At the end of the earth

Deep peace of the Running Wave to you.

Deep peace of the Flowing Air to you.
Deep peace of the Quiet Earth to you.

Deep peace of the Shining Stars to you.

Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you.

(Iona prayer)

I didn’t go there to seek it, but it found me there, an unlooked-for gift.

Iona has a long and significant religious history, and it is a popular tourist destination for this reason. But I went there solely for Staffa, Fingal’s Cave and Mendelssohn. The rest of my experiences there caught me by surprise.

To begin with I had a scrumptious trip up there from Glasgow. On a fairly clear day any travel in Scotland is a treat. The train from Glasgow to Oban passes through a fair sample of the highlands, with snow-capped peaks footed by mirror-like lochs aplenty.

The ferry from quaint seaside Oban to Mull passes by at least two romantic ruins of the castle variety, spectacularly positioned on hills overlooking the Firth of Lorn.

Mull is fairly easy to navigate. Two buses meet each ferry, and as long as you know whether you want to go to Fiannphort or Tobermory, you’re all set. The bus ride across Mull; breathtaking. Then another ferry (but just a wee one) from Fionnphort to the low-lying green slopes of Iona, and I had arrived.

My first experience of island hospitality was a nice one. I stopped at the small grocery store to buy milk, and although was fairly confident of my way to the hostel (there was after all only one road running the length of the island) I asked the shop-keeper for directions. She turned to her previous customer and said “you’ll give her a ride won’t you?” To which the customer gave hearty assent, and five minutes later I had been saved a half-hour backpack trek. I ended up getting at least two more rides to and from the village with various locals during my stay there, including my hostel owner, who turned out to be the first ever professional colleague I have stumbled across outside of work and conference circles. Everyone was so welcoming. In spite of the number of tourists and visitors, the locals gave no sense of there being an ‘us and yous’. If you were on the island, you were part of the community, no matter how short a time you were there. At the pub you could join in on any local group conversation (and I did!), and be welcomed into the circle; a wonderful thing to the solo traveller.
I’ve already talked about my Staffa trip. How lucky was I to have made it there, the last group of the year to do so? Even that afternoon the wind was picking up, and overnight turned treacherous. The next day’s gale-force winds stopped the ferry indefinitely, so the whole island was cut off from its 'mainland' of Mull.

I spent the afternoon with 3 swiss girls who were now stranded for the night, drinking hot chocolate at the dock-side pub, while the waves beat against the windows (no joke!). Being cut off from the rest of the world seemed to increase the already extraordinary sense of camaraderie, especially when the island’s power failed late in the afternoon. In the hostel that evening we all pulled together, pooling the limited cooking resources of wood-fire heater and camping gas-ring and sharing what food we had. As well as the Swiss girls, other travellers had been forced to stay another night, and were grateful for the help from those of us prepared for a longer stay. I lent my last pair of clean, dry socks to one of my new Swiss friends. Greater love hath no man for another!

That night I tramped along Iona’s lanes against gale force winds in the pitch black of the power failure, chattering away to a young American couple, hardly able to hear the excited voices of my Swiss friends in front or the Dutch couple behind us, all of us on our way from the hostel to the evening service in the candlelit abbey. I was surrounded by strangers, but family nonetheless. Inside the air was cold enough for our breath to frost, and the wind alternately roared, moaned, and wuthered around the stone walls. But the fellowship, oh the fellowship! It was like meeting for church on Christmas eve, only with none of the commercialism that one associates with that particular public holiday. No-one had an easy journey there that night, but every face was alight with the same joy of knowing why they had come, and that it was well-worth the effort. And after 3 days on the island not everyone was a stranger to me. There were familiar faces from all my island experiences; my boat trip to Staffa, lunch and afternoon pints at the pub, visits to the local shops, walks about the island. Each flash of recognition and associated smile seemed to say “You here too? I’m so glad.”

Together we celebrated the greatest gift ever given, not a birth but a death. We shared bread baked that day at the Abbey, and wine in earthenware goblets. I was passed the plate and cup by an Austrian boy on my right, and passed them to my new Swiss friend on my left. We left the Abbey singing and tramped on into the dark cloister outside, until one by one we were hushed as we looked up into the starred vault above the courtyard and saw the glory of the galaxy unfurled.

The next morning was a different scene at the hostel. All of us staying either had plans to leave that day, or had been already delayed in their departure. The word across the island was that the wind was supposed to abate briefly overnight, then build again across the course of the next day. With a very large group due to leave the abbey that morning, the ferry would make its greatest attempt at the 7am crossing. If it didn’t manage it then, it would be likely to give up until the following day. Being ready and waiting for the 7am attempt was crucial! The hostel party of two young couples, two families with children, the 3 Swiss girls and myself were all up well before 6 am, scrambling around the hostel by torch- and tea-light. There was no waiting for anyone else on the journey back to the village this time! I missed the lively companionship of the previous night, but wouldn’t have exchanged that walk for anything. Laden with my pack as I was, that solitary tramp across Iona under the half-moon and stars (sunrise was still several hours off!), with absolutely no lights to indicate the existence of fellow human beings along the way, the wailing wind deafening all other sound, the clouds scudding across the vault above, ah. I’d repeat it in a heart-beat if I could.

The rest of the journey took place without mishap. Imagine a group of over 100 people, huddled together on the pier in the extreme dark, wind and rain, their luggage forlornly piled at their feet, anxiously awaiting the lights of the ferry, wondering if it would make it this time. It did, but it was a rough trip across the narrow Sound of Iona, and in the conditions several of the passengers got their feet wet rushing on or off the ferry as a bigger wave swept up under and over the ramp. I finally had an inkling of what sea-sickness must feel like; in the dark and away from the windows the constant heaving of the ferry was unpleasant to say the least. I was lucky enough to be cured simply by going outside and watching our progress; being able to anticipate the motion of the vessel made a significant difference. My only disappointment with this whole part of the adventure was that the return bus trip across Mull was now mostly in the dark. I had been looking forward to a repeat of my journey there. But a particular Scottish lesson I have learnt is to enjoy things as they come, and never count on their repeat. I didn’t take nearly as many photos across Iona as I intended to because I didn’t take first opportunity to do so. The 2nd never came because of gale force winds and scattered showers. But perhaps it is about time I started using that most wonderful of all faculties; memory, once more. Photography is a poor substitute, and in excess can even rob us of the ability to experience, as we’re far too busy looking through the view-finder.