Category: Islands

July 07th, 2016

7/8/2016

Achiltibuie and The Summer Isles -
This morning I can see the summer isles off the coast of Achiltibuie. I have just arrived to this Achd Ille Bhuidhe or “Field of the Yellow-Haired Boy”. There are none about, it is early and the town is still asleep. The piping school is now gone, Charlie Chaplin, gone, The Hydroponicum also gone, turned back into the soil. When they finally wake, a couple of the locals tell me it is a blessing about the piping school – apparently it was a horrible racket, those beginner students with the pipes. They miss Charlie Chaplin though. The Hydroponicum is now superseded by lovely gardens that trail down to the water’s edge. Some traveler I ran into somewhere a ways back told me I must come here, for the pure peace of looking out over these remote crofting lands to the view of the summer isles and a particular way of life it all implies. I have to agree - the word bucolic comes to mind. This remote linear town on the Coigach Peninsula is a moving postcard of trellised roses and other marks of civilization, leading to wildflower edges and fields beyond to the sea. This used to be MacKenzie country, with some MacLeods and a few Campbells sprinkled in as well. Grazing, subsistence, fishing, anything else brought in by boat. Now it has an art gallery and the Summer Isles Hotel – Charlie’s old haunt, plus gentille. I have to go in of course. I open the tall gate reading the keep closed sign as I enter, making sure to latch it behind me - sheep – it is a theme, I know. The other way round is over a cattle guard too wide for me to walk across. The pebble courtyard is overflowing with terracotta pots filled with pansies, violets, other dandies. This place could not be more happily placed – there is a cozy, safe village charm about it, not the feel that I have just weathered the highlands to get here, that this is still the highlands, surrounded by wilderness. Somehow, as I look out over to those islands, I get very peaceful and calm. This place could be a Carmel, it could get built up and over-ran. Oh no, I said it – I take it back. Even the largest of the summer isles, Tanera Mor, is uninhabited now, with just a few holiday houses dotted along one edge, no roads, only way round is by boat.
Perhaps the yellow-haired boy is a reference to the tall grasses that turn golden as the season wanes and the isles close their doors on another summer. Or, maybe he gave this place a name, then walked back into the wilds.

0 Comments

The Stone Whisperers

7/5/2016

0 Comments

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."

0 Comments

Mull – Road to Fionnphort

6/26/2016

0 Comments

On route to Fionnphort I start to see the different light that occurs in Scotland – the combination of changeable weather, mountains and so much water creates a luminescent, otherworldly reflective quality to the light here. It feels as if I am no longer on Earth but somewhere in the veil crossing.
Mull is known as the isle of sorrows – probably due to it being one of the locations of the clearances, when the highlanders were forced off the land and emigrated elsewhere. Strangely, I have always felt a kind of melancholy, a heaviness when traveling across Mull. Today is different. The light so brilliant and soothing, her air filled with the scent of unfurled bracken, her mountains and glens dressed in the deep green of June.
The road to Fionnphort is a long winding single track road with frequent turn-outs for passing. This leads to a lot of flashing of lights and waving between passing cars – the friendly way here of saying hello and thanks for pulling over. The road edges are narrow and in spots, quite jagged – there are many punctured tires on this route, with stranded motorists distracted by the views, having temporarily abandoned their damaged vehicles in favor of a hill walk. It was just last year when I was on the side of this road in a deluge trying to change a flat – no signal. A truck had sped around a blind curve, nearly hitting me head on. I dashed for the closest turn out – too small, too late, slitting the inside of my tire clear across. The truck sped off, leaving me to deal with it. Fortunately, the Scotts generally are very friendly and helpful people. The first car to pass by pulled over. This probably had something to do with leaping and waving my arms around furiously. A young couple jumped out, leaving their child and dog in the backseat of their car while they braved the elements to help me. Billy immediately opened the trunk of my Fiat 500 to get the necessary gear and tire out, then started to unmount the flat tire. Then, Anne took over, instructing me how to fix it myself. “This happens to me all the time,” she said, “No cell signal round here and the road is rubbish, it’s good to learn how to do it yourself, to be independent. “
I explained that, though I was quite independent, traveling alone as I was, in the states, tires are put on with machines, so are nearly impossible to unbolt by hand. Roadside assistance is the way of the U.S. Anne had devised a method, using her feet and legs to get the wrench around. Using her entire bodyweight, she demonstrated how to position the wrench just so, squatted with one leg then with the other kicked down with all her might. The lug moved forward. Billy then added, “Right you are, but it’s pissing rain, do you mind if I finish?”
Today, when I pass the same sharp edged turn, the sun is moving between clouds, illuminating the top of the nearest mountain with a gold and green crown. I continue on to where the road opens on the right to an inlet. I had once stopped here to watch an otter and seals bank up on the beach. I think back on my prior visits, what was the sorrow there? Just then on cue, an otter pokes his head out of the water. I park and walk across to the rocks. As if to say lighten up, he starts bobbing and playing in the shallows just in front of me. There is a saying here that you have to travel through sorrow to reach joy. Here is the moment.
I drive on. In all the names of those who have moved through this island, let mine be one. Curve after curve, the way forward keeps turning, passing through places like Craignure and Lochbuie. Mull isn’t sad, she is lonely. Vast reaches of machair (coastal grasslands filled with carpets of wildflowers) climb up mountain after mountain. This stretch is mostly wild open spaces, breathtaking, empty.
The track is a beautiful kind of purgatory, winding through roadside waist high bracken on and on until I think the track will never end. It creates a kind of mesmer. With each passing mile and turn out comes a shedding of another layer of resistance, until stripped clean and bare, thin skinned, I finally run out of road. At the Fionnphort edge of Mull the land changes to a boulder strewn sort of moonscape, falling off into the water, opening up views to the rock capped gem of Iona, a ferry pushing towards shore.

0 Comments

July 07th, 2016

The Stone Whisperers

Mull – Road to Fionnphort

SCOTLAND - WONDERLAND

Author

Archives

Categories