An Iona Day

Last month I had the opportunity to spend a day on Iona. I wanted to revisit a few favourite spots and see something I'd missed on previous visits: Clach a Choire Ì, the Ringing Stone of Iona. Once ashore, I walked the road to the north, continued past the busy abbey, then made my way to the Duchess's Cross: a memorial to Elizabeth Campbell, the first of the three wives of the eighth Duke of Argyll. 

Halfway between the cross and the shore, a massive, flat-topped boulder lay at the edge of a field (NM 2892 2491). This chunk of Ross of Mull granite, carried here by ice long ago, is sometimes called the refectory stone, supposedly for its use as a table in the early monastery. James Bonwick, in Irish Druids and Old Irish Religions (1894), relates that the stone has two names: ‘Moel-blatha’ and ‘Blathnat,’ and it is just one of the multitude of stones associated with St Columba:

St. Columba had a reputation for stones. There is his Red Stone, his Blue Egg Stone in Skye, his Blue Stone of Glen Columkillo, his stony beds of penitence, his Lingam Stones, which worked miracles. He was born on a stone, he was sustained in famine by sucking meal from the Holy Stone of Moel-blatha.

Moel-blatha is also mentioned in Edward Trenholme's The Story of Iona (1909):

   The great tabular glacial boulder lies between lomaire an Achd and the Sound, and Skene has pointed out how well it answers to a stone which some old Irish documents say was in the refectory of St. Columba's monastery. One scribe's preface to St. Columba's great poem Altus Prosator speaks of "the stone that is in the refectory in Hi; and the name of that stone is Moel-blatha, and luck was left on all food that is put thereon." 
   The stone survived the monastery, for the scribes who say "it still exists" wrote in the eleventh century. It was so remarkable that it had a special name, which is considered to mean "flat stone of division." The scribes mention the stone in order to relate how Columba composed a certain hymn, Adjutor laborantium, while carrying a heavy sack of oats, taken from off the stone, to the mill. Everything fits the stone, which is still to be seen in Iona, near the spot which there are independent reasons for regarding as the site of the first monastery. The refectory which enclosed the stone, to serve as a table or sideboard, was no doubt a wood and wattle building of the old Irish kind.

After a look at Moel-blatha, I walked a quarter mile north until I came to a gate on the east side of the road. I went through it, then made a gentle descent across a grassy field to Port na Fraing. My destination was easy to spot: Clach a Choire Ì, the ringing stone of Iona; a large boulder with a cup-mark near its top (NM 2911 2527). Like its better-known cousin on Tiree, the stone can be made to sing out a high-pitched metallic tone. The boulder is one of several lithophonic stones in Scotland. In addition to Tiree’s (NM 0268 4869), there is one near Ballater (NJ 2998 0157), and the ‘Iron Stone’ north of Huntly (NJ 5316 4563). 

A stone, conveniently set in the cup-mark, can be used to make the stone ring. (The best place to strike is just below the cup.) After some feeble attempts to play the stone, I returned to the road, then made my way to the top of Dun-I. It's an easy 100-metre climb, and I was fortunate to find the top deserted, as it's usually swarming with tourists. 

I wandered over to the nearby knoll where I scattered some of my mother's ashes in 2018, then took a seat next to Tobar na h-Aoise, the Well of Youth (NM 2843 2529). It is a triangular pool set below a large outcropping of bedrock. It’s said your youth will be restored if you touch the waters as the first rays of the morning sun fall. (I had a beer instead and felt quite restored.)

Once back down at the road, I followed the path to Cobhain Cuildich, the Secluded Hollow of the Hermit’s Cell. To find the path to the cell, you enter the gate to the MacLeod Centre, walk 150 feet west, then veer off to the right. The route is vague at times and very boggy, but keep heading west, and in half a mile you'll come to the Hermit's Cell.

The cell is a circular foundation of stones, eighteen feet in diameter, with an opening for a vestibule—all that’s left of what may have been a substantial beehive cell. Behind it is a large rock outcropping, with the walls of a sheep fank encircling its base, probably built from the stones of the cell. This may have been the monastery’s place of retreat, described as being ‘amongst the bushes, remote from men and meet for prayer, where Columba went to pray one day, and beheld hosts of demons fighting with darts (lightning) in the sky.’

