Tobar Odhran and an Image of Sloth

Over a year has passed since my last visit to the Hebrides, and another may pass before I return. I have spent some of the year writing, but most of it relaxing on my recliner. And as I do so I am the perfect image of sloth. 

Would an image of sloth be worthy of a statue? I hope so. I can see myself being immortalized in stone; resting comfortably in front of the TV, a beer in one hand, a remote in the other. I wonder if I can find an artesian with the skill of Michelangelo to chisel my lazy image in stone. Probably not. But someone centuries ago did immortalize two images of sloth in the Hebrides. They are known as Dealbh na Leisg, which can translate as either the image of laziness, or the image of sloth. Sloth, laziness, either would be appropriate for how I’ve spent much of 2020.

But I have to say my form of laziness is not quite like that depicted on these stones (not for many years, anyway). One of them is mounted high on the tower of Rodel Church on Harris. It shows a man laying on his back, passing the time, not with a beer in hand, but grasping his manhood. In the nineteenth century the Countess of Dunmore, not caring for the explicit nature of the stone, had it used for target practice. As a result the three-dimensional aspect of the stone has been, shall we say, circumcised. The stone is an odd thing to find on a church, but not this church. Just around the corner is the carving of a naked woman.

The second carving of sloth is on the island of Colonsay. It is a stone pillar that dates to the 8th century. Originally placed next to the chapel of Riasg Buidhe, a village abandoned after WWI, it was moved to Colonsay House garden in the 1890s.  The carving on the front of the stone is exquisite: at the top is the face of a monk, whose body is created by whirling designs similar to the rock art of Dalraida, terminating in what looks like a fish tail. The end result is an enigmatic fish-cross crowned by the head of a bearded monk.

The front of the stone is shown in countless books on the sculpture of the Hebrides. What’s never shown is the back side. That’s not just because of the subject, but also because the image is so worn it does not show up well in photography.

At first glance, aside from a lozenge shaped object near its rounded tip, the back of the cross appears undecorated. But there is a faded image, perhaps purposely worn off; one hinted at by its name, Dealbh na Leisg, the image of sloth. The subject of the decoration is further hinted at in this excerpt from Kevin Byrne’s book Lonely Colonsay; Isle at the Edge: “The reverse seems to be associated with a more virile tradition, possibly a symbol of fertility or potency.” Byrne goes on to quote a writer from the 1880s, who slyly remarked that “the stone is dressed only in front, undressed on the back.” This bit of undressed stone is a phallic symbol. A mixture of Christian on one side, pagan on the other. You can see a line drawing of the stone at this CANMORE link.

I wanted to see this unusual stone up close. So on a visit to Colonsay long ago I made my way to the garden. Looking over the garden wall I could see the stone, twenty feet away, standing watch over Tobar Odhran, St Oran’s Well. The holy well is covered by an old millstone, and if you lift it (which I did not do) you will discover the well is constructed of coursed and mortared rubble masonry, with steps leading three-feet down to the water. Set in the eye of the millstone cover is something odd. It may have been part of the axle for the millstone, but to me it looked like one of the pre-Christian water-worn bodach and cailleach stones, such as those found on Gigha and in Glen Lyon.

St Oran’s Well, in its garden setting under the watchful eye of the monk-stone, is one of the sacred sites of the Hebrides. I am no expert in what defines a thin place, where the border between this life and the next mingle; but whoever placed the stone here created a divine space: the cross with the face of a monk watching over the well, while the powerful image of Dealbh na Leisg wards off those who might not be intimidated by a cross; an example of a merged Christian and pagan talisman, all the protective bases covered in case one fails the test.  Maybe. Perhaps. Read into it what you will. 

Even though thirty years have passed, the fragrances of the Colonsay gardens pop into my head whenever I think back to the day I hopped over the garden wall (shame on me) to see Dealbh na Leisg. I will surely return to the isles of the west, but right now I’m going to recline in my chair, grasp something with one hand, a beer, and with a remote in the other see what’s on.

