I like living on the Isle of Man. My house has a beautiful view out across pastures where I can see cows and sheep grazing, with farmhouses in the near distance and the Snaefel Mountain in the far distance. In the cleavage of the pasture is a glen, invisible except for the trees that line the trout-filled stream within it. Within a five-minute walk, I can gather all the blackberries and delicious mushrooms that I can pick. All of this is a 15-minute walk (or three-minute drive) to the PokerStars office.

In short, what’s not to love?

But, if you’ve ever lived on an island, you know that people get “island fever.” I first encountered the term when talking to folks who were scuba diving guides in Hawaii. Believe me, I initially had difficulty imagining that you could get sick of being on a tropical paradise, but it’s 100% real. So if they can get island fever in Hawaii, I feel no shame in getting a case here.

That’s when I read that a poker tournament was coming to the G Casino in Blackpool, U.K. – a 25-minute flight from Isle of Man. Side action promised to be hopping. Jumping on Expedia, I saw that I could get three nights in a highly rated hotel (thanks Trip Advisor) for £150. Total.

The Manx2 flight over was interesting only in its simplicity. No toilet on the plane, no duty-free, and no drinks and crisps for sale. Just 20-ish seats and I could have leaned forward and bopped the pilot on the head with a rolled-up newspaper had I been sufficiently foolish. The flat-screen display showed a delightful safety video acted wholly by children – presumably the children of Manx2 staffers. It’s actually worth watching to see the six-year-old make the three-year-old turn his mobile phone off.

But I digress.

Blackpool has been a seaside resort destination in the U.K. for over 200 years; they love tourists. The seaside promenade (the “Prom”) is lined with fun houses, roller coasters, fish and chip shops, and bars. It’s suffered a bit with the advent of cheap flights to Spain and Portugal, but there are still plenty of folks, even in the off-season.

When I first got there, the main £1,000 buy-in event was just getting underway and the place was packed with people. First place was reckoned to exceed £50,000 (it ultimately notched past £70,000) and the satellites were jammed. Me, I’m a tournament fish, so I just dipped my toe in one £220 side event, lasting not even until the first break (combination of second-best hands and my astonishingly poor play).

But soon enough, I found my way into the cash games and those provided plenty of amusement (and, yes, a bit of profit) for the whole weekend. The first game I got into featured both “4-5-6 PLO” and Gary (more about him in a second). Apparently, it’s quite common in the U.K. that when you deal PLO, you ask the guy (or gal) on the button how many cards he’d like everybody to have (four, five, or six).

They even deal the game eight-handed so that if just one person is away, they can deal six-card Omaha. Often, when the dealer asked the button, “How many cards?” the reply would be “Max!” or “Fifteen.” Just deal as many cards as you can while still leaving the necessary ten-card stub for the board.

Ever been triple-suited in PLO?

Needless to say, when everybody has six cards, it’s hard to find a reason to fold – it was common to see stacks going in early in the hand. Five- and six-card hands were common enough that after a while, I’d get four cards and think, “Only four cards? How am I supposed to make a hand with that?” I mean, realize that six-card Omaha gives you no fewer than 15 two-card combinations; once you’ve gotten used to that, the six combos you get in “old-school” Omaha seem downright mean.

To add to the joy of the whole experience, the cappuccinos, though programmed from a machine, were tasty and free. I’m still getting used to the idea of a waiter or waitress reacting with downright delight when I tip them £1; it’s nice to see the response. Similarly, the dealers weren’t always sure what to make of the silly Americans who felt obliged to tip after a medium-large pot, but they smiled and gave me a sincere thank you every time. I just wish the better dealers got to keep their tips.

The other joyful aspect of the game was Gary, the Texan from Jersey. I mean, he wore a really nice cowboy hat and took up a lot of virtual space the way some Texans do. But, he’s from Jersey (Jersey, the island in the English Channel, not “Nu Joisey”). He played what seemed like every hand, gambled all the time, and laughed and chatted whether he won or lost.

People like Gary make playing poker worthwhile. “Where’d you get the cowboy hat, Gary?” “So, there I was in this bar…” What followed was a story involving the entire University of Tennessee women’s basketball team, rounds of drinks, and “everything going [pear-shaped]” (not the actual phrase he used). As the story developed, I lost complete track of what hands I had or even what game we were playing. I was in the presence of a master storyteller, who was in his element and providing wonderful entertainment to all nearby. Who needed poker?

Somebody reading this will know Gary. Please show the article to him and tell him I said thank you for his laughter and his company.

Too soon, the weekend was over and it was time to climb back aboard our little “Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang” plane for the half-hour ride back to Isle of Man. Thank you and good night Blackpool!

Casino Notes:

Because we were paying time, it drove me crazy that the dealers felt obliged to “wash” the cards between every hand, sometimes as if they were literally cleaning them in a bath. Ultimately, I discovered that a couple of well-placed tips and “Keep cards flying!” instructions at the beginning of each hand minimized that, but I wish the managers would get the dealers to stop doing it altogether. You’d think they’d realize that at the (lower-stakes) raked games, that wholly unnecessary washing is probably costing them one or two hands – call it £6 to £8 per hour. That adds up, fellas.

Because we were paying time and because I’m a protocol nit, it drove me nuts that people were betting (e.g.) £27 after the flop in the PLO game. I spoke to the managers and asked them to change the rule so that only round £5 units went in after the flop; it dramatically simplifies computing the pot size.

They were good enough to ask the dealer to ask the players if they would be okay with this. Nobody objected except one person (the biggest fish at the table). So, the £27 bets would continue. Gary turned to me and gave me a huge wink. I just wish they’d standardize this as a rule in Pot Limit games. Between that and not washing the cards, they could probably get us 10% to 15% more hands per time payment.

Blackpool Notes:

A famous poker player once said, “Blackpool is like Las Vegas, but the women in Blackpool dress with a bit less taste.” This is as accurate as it is funny.

Nando’s restaurant was really good and a delightful departure from the bland staple diet of English seaside towns.

The bacon and eggs breakfast at the casino looked really good at 1:00am, but I could feel my cholesterol rising just glancing at it; I passed.

The British government runs a bond scheme that pays interest not to each individual bondholder, but rather in big chunks (some as large as £1 million) in a lottery. They have a hardware engine called ERNIE that generates the random numbers for the lottery. ERNIE is in Blackpool; maybe they could use him to shuffle the cards at the G Casino and save all that card washing.

Lee Jones is head of Home Games for PokerStarsand is the author of “Winning Low Limit Hold’em,” which is still in print 17 years after its initial publication.