Texa - 2026

The mob of angry Texans fled in a panic. Word had gotten around that a new sheriff was in town, for a little while, anyway. I was the only passenger on the eight-seater RIB as skipper Gus throttled back the massive outboards. Islay Sea Adventures, based in Lagavulin Bay, usually uses the boat for sightseeing and fishing trips, but they will run you over to Texa if you give them advance notice. Texa’s only permanent inhabitants, a shaggy herd of feral goats, had been calmly grazing away on the tall, succulent grass around the chapel ruin. The roar of the boat made them look up, and in a panic, they scampered away.

I was set ashore on a small, concrete platform, the meagre remnant of an old jetty. From there, it was an easy climb to Cill Mhuire, the fourteenth-century chapel of the Virgin Mary, which may have replaced an older structure. The name Texa, is odd, as it is the only Scottish island I know of with an X in its name. The X comes from an anglicisation of older names. One old name comes from a possible mention of the island in Adomnán’s Life of Columba. In Book 2, Chapter 13, Adomnán describes how St Kenneth regained his staff, which he’d lost on Iona:

On his departure the staff was found on the shore, and given into the hands of St. Columba, who, on his return home, brought it into the oratory, and remained there for a very long time alone in prayer. Cainnech, meanwhile, on approaching the Oidechan island suddenly felt pricked at heart at the thought of his forgetfulness, and was deeply afflicted at it. But after some time, leaving the vessel, and falling upon his knees in prayer on the ground, he found before him on the turf of the little land of Aithche the staff which, in his forgetfulness, he had left behind him at the landing-place in the louan island (Iona). He was greatly surprised at its being thus brought to him by the divine power, and gave thanks to God. 

The ‘Oidechan island’ that St Kenneth passed could refer to Texa, where ‘Oidech’ is a corruption of ‘I teach’, altered over time to Teach-saigh, House island. Another possibility is that ‘Oidechan’ may stem from the Gaelic Oideachd/Oideachas: a seminary. If there was not a seminary here, there was certainly a monastic settlement of some sort. John of Fordun, writing in the fourteenth century, mentioned the island as Insula Helant texa, ibique cella monachorum: Island Texa, with a monastic cell.

Texa is named ‘Ylen Teghsa’ in Joan Blaeu’s Atlas of Scotland (published 1694). Texa is shown in the correct position, opposite Dunivaig Castle, along with the symbol Blaeu used for a church. But its name is written quite far from the island, and for a very good reason. It allowed the mapmaker to use an extra-large font to indicate the island’s importance.

Contemporaneously with the time of Blaeu’s map, the island was visited by Father Cornelius Ward (Conchobhair Mac an Bhaird), a Franciscan missionary from Ireland, who was intent on restoring the Catholic faith in the Hebrides. His work on Texa was easy. On his arrival in 1625, he discovered that out of the population of twenty-nine, twenty-three were Catholic, and he proceeded to reconcile the remaining six. From Texa, Ward sailed north through the Hebrides, bringing 677 people back to the faith on Islay, 212 in Jura, over 300 on Colonsay, an equal number on Mull, 200 on Eigg, eighteen on Rum, eight on Canna, over 600 in South Uist, and nearly 800 on North Uist. Ward’s success came at a cost. While in London in 1629, he was arrested, tortured and imprisoned for two years.

I found the only visible remnant of the Catholic faith on Texa at the edge of a field above the landing. Measuring thirty feet by thirteen, the chapel was surrounded by a low, oval enclosure wall, a hundred feet by sixty. Abutting the edge of the enclosure was a smaller round enclosure, sixty feet in diameter. It is called a burial ground on the OS map, but there were no visible tombstones.

The carved stones of Texa still known to exist were removed in the 1880s. Three are at the National Museum of Scotland (NMS) in Edinburgh, and one is in the outdoor display at the Museum of Islay Life in Port Charlotte. The most impressive of the four is the shaft of a cross that once stood atop a mound near the chapel, proclaiming the site’s religious significance. The upper portion of the metre-tall shaft depicts the crucifixion, but it is so severely worn that only the lower part of the cross is visible. Carved there is a panel of Latin text that translates as: ‘This is the cross of Reginald, son of John, of Islay’.

Aside from the chapel and burial ground, only one other historic site is shown on the OS map: Tobar Mhoireig, St Mary’s Well. The map shows it 700 feet northeast of the chapel, and as I crossed the soft turf to the east, I came upon something fantastic. In a small field above the shore lay a set of circular stone foundations, the outline of what could have been a triple beehive cell; a set of ruins similar to the triple cell I’d seen on the island of Flodaigh in Loch Ròg.

The cell makers had chosen the site well, as it was sheltered from most wind directions and only 200 feet from the freshwater streaming out of Tobar Mhoireig. The well was three feet in diameter and lay at the base of a low cliff facing the shore. It was full—the overflowing water trickling down to the sea. And it was readily apparent that the Texans slake their thirst here, as the muddy turf near the well was scarred with hoof marks. I was not tempted to imbibe.

After a wander around the island, I made my way to the only inhabitable house on the island. Its last resident had been a man who’d come for six weeks. He came to lose weight, and it would be an easy place to do that. No fish and chips, no steak pie, no pubs . . . sounds like purgatory. Even worse, every day he’d be faced with the temptation of the Laphroig Distillery, standing in full view across the sound. I was tempted to enter the house, but the door was fastened with an elegant, braided rope lock; one that would take a great effort to untie, and an even greater effort to retie. Scattered about the landscape near the house were the low ruins of six old dwellings; once the homes of thirty people, now the domain of goats.

I still had thirty minutes before pickup. In my younger days, I would have spent that time rushing to the high point, as it was only half a mile away. But instead of rushing, I made my way to the beach near the landing. At its head was a large boulder with a small spring issuing from beneath it. As with Tobar Mhoireig, the trickle of water flowing to the sea was a bit murky, so I was not tempted to drink. But there was something that made me quite thirsty: the sight of the Laphroig distillery a mile across the sound. 

With thoughts of a sea-smoky dram dancing in my head, I snoozed until woken by the sound of the approaching boat. As we motored away, the goats eagerly galloped down from the high ground to seek out the succulent grass near the chapel.