to Iona

The Independent 1997

My daughter reached roughly twice my size and was making none too subtle hints about my leaving home. I decided not to argue, and set off on a spiritual quest, saying as I left with what I hoped was a stern and decisive air : "I will be back."

heather

My destination was the tiny island of Iona in the Hebrides, home of the 6th century Saint Columba, and reputedly a powerful source of peace and spiritual renewal - an ideal temporary refuge from the complications of city life. The 6th century seems to have been teeming with saints buzzing around doing useful things - according to legend Saint Columba bashed up the Loch Ness monster soon after he arrived in Scotland from Ireland, having quarrelled with the king over a library book.

leaf

Unlike another famous Celt of that time, Saint Hya, who travelled around on a leaf, I had to resort to more mundane methods of travel, which did, however, require saintly patience. Travel by leaf was probably a lot faster and more ecologically sound than the circuitous routes for my journey suggested by several helpful members of the Rail Enquiry office at Euston station.
I took the sleeper from Euston, an expensive single berth that included several useful free toiletries such as a razor and after-shave, and woke up early in the morning in the middle of the Highlands, surrounded by mauve mountains and lochs lying like giant silver fish outside my window.

 

heather

At Crianlarich, whilst waiting for my next connection (to Oban) I drank strong tea at a little platform cafe with faded travel posters, and waited two hours for a handsome young Scotrail official to arrive with a large key to open the Ladies' lavatory. The West Highland line, opened in 1894, (and with a free copy of a "Window Gazer's Guide" for every passenger), branches off westwards through spectacular scenery to the coast. It passes enormous Loch Awe with its little steamer, the ruins of Kilchurn Castle, a Campbell stronghold struck by lightning in the 1700s, and curves round Ben Cruachan.

leaf

Ferries to the islands sail from Oban, Argyll's main town and harbour - but where was I? The Roman Coliseum seemed somewhat disconcertingly to dominate the harbour view. Mr. McCaig, 19th century banker and art critic, decided that the best way to keep unemployed stonemasons busy (and provide a family mausoleum) was to do a bit of job creation on a grand scale, hence the granite replica.

sporran

Don't visit the Tartan Centre if you have a headache - everything (chocs, whisky and walking sticks etc.) is covered in tartan packaging. In the serious section upstairs a computor helps you to discover your Scottish connections and then you can kit up in the appropriate kilt. Amazing how entangled Japanese and Scottish family trees can be. Unfortunately I didn't have time to discover the correct tartan for the clan McKindberg as I had a CalMac ferry to catch, to Craignure on the island of Mull, the next stage of my journey.
From Craignure I travelled west again on a single-track road in an Essbee bus playing melancholy Country and Western music. All Essbee drivers seemed to be called Hughie. The various Hughies drove at a maximum speed of 20 m.p.h., stopping occasionally for a sheep to cross the road or to call someone called Shona on their mobile phones.

heather

The bus took me to Fionnphort, and from there I sailed a short distance by ferry to the isle of Iona. The point about Iona is that you can happily do very little there. The island is three miles long and one and a half miles wide, there are no pubs and one small hill called Dun I.

sporran

I spent much time walking about or sitting on silvery beaches, thinking about monks, eating the odd KitKat and looking out to sea at the Treshnish (not to be confused with the Fishnish or the Mishnish), one of whose islands is shaped like a hat.
Saint Columba and his monks set up a Celtic Christian community on Iona in 563 AD, which flourished until the 9th century when the Vikings did horrid things at Martyrs' Bay, now the site of a depressing cafe.

leaf

The early monastery was rebuilt in the 11th and 16th centuries, ransacked in the Reformation, and restored again in the 1930s by the Rev. George Macleod who left his Glasgow parish to set up the Iona Community and rebuild the Abbey.
I met some of the Community when I went to a candle-lit Friendship Evening in the Abbey. Two large people with fluffy chins and sandals played the recorder and guitar and we sang jolly hymns. Afterwards a kind man with several teeth introduced himself as Keith from Watford and brought me a cup of tea. Everyone seemed very happy.

sporran

Anyone can stay at the Abbey, which has bunk beds and is rather cold. Staying there seemed to involve lots of joining in and not complaining. Later I investigated a rival spiritual haven, the Episcopalian Bishop's House, which has comfy beds, a sunny lounge and T.V., and realised that my spirituality is not up to much.
On a calm day you can take a boat to Staffa, sailing past The Island of Women, so-called according to the boatman, after Saint Columba had banished several there because they distracted his monks.
Despite looking like something that has boiled over, smelling strongly of fish and being covered in feathers, Staffa inspired Mendelssohn to write "Fingal's Cave" in honour of the black basalt colonnaded cavern in its side. You can do touristy things there, like sit on Fingal's Throne, or look for puffins.

heather

Another day I took the Essbee bus (Hughie again) back across Mull and hired a bike to cycle to Duart Castle perched on a spit of land overlooking the Sound of Mull. The castle, dating from the 1300s, is the family home of the Clan Maclean and contains lots of Scouting memorabilia, family photographs of small men with large sporrans and Nanny Wildbore's Pencil Sharpener Collection - Dora Wildbore was the current Lady Maclean's old nanny.

leaf

On the way back from the castle I visited the famous Weaver of Mull, a gloomy man who discouraged conversation. After some time on and around Iona I realised that I felt refreshed and restored, both physically and mentally. I was ready for anything. Which was just as well, because that night i received a phone call from my daughter, who asked in an aggrieved but conciliatory tone: "When are you coming home? The bath's leaking, giant killer ants have taken over the kitchen, and there are bills to pay.."
Unfazed I replied: "I'm on my way."

sporran
 

[ HOME ] X [ TRAVEL ] X [ 1 ] X [ 2 ] X [ 3 ] X [ 4 ] X [ 5 ] X [ 6 ] X [ 7 ] X [ 8 ] X [ 9 ] X [ 10 ]
mail me
© S.KINDBERG 1999 - 2005