Ruth was a survivor of the Summerland fire, she tells her story of that terrible day.
Warning: Some details are graphic!

“It is difficult to believe that five decades have passed since that tragic night in 1973.

My Isle of Man story began when I was just five years old. I was so excited when I found out we were going to the Isle of Man on a big boat! I had never been across the water before.

The day we departed was damp and dreary to everyone but me. My mind was full of the stories my Daddy had told me about the magical place we were going to: ‘a place where fairies lived!’

Relatives met us at the sea terminal and plans were made for the evening ahead. They knew the perfect place to go as it suited the forecast of further rain.

Our luggage was dropped off at the hotel. There wasn’t a second to lose, we had to make the most of the break in the showers. A short trip to the beach, where hoods were at the ready as dark clouds glowered down on us, was followed by the much-anticipated visit to Summerhill Glen. It was beyond anything I could have imagined. But we couldn’t stay as long as I would have liked. I dragged my feet as we walked away from the twinkling lights and little creatures. Promises were made for another visit during the week that stretched ahead.

Summerland towered above us. I was not impressed! That changed when we entered the building. I was Charlie with a golden ticket! I couldn’t believe my eyes. Colourful stalls of sweets and treats made my mouth water, so many wonderful sights and sounds. We went to the top terrace to see the view first, with the intention of working our way down. Our happiness was short lived. My father spotted smoke coming from a ventilation shaft.

Moments later, a reassuring announcement came from below. Instinct told him that all was not well. It was time to go. As we reached the lower levels flames burst from the arcade. Our little family was torn apart. Dad, carrying my sister, hair on fire and jacket melting onto his back, escaped through a doorway that had buckled in the heat. He thought mum and I were behind. After dropping my sister into the arms of a stranger, he tried to enter the building to search for us. Strong arms held him back.

The panicking crowd on the stairs had carried Mum away. I tried to call her, but she didn’t hear. Greedy flames stripped the skin from my legs, I cried out again. She heard me this time. Fighting against the upward moving swell she kept me in her sight. We were reunited. The others had gone. Flames raged.

Mum climbed over the bannisters and onto the roof of a kiosk, reaching up to help me down. She seemed so far below. I was weak and in pain. Memories from the months before flooded my mind. Her voice was encouragement laced with fear. I made it. Sliding to the ground with me on her back she sprained her ankle, but had to go on. A chink of light penetrated the smoke giving us hope - a broken pane high up. Mum spied a fireman walking by - not expecting any survivors where we were. At last, he heard her voice and pulled us to safety, blackened and burnt. She wanted to stay and find out if Dad and my sister had survived. They took me away; I needed medical treatment urgently. A bystander gave Mum a cigarette, but she couldn’t hold it in her trembling fingers.

My legs stuck to the seat of the police car they put me in. As it drove away, I looked back at Summerland, convinced mum had gone back in and the fire had claimed her too.

Winter was almost gone when I saw my home again. Life was very different to the way it had been before Summerland. I was always aware that I was fortunate to have survived the event that left me badly scarred. Fifty others hadn’t. I had so many questions, and no one to ask.

Finally, in 2012, I faced my demon. I was petrified that something would happen again, but I had to do it. Although the fire wasn't talked about at home, I had heard my parents talk about the wonderful kindness of the Manx folk and that gave me courage.

One year on, the news I had longed for came. A new memorial would be unveiled in the Kaye Garden on the 40th anniversary of the fire, and the stones would bear the names and ages of all who were lost. Friendships were formed on that momentous night, and in the months and years that followed. I had hope for the future. With every visit to the Island, my affection for it deepened. Now, it feels like home to me. In April, this year, I received an invitation to celebrate Tynwald Day. What an honour! Four years ago I could only look longingly at the hill, following my stroke. I didn’t dare believe that I would ever attend the Island’s national day! We had the most amazing time from start to finish and I cried more than a few tears of happiness. Manx customs and traditions are incredibly special to me. I treasure my Bollan Bane.

I thought of my father on Laa Tinvaal (Happy Tynwald Day) and about how much he would have enjoyed it too. We received wonderful news that morning - a new grandson, named after him! One day I will bring young Sammy to Mona’s Isle and tell him about the man whose name he bears. The man whose dream it was to bring the beautiful Island into our lives; a man who was wasn’t Manx by birth, but Manx in his heart, just like me.”