Islay to Cork - Day 7 - Dunyvaig, Singing Sands, and Island Soaring

On my last Islay day I woke to drenching rains and strong winds. I had to catch a flight to Oban at 3pm, so that gave me six hours to fill. After checking out of the Port Charlotte Hotel, I got in my tiny hire car and set out to pay a visit to Dunyvaig Castle near the Lagavulin Distillery. As I drove through Port Ellen, and on to Lagavulin, I passed by streams of people afoot: some under umbrellas, some under ponchos, all walking the footpath on their way to take a tour of the distillery.  Every tourist I'd met that week only had one thing on thier mind: the distilleries. After passing Lagavulin I turned right down a rough single track to find a parking spot overlooking Dunyvaig Castle. As I hit the brakes the car shuddered as its metal-on-metal brakes slowly ground me to a halt. I was hoping the brakes would last long enough to get me safely to the airport in a few hours. 

From the parking area it was a short, aromatic, walk to the castle. The winds were shifting: when they were from the south you could smell the sea, when they were from the north you could smell the malty aroma of the distillery.

Even though a sign warned that the castle ruins were dangerous, I tried to find a way into the tower. But a section of the walkway that led to it had collapsed, and trying to step over it would not end well.

The castle dates to between the 13th and 15th centuries. Its Gaelic name is Dun Naomhaig. A 'naomhaig' is a sea galley, and until about 1500 AD the fort was a naval base for the Lord of the Isles.

Off in the distance (to the left) in the next photo you can see the island of Texa. I had been hoping to get there this trip, and had exchanged e-mails with Islay Sea Safari a month earlier. They'd indicated then that they could take me to the island. But they had failed to reply to any of the emails, or voice mails, I'd left over the past few days, so Texa would have to wait for another time.

Once back in the car I drove through Port Ellen, then followed a coastal track to the west. At the big cemetery above Kilnaughton Bay I turned left, then slowly drove down a rough track to a small parking area north of the Carraig Fhada Lighthouse. Under a heavy downpour I set out on foot towards the lighthouse.

I soon came upon a sign that pointed right that read 'Singing Sands'. I turned right to follow a path that led up and over a low ridge, then dropped down to a small beach of reddish-brown sand. Its name on the map is Traigh Bhan (the fair, or white beach), and it is also known as the Singing Sands of Islay. I had been to the singing sands of Eigg, and was looking forward to hearing the sands of Islay sing.

Once on the beach I started to scuff my boots across the sands. Not a squeak or a squawk was to be heard. I kept trying, dragging my feet over most of the beach - an onlooker would wonder just what that crazy guy was doing on the beach. But with all the recent rain the sand was too wet to sing. So I headed back to take a look at the Carraig Fhada Lighthouse, passing along the way a herd of feral goats. (You can hear a sample of the Eigg Sands singing here.)

The Carraig Fhada lighthouse was built in 1832 by the Campbell laird of Islay in memory of his wife who'd died that year. An interesting series of narrow walkways and bridges take you out to the lighthouse. 

It was a very wet hiker who returned to the car. I then drove to the airport, where I parked at 'Terminal 2'. That's what they call it, anyway. It is a small hut, 1000 feet north of the main terminal, and is where you board flights operated by Hebridean Air Services. My flight to Oban would go via Colonsay, and I was looking forward to seeing over a dozen islands along the way. I had an hour to wait for the arrival of the airplane. During that time the rain stopped, and it gradually turned into a sunny day.

The yellow Islander airplane touched down right on time and taxied to a stop. The last time I was on an Islander was the Kirkwall/Westray/Papa Westray flight in 2014 (see this post). In short order we were rolling down the runway on our way to Colonsay.

A minute after takeoff we soared past Nave Island and the Ardnave peninusula where I'd walked the day before.

Next up was the north coast of Islay, followed by five miles of open sea to Oronsay and Colonsay.

As we soared over Oronsay I could see Seal cottage just above the beach, and in the distance Oronsay Priory.

We also got a good look at Ben Oronsay, topped by Carn cul ri Eirinn.

We then started banking left over the shallow strand between Oronsay and Colonsay to make the approach to Colonsay airfield. Two minutes later we were on the ground.

One passenger boarded, and five minutes later we were rolling down the runway.

As we climbed we were rewarded with a grand view of Kiloran Bay and the cliffs of Uragaig.

As we headed to the northwest the long coast of Jura sped by. Then the massive hump of Scarba came into view.

After Scarba came the first of the Isles of the Sea, Eileach an Naoimh - the "Ikea" lighthouse at its south end brightly reflecting the sun.