I decided to keep going west to the coast. There was no path, just more soupy ground and heather. An hour's bumble through the brush led to Port Ban, a stunning pocket beach of white-shell sand. There were no golfers about, so I took an easy shortcut across the 12th hole of the course to reach the machair above Camus Cùl an Taibh, the Bay at the back of the ocean.

I was now back in the land of the tourists and joined a mob of a hundred or so for the ferry back to Mull. Next stop: Caibeal Mheomhair, the Star Chamber of Mull.

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

The Adventures of Hjalmar Bjorge - Season 3, Episode 9

The Continuing Adventures of Hjalmar Bjorge

Season 3 - Episode 9 - Lunga and Iona

Exploring the Isles of the West Cruise    June 2-11, 2018

Saturday, June 9 – Islands 14 & 15 - Lunga and Iona

Saturday saw us get an early start to Lunga - the idea being to beat the day-boats that bring hundreds of tourists to see the puffins. We were ashore by 10am, and had the island all to ourselves for a couple of hours. All visits to Lunga start with an amazing stroll along the cliff tops to see the puffins coming and going from their burrows. 

Just as amazing were the thousands of guillemots roosting at the base of Dun Cruit (Harp Rock).

I must say that the puffin population on Lunga seems to be a shadow of its former self. I have been there eight times over the last 30 years, ranging from early May to mid August, and the number of puffins I saw on June 9 was about 10% of the number I’d seen in the past. The next three photos are from a visit in 2008.

Aside from seeing the bright puffins and noisy guillemots on Harp Rock, there is a secret place on Lunga I always like to visit. Most visitors are not interested in seeing it, as it's dark, dank and cold. It is a tunnel-cave described by Fraser Darling in his book Island Years (1940), and by L.R.Higgins in his classic A Tangle of Islands (1971). The cave is 200 feet long, its entrance lies hidden at the bottom of a pit in the south plateau of Lunga, and its far end opens out onto the western cliffs of the island. Liz was interested in seeing it, and so the two of us left the puffins to go spelunking. 

From the rim of the pit we slid down its steep bank into a sea of ferns. The cave mouth is hidden below the dark spot in the centre of next photo.

Into the pit

After wading through the ferns we came to the small mouth. It was now time to crawl for about ten feet across wet stones, then waddle for another 20 feet to a point where we could stand up.

After going 200 feet we reached the seaward end of the cave, where a short scramble up some boulders took us out onto the face of the western cliffs.

After retracing our steps through the cave, and climbing back up the wall of the pit, we returned to puffin city. As we did we noticed a boat full of people motoring towards the shore. The timing of our visit to Lunga had been perfect; what we were seeing was the first of the day-boats. They started landing folks just as we were making our way down to the shore, and I felt like a salmon swimming upstream as I passed about 50 day-trippers slowly making their way - some in flip flops - up the rocky beach.

Leaving Lunga behind, we sailed east to take a look (from the sea) into Fingal’s Cave on Staffa. About halfway there we came upon a basking shark zig-zagging through the water.

The interior of Fingal's Cave is currently closed to visitors because the walkway into it has collapsed (see this article). So this was one of few times I'd seen the cave from the sea when it was not full of tourists.

From Staffa it was a short motor over to Iona, where the anchor was dropped in Port nam Mairtear, Martyrs' Bay, where 68 monk's were killed in the year 806. It is easy to know that it's Martyrs' Bay because of the well signed Martyrs' Bay Restaurant and Pub which sits above the bay.

Once ashore a visit to the nunnery was followed by a climb to the top of the island, the hill of Dun-I. (Pronounced Dune - ē, not, as some tourists call it, Done One.) Iona was as crowded as usual, and it seemed strange being among so many people after a week of deserted islands.

On the way to the hill we passed the abbey. In days of yore it was free to go inside, these days it'll cost you £7.50. 

In days of not-so-yore (like 4 years ago), it was easy to get in the grounds through an unlocked side gate to take a close look at St Martin's Cross and climb onto Tor Ab, where it is thought Columba had his cell. I was disheartened to see that even this side gate is now securely locked.

