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The Stone Whisperers

7/5/2016

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​The Stone Whisperers -

To come to the Hebrides is to get acquainted with stones.  The open vistas, mostly devoid of trees, have an abundance of them.  The combination of stone outcroppings and changing wind makes music, a kind of soft song, and I am trying to make out the words.
Hebrides, means ‘The Islands of Bride (or Brigid)’. Ancient Celtic myths speak of Brigid visiting Iona at midnight on the summer solstice to bless the waters of the well of eternal youth, so that the devoted can carry these healing waters to those who need it.   The well is brackish and sets between two stone outcroppings next to Iona’s highest point at the top of Dun I – 333 feet above sea level.  There is also a cairn at Dun I’s crest.  The wind blowing across the top sounds like whispering voices - ‘The Maidens of Bride.”
The first thing I do when the steep rock and bog path up is dry enough is climb.  The sun is out.  From the summit I can see beyond Columba’s Bay clear to Ireland to the south and north past white strand of the monks to the Black and Red Cuillins of Skye.   There is an old marble quarry (long closed) just east of St. Columba’s landing, the original beginning point for the pilgrim’s walk.  The light is glinting off the edges of rock face that were cut long ago. Pieces of large boulders there break off in storms.  Worn by wave and current, they wash up on the beach at Columba’s Bay (My next hill walking adventure). The next day I head over to the patron saint of Scotland’s landing site.  I lose the clear trail and end up hiking round the island’s old fresh water source to the far side, getting well acquainted with the bog, thistle, heather cliffs, and the narrows leading down into the brown valley approach.  I reach the Bay site from the northwest and descend.  A labyrinth of stone rests on machair at the edge of the rocky shore.  There is a group of cows standing next to the labyrinth, grazing on the tall grass and wild flowers.  The rain is on again, off again, and I take cover in a shallow cave above the labyrinth.  This valley is ringed with monolithic boulders that protect from the high winds of the pass.  The currents naturally flow into this cove of safe landing, where the sound of the wave break is accentuated by the pulling and threading of rocks into pebbles as the ocean draws her breath back.
The green “Iona Stones” found here are treasured for their energetic and healing properties.  There are several women on island who work with these stones, creating jewelry or using the raw stone in ritual.   They talk to the green stones to see which ones to keep and what to use them for.  Spending hours combing the layers upon layers of rock at the shore, they sense the ones ready to be worked with and the ones that need to be left here or put back into the bay for cleansing.  I like to think of them as living maidens of Bride, these stone whisperers. 
The most prized of the Iona Stones are “St. Columba`s Tears” (also known as Mermaid`s Tears, from the time before Colm Cille,) teardrop shaped pebbles that are translucent green in color.  Traditionally, to carry one is protection against drowning.
The stone speaks to you everywhere on this small island.  The cloister archways of Iona Abbey are made up of intricately carved stonework, detailed with symbols, images and stories.  St. Martin’s cross is sculpted from a single rock and remains in situ.  Placed over 1,200 years ago, the west face of this high cross displays scenes from the bible.  Back on the main road, as I make my way from the white sands of the north towards the south side of Iona, I can hear faint voices coming from inside the heart of the abbey, through the arched columns of the sanctuary damp with green moss, psalms can be heard – morning prayers.
I walk beside half walls made of local stone that wind down from the abbey gate to the lower village of Baile Mor.  Shapes and faces are visible in the rock, believed to be images of both humans and fairies who have lived on or visited the island.  When weathery, The Hebridean wind also runs atop the wall, playing it like a low whistle.
I continue traveling along the road that runs south then curves west and eventually ends at Sithean (The Hill of the Angels).  I have reached the Machair – the wildflower carpeted grass lands that bank into sand and then fall off into the ocean.) On the left, here at the entrance to the last farm, is a mound.  When the wind is right, whispers and otherworldly music can be heard at this location. I know musicians who have visited Iona and come to this spot to play along.  St. Columba was seen in prayer here, surrounded by angels.  It is also known locally as the Ring of the Faerie, the entrance to Fairie being just a little farther, beyond reach or words, also marked by stones. 
As I arrive at land’s end, it is beginning to mist.  The sun is playing with the clouds creating “gates of heaven,” beams of golden light that break through and cascade into the sea.  A breeze is starting to rise. 
It is my last night on Iona. I head over to the Abbey for what is billed as a special evening service (it is at 9:00 at night, still light when you get out).  This service is to be conducted by visiting composer John Bell.  They are “performing” my favorite psalm -  the Song of Solomon – a tale of bride and groom, a wedding verse.  This turns out to be an interactive installation.  We are encouraged to walk around and participate. The entire Song of Solomon is projected onto the walls of the abbey scrolling through verse after verse in white light against the grey stone walls.  There are beds draped in red velvet in several areas of the Abbey.  There is the food mentioned in the psalm, laid out on a table, there for all to eat.  There are representational drawings of the couple on their wedding night acting out the verse.  There are stations to hear love songs and to write your favorite one.  You can scribe the verse as the monks of old did by hand, In the far corner a chorus of 4, two men and two women are reciting the Song of Songs in its entirety.  Beautiful music is playing and echoing through the rafters.  Suddenly, the music fades out just as one of the chorus describes the groom -  from The Song of Solomon, Verse 5:15 - "His legs are pillars of marble set on bases of pure gold."

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Going, Round

7/5/2016

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Going, Round -

I had been walking for the better part of the week, around the Island, Up and down Dun I, over to the white sand beaches and azure blue waters of the north side, the rocky shore south, the machair of the west, going round and round to and from the village, taking the short cuts through fields of sheep and highland cows (they don’t really seem to mind.)
 

The Hebridean Gale has set in – yesterday it was raining sideways.  My new friend Da and I ran about the island for hours like schoolchildren who got a weather day and were looking for mischief.  First, we bought some goodies at the Low Door (and I do mean this door is low – you have to duck and squat a wee bit as well to avoid knocking your head… apparently people were really small back in the day).  This shop has a plethora of local homemade items – I picked up some raspberry and violet jam, Da bought their wild garlic pesto.  We remarked to the man behind the counter how bright and well he looked.  A conversation ensued.  Then we snuck into the Argyll Hotel (It was closed for a wedding), drenched, went to find our friend Wendy to see if she could come out to play and if we could pinch some of her divine coconut cake with chocolate mouse and roasted almonds on top.  After catching the eye of the very busy and annoyed chef, we went round the back and threw pebbles at the office window to get Wendy’s attention.  She said we were like two baby birds, chirping for their mother to come and feed them.  We stole into the pantry of the kitchen where she delivered the wondrous cake, wrapped a couple of pieces up in foil for us and sent us on our merry way, quick as a flash so as to avoid any more wrath of the resident cheffy.  Next we set out over to the Village Craft Shop (they have an espresso machine – best coffee in the village and the owners are so friendly,) ordered up a couple of double shot Americanos and plowed through their back storage room, clearing off a spot to sit.  There we unwrapped our cake and gobbled it down, washing it back with our black coffees.  There is nothing like a dreich day on Iona to make you really appreciate cake and a warm beverage (if you didn’t already).  There is a joke I heard that goes something like this: “After all this time I am finally getting into shape, unfortunately, that shape is round.”
The forecast for tomorrow is more rain, more cake!