Then came the other Isles of the Sea: A' Chuli, Garbh Eileach, and Dun Chonnuill.

Next up were the slate isle of Easdale and Ellanbeich.

We were then over an island I've not been to yet, Insh Island. There were stories a while back about a naked hermit living there, but I do not know if there is any truth to that.

Off to the left I could see the vast sea loch of Spelvie, and Portfield House, from where we'd unsuccessfully tried to hike to Old Croggan Village six weeks before.

I was sitting behind the pilot, and as we began the approach to Oban he asked if I wanted him to take some photos out the front of the plane. I handed him the camera and he took this shot of Oban.

As we descended over Kerrera the Mull ferry was motoring past the tip of the island. The marina at Ardintrive, once a military seaplane base could be seen, as was the small peninsula of Cladh a Bhernaig with the bracken-grown ruins of its Celtic Christan Cashel.

As the plane continued its descent we flew over Dunolie Castle and its successor Dunolie House.

Then came the Oban Cemetery; a place I'd spent a lot of time on two occasions trying to find the grave of MEM Donaldson. Her grave is marked with an arrow on the photo, and you can read about it here.

Just before touchdown we passed Connel Bridge and the dramatic Falls of Lora.

It had been an amazing flight. Too bad flying can't always be so enjoyable. I would recommend Hebridean Air Services to anyone wanting the fly to, and from, the isles. After a short taxi ride I was ensconced in my hotel in Oban. I had one full day in town to get ready for an Irish adventure. A cruise on Hjalmar Bjorge around the west side of Ireland ending up in Cork. That was the good news. The bad news was the weather forecast. It was not looking good at all.

The Lord of the Isles Ancient Internet

I've been reading Kevin Byrne's wonderful book on Colonsay - Lonely Colonsay (House of Lochar, 2010). In it I've learned that, 1000 years ago, the Lords of the Isles had their own Instant Messaging service, their own Twitter, their own wireless communication. At the speed of light they could send a warning from near their great Hall of Dun Eibhinn on Colonsay, to an outpost 15 miles away on Islay, near their capital at Finlaggan.

If you look at the 1:25000 OS map of Colonsay, you'll find a hill called Cnoc an-t-Samhlaidh at NR 3832 9264, a mile south of Dun Eibhinn. And on the map of Islay, at NR 3335 6961, you'll find another Cnoc an-t-Samhlaidh, three miles northwest of Finlaggan.

Cnoc an-t-Samhlaidh means the hill of reflection. Using some type of mirror, signals could be sent at night between the summits. Next time I'm on Colonsay or Islay I hope to climb one of these hills of reflection. I'd camp on the summit at night, kindle a fire, send a signal, and see if anyone replies.

A' Clach Thogalaich - The Colonsay Lifting Stone

Here's a photo I took 24 year ago on Colonsay. It shows A' Clach Thogalaich, the stone of lifting, which lies near the road at the north end of the golf course (at least it did in 1993). The boulder weighed in at around 250 pounds. I was not in the mood to rupture anything, so I didn't try to lift it. 

See this Old Man of the Stones page for some interesting descriptions of attempts, some successful, to lift the Colonsay stone. If you're in the mood to test your strength, and can't make it out to Colonsay, there are also some lifting stones on North Uist described in the same link.

Carraig Mhic a' Phi - The MacPhee Stone - Colonsay

John McPhee opens his book 'The Crofter and the Laird' with a description of how the MacDonalds hunted down Malcolm MacPhee, the last MacPhee chief of Colonsay: 'captured him, refused him mercy, saying that a man who had never showed mercy should not ask for it, tied him to a standing stone, and shot him.'

Coll Ciotach MacDomhnuill (AKA Colkitto) captured MacPhee in 1623 near Eilean nan Ron (Seal Island) at the far southwestern tip of Oronsay. He was then tied to a standing stone near Balerominmore (perhaps the big marshy farm?), a stone that would become known as Carraig Mhic a'Phi, and shot. The stone is now a pilgrimage site for all the MacPhees who visit Colonsay.

In 1623 the stone was 8-feet-tall, and stood about 30 feet northeast of its current location. Sometime after MacPhee was shot the stone fell and broke. In 1977 it was pieced together with iron straps and erected in an enclosure. (Unfortunately it was mounted upside down.)