St Martin's Cross

A half-mile north of the abbey we reached the path that climbs to the top of Dun-I. Even though it is only about 300 feet high, it is well worth climbing for the views. But this time of year you will not find solitude here, as people are continually coming and going.

The busy summit of Dun-I

There being so many people on the top of the hill was posing a problem, as I’d been planning for several months to do something up here that required a bit of privacy. Nestled in my pack was some precious cargo, a small container I’d carried throughout our trip. It had been on 15 islands so far, but Iona would be the last one. 

The problem was solved when, from the summit, I noticed a little knoll that no one was on. As I watched for several minutes I could see that none of the tourists seemed to be going over there. And so I made my way to this little knoll west of the summit. It was the perfect spot for what I wanted to do; a spot that looked out over the abbey to the east, and the sea to the west. I crouched down, slowly opened the container, and gently sprinkled its contents over the grass. My mother had passed five months ago. She loved Iona, and now is forever part of it.

After our climb everyone spread out to wander on their own. Some visited the abbey, others the shops. A few made the hike over to the west side of the island to the beach of Camus Cùil an T-Saimh.

As I have found out the hard way, translating Gaelic place names is a mine-field for the amateur. The name of the bay on the current OS map is Camus Cùil an T-Saimh, which may mean 'bay of the ocean-nook.' Other maps name it Camus Cul an Taibh, possibly 'bay with its back to the sea.' Regardless of what its name means, it is a beautiful spot, a half-mile of white sands nestled between the Spouting Cave and the 2000 year-old fort of Dun Bhuirg.

After a visit to the Martyr's Bay Pub to hydrate we headed back to Hjalmar Bjorge. The anchor was raised, and we left the crowds behind to motor south past Erraid into Ardlanish Bay off the Ross of Mull. As the sun set that evening it began to sink in just how fast the week had passed, and that in two days we'd be back in Oban. We'd set foot on 15 islands, and there was still one to go. For in the morning, with eagles soaring high overhead, we'd motor below some of the most impressive cliffs in the Hebrides, see a 15th century castle, and trek to a 5000 year-old stone circle.

Eva Alaire Calhoun (1927-2018)

Today my mother, Eva Alaire (Sneed) Calhoun, lost her year-long battle with cancer. Among many things, she instilled in me a love of family, and family history. Without her extensive research into our family history in the 1970s and 80s, I would have never known of my Scottish roots. Neither would I have made my first trip to Scotland in 1989, when my wife and I, accompanied by my parents, spent a few weeks there. It was during that trip that I first set foot on some of the Isles of the West, including Mull and Iona. 

Mom on Main Street - Iona

Mom was not able to travel in recent years, and so when I was in Scotland I would always climb to the top of an island, turn on the mobile phone, and hope to get a signal so I could call her. On those times when I could get through, she would be delighted to hear from me as I described the scenery, and what I was up to. I will miss her.

Mom on the machair - Iona

Mom and Dad in 1955

Islands from the Air

During my last flight to the UK I had a window seat. As we approached the Western Isles there was not a cloud in the sky, and I had am amazing bird's-eye view of the islands; starting with Scarp, then the islands in the Sound of Harris, all the way over Skye, the Small Isles, and Mull. But, sadly, I did not have a camera with me.

And so on the flight home a few weeks later I made sure I had a camera. But, of course, the weather was bad. Even so, between the clouds the occasional island made a brief appearance. I was blessed with tantalizing views of Colonsay, Insh, Mull, Iona, Inchkenneth, Hyskier, Eriskay, and South Uist. Shortly after passing Eriskay the clouds decided I'd seen enough, and closed in completely. I pulled down the blind, and went to sleep with visions of islands dancing in my head.

Here are a few island views from 10,000 feet.

Colonsay and Oronsay

Insh - once home to a Brownie and a naked hermit

Loch Buie - Mull

The Ross of Mull - Iona at the far end

Inchkenneth and Little Colonsay

Hyskier

Last view of the isles - Eriskay and Rubha na h-Ordaig (South Uist)