to be a shrivelled, hunched frame nursing an empty beer glass. Uncle Neil appeared sunken and hairless with blue-veined, papery skin exposing his domed cranium; he seemed nearly devoured by his clothing. His face sat low on his shoulders, pitched forward, as if deprived of support. His upper lip protruded like that of a turtle’s beak, and his cheeks were sunken.

We agreed how good it was to finally meet, exchanged a few pleasantries, and soon settled down with fresh drinks and let’s-get-comfortable smiles.

“Those are Northern Ireland’s Mourne Mountains on the horizon,” he boomed in a walruslike voice. He contemplated them for a moment.

“The old books say that a warring Irish giant threw a fistful of earth at his Scottish rival, but that it fell short and landed in the Irish Sea; that is how the Isle of Man happened.”

As he spoke, I learned that island life is undeniably influenced by folklore and pagan rituals as, today, the revered Celtic magician-king Manannán mac Lir, revered as the god of the sea, is still honored by the natives. On Midsummer Eve they carry green meadow grass to the top of Barule Mountain in payment for “renting” the sea. It is said that some folk still pray to Manannán, asking for a blessing on their boats and a good catch.