treewalker and Firekeeper,
I couldn't help stepping in here. Reading your posts has taken me down memory lane today, and what good memories I have of bonnie Scotland!
I must ask you both have either of you been to Iona?
Too good to miss if you haven't. I felt a good deal of energy on this tiny historic and beautiful Island. So much so I had to take a seat for a while.
Read on if you're interested... The Celtic Cross is mentioned towards the end if you haven't time to read all of this!
The main street led up from the jetty, past the Post Office and grocer's shop. Within a few hundred metres I reached the entrance to the ruins of the nunnery dating from the early thirteenth century. All that remains today are the chancel, nave and parts of the vaulted roof of the chapel. Many old tombs can still be seen, including that of the last prioress, Anna, who died in 1543. There was a steady stream of tourists filing through on their way to the abbey. It seemed a shame that few took the time to stop and look around them, as if it was barely worthy of their attention. The ground was a carpet of short grass, with flowerbeds adding splashes of purple and red. The gardener was trimming the edges as the sun came and went. I sat on one of the benches gazing at a row of three arches edged with pale stones. The ruins were a mishmash of colours ranging from pink to grey, enclosed by a matching oblong wall. On the other side, children were playing in the school yard. At the far end, a gate opened out onto the road and I rejoined the procession of modern pilgrims reciting passages from their guide books.
The pink stone abbey rose out of the fields in front of me, as a group of workers from the religious community toiled amongst the vegetables. By the roadside, MacLean's Cross, some three metres high, stood over them watching and waiting for more of the faithful to arrive. A marker predicting the end of the journey for centuries of believers.
With a view to giving myself as much time in the abbey as possible, I thought it best to eat first and visit later, especially since I had to be back on the bus at 3.15pm. In the hopes of finding a quiet spot for lunch, I continued along the road to the northern tip of the island. After a mile or so, past the odd farmhouse, I reached a track leading through sandy fields to hidden dunes. Standing on the highest point, I could see a golden stretch of sand to my left and a group of youngsters disappearing down to what must have been another beach on the other side. Out to sea, Staffa pointed the shadowy mouths of Fingal's Cave and the Boat Cave directly at me. To the north-west, the lumps and bumps of the Treshnish Isles were clearly visible, with the outlines of Coll, Tiree, Rum and Eigg in the background. Looking back down Iona's coast, I could see the ferry crossing over to Fionnphort. In the distance I could make out my old friends the Paps of Jura, some thirty-five miles further south.
After lunch, I returned to the abbey, passing a considerable number of other walkers and day-trippers heading for the beaches. A volunteer in the reception hut handed me a leaflet and I placed some money in the donation box for the Iona Cathedral Trust.
Following repeated attacks by Norse invaders, little remains of Columba's early Christian monastery today. The present abbey dates from Medieval times. After the Reformation, it fell into ruin and the royal gravestones were almost lost under the weeds. It wasn't until the start of the 20th century that the church itself was restored when the Duke of Argyll made it over to the Iona Cathedral Trust. In 1938, George Macleod, a minister in Glasgow, founded the Iona Community and initiated the long process of reconstructing the monastic buildings.
In front of the west door stands a carved cross commemorating the fourth-century French bishop Saint Martin. Once inside the nave, the church revealed itself to be brighter than I had imagined. Yet it soon became clear that this wasn't the place for quiet contemplation and recollection, not at the height of the tourist season at least. Some tried to pray, whilst masses milled around them. I put the camcorder away. It would have been too much of an intrusion.
Several doors led through the north wall where there was much coming and going. I passed through to the other side and found myself in the cloisters. Warm sunlight caressed the stone curves as rows of perfect arches ran endlessly round. In the middle of the grassy quadrangle stood The Descent of the Spirit, a strange work of art (by Jacob Libschitz, a Holocaust refugee) which has been made green by the ravages of the elements. Here, few dared break the spell. I half-expected to see a hooded monk shuