A Volcanic Anniversary

Let's jump back exactly ten years in time . . .

It was the morning of April 18, 2010. I woke to find a dusting of ash coating the deck of Hjalmar Bjorge. The skies, too, were a dusty gray. Eyjafjallajökull had blown her top four days before. Air traffic was at a standstill. And as I strolled around the deck that morning—a cup of steaming-hot coffee in hand—I wondered how I’d get home when the cruise was over.

I was familiar with erupting volcanoes, as I live 80 miles from Mt St Helens. The ash can cause havoc with engines, and I told skipper Mark how we'd wrapped panty-hose around vehicle air intakes as an added layer of protection. I was hoping to get a photo of Hjalmar Bjorge adorned in such a manner, but Mark wasn't too keen on the idea.

We had spent the night anchored in Loch na Làthich, near Bunnesen on the Ross of Mull. After breakfast we set off towards the Treshnish Isles. I'd lobbied for an attempt at landing on Cairnaburg Mor, and we were going to take a look. I dearly wanted to storm the island via the south portal passage—a guarded entrance to Carnaburg Castle that I did not know existed when I visited the island in 2005 (chapter 18 of book 1).

As we approached the island a heavy wind set in. That, in combination with some extremely strong tidal currents, made it a challenge to get close to the Cairnaburgs. Adding to the challenge is that there were innumerable reefs lurking off the south and west side of the island. We came within a quarter mile, then Mark throttled back the engines so we could get a good look at the island. But it was was obvious we’d not be able to land.

The elegant, triangular gable ends of the chapel could be seen poking above the tall grass on the island plateau. As was the brutal square outline of the barracks. We were too far away, and the boat was rolling too much, to get any descent photos of the fortifications. So I put the camera away and enjoyed the view. And as I did I wondered when there would be another chance to get ashore on that little, but historic island.

The ship turned about and we set a course to the shelter of the Sound of Iona. After dropping anchor near the busy ferry slip, we were set ashore to explore on our own. I took off hot-foot to climb Dun-I, where I took a seat next to the well of youth. 'What better place to slake your thirst', I thought to myself. So I cracked open a can of Murphy's. It worked. After a long, slow pull, I felt years younger.

Dappling the sea to the north were the Treshnish Isles, the remnants of another volcanic eruption eons ago. I have found them to be needy islands, with their incessant demands to visit again and again. Even though Lunga and its puffins gets thousands of day-trippers, it always calls for another visit. As does nearby Staffa. Although not technically a Treshnish, once you've stepped into Fingal's Cave it becomes something you want to do again and again. I had just tried to answer the return call of Cairnaburg Mor. She'd given me the brush off, but I'd try again.

Looking out over the Treshnish Isles, I noticed one that was especially needy, one I'm sure would like to be visited. I’d not given her the attention she demanded—I'd never set foot on her shores—and I could hear her complaining about that from afar. It was Bac Mòr, the big reef, better known as Dutchman’s Cap. And as I sat atop the queen of the Hebrides; as its one-letter name royally proclaims (I, the Island),  I started making plan to get to Dutchman’s Cap.

* * *

I did not know it on that April day in 2010, but Eyjafjallajökull was continuing to belch gritty ash into the sky. I would end up being stranded in Scotland for another ten days. But you couldn't ask for a better place to be stranded. Something else I did not know was that eight years would pass before I'd again stand on the summit of Iona. It would be a beautiful spring day in 2018, when I returned to sprinkle my mother's ashes on one of the grassy knolls high atop Dun-I.

Dutchman's Cap seen from Lunga