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The Backwards Clock

7/5/2016

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​The Backwards Clock -

People come to Iona in droves, seekers of all she is known for:  Her beauty, quiet, the beaches, some magical elixir of happiness, the fountain of youth atop Dun I, spiritual communion with the patron saint of Scotland, to visit or volunteer with the Iona Community – a modern day living and breathing continuation of Celtic Christianity, set in the restored Abbey, where the Book of Kells was written.  Some say because time has stopped on Iona, it hasn’t.  All the stories are true so I won’t reiterate them here – yes, Iona is a mystical place, but grounded in a pragmatism as all the Hebridean islands have to be.
The thing about Iona is this:  You can’t bring your car on and the internet is quite spotty. Forget about cell signal. Even though some locals do have vehicles that you have to dodge while walking this way and that, still there is a quality of a way of life gone by here, the way village life used to be, but functioning now. There are only two roads to speak of – one, paved single track, runs form the north end towards the south (but not all the way south, you have to bog and rock walk for that) then turns from the eastern edge towards the west, ending just shy of the machair. There is also the short cut - the original gravel road (really more of a path) that leads from the old nunnery in the village, southwest around the village hall, up a hill, thru the middle of a farm, a couple of gates and you meet at the bustling corncrake intersection (a field cordoned off for corncrake breading), where you meet the east/west road, then the gravel path dead ends up ahead on another farm.  When walking (or bicycling) along, you are doing so with sheep and cows – sometimes blocking the way, sometimes walking along with you, (particularly in the case of the cows – where are you going?  Mind if I come along?)  Other routes and shortcuts basically mean parading through fields replete with sheep, sheep poo and at times thistle) - It is not as though time has stopped (as some folks describe Iona), it is more that it feels like you have turned the clock back to an earlier, simpler, more functional way of life. 
So, my second day on island I take the shortcut gravel road down to the Spar in Baile Mor, load up on groceries, and deciding to avoid “the hill”, walk the long way around the paved road that turns a south corner and heads west.  Halfway to the machair is where I am staying, at Cnoc Oran (the houses here have names, not numbers as their address).  I have two heavy bags (groceries and other items for the week).  It takes about 45 minutes to hall my load around the isle and up the hill towards the house (I took a few breaks), I open the first gate, the sheep move aside to let me pass. I close and lock the gate, do the doo dance (avoiding fresh offerings) and make my way to the little picket fenced gate that opens into the courtyard.  Lock the gate, put the rope across (these sheep are very determined to get to the flowers in the courtyard – they know how to pick locks).  Enter the front door into the living room – Wellies off, groceries to the back kitchen – three sheep are peering in the kitchen window.  Got anything good for us?  I heave the heavy groceries up on the counter, say hello to them, “Hello sheep, hello hogget,” then happen to look left to the clock placed next to their heads.  The clock is in reverse.  It tells time backwards, moving counterclockwise against a mirror image clock.  I blink twice and look again.  Still there.  I look out at the sheep.  Another teller of time.  Iona has managed to move into present day, attending to thousands of visitors while holding a standing population of only 177 souls that live here year round.  There are problems.  Most people who live here are not native to the island – they have come for work, or because they fell in love with Iona and they try to make it work - Life is not easy here:  Farms are pressured by the weather, by so many visitors – a fragile eco-system holds on and the islanders rally together to make certain it does,  there is limited housing – most houses still need to be insulated  for the windswept hard winters and the local counsel is very mindful of the need for a more healthful, sustainable model towards any future growth.  But people make things here, they spend time together, they know each other by name and place, they are inherently connected because they live on a small island.   All said, this is a working, functioning community, with most things done as they always have been, a little at a time.
So, now, back to those sheep… 

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Counting Sheep

6/28/2016

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Counting Sheep –
There is a small picket fence that surrounds the garden courtyard of the house where I am staying.  Inside of the gate there is a narrow walkway, a bit of grass, around the fence edges are flowering plants.  It had been dry in Scotland prior to my arrival, but with the recent rain, her plants have drank their fill and are now blooming – I arrive on Iona to the opening of the yellow iris, and fuchsias. 
Iris Pseudacorus - Yellow Flag, happens to be my favorite.  Fuchsias were my grandmother’s flower.  I think of her watering her oversized hanging baskets, spilling over red and purple fuchsias onto her Lanai.  These fuchsias are a paler wilder sort.   First morning, sunrise (cloud rise) about 4:15 a.m. I awaken to a flock of sheep just below my window.  They are making quite a racket.  Pressed up against the fence, they all seem to be bleating yeah, yeah, yeah.  Yeah, let us in so we can eat those flowers, that is what I suspect they are thinking.   I look out at them, giving them a stern – you know you woke me up, don’t you? sort of look, which only makes them louder – yeah, yeah, yeah… a chorus of, I count, 22 sheep.  Feeling my gaze, they look up, yeah, yeah, yeah… give me a good stare back, then mosey off to the front field and get completely silent.  In numerology, the number 22 is considered to be a master number -  the most powerful of all numbers, indicating the ability to turn lofty dreams into realities. It is confident, pragmatic, ambitious and disciplined.  Well, the sheep certainly are confident when grouped together, I can attest to that.  It is back to bed for me (that is the pragmatic part – I need a good sleep).  I nod off quickly and dream of flying sheep, pursing their lips that rattle as they bleat – yeah, yeah, yeah.  A few hours later I wake up again, this time the sun is shining, the sheep still in the front meadow, still completely silent, one of them looking up at my window.

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    SCOTLAND - WONDERLAND

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    That's me - I am mad about plaid, a writer, poet, artist, lover of Scotland.  For more, go to my home page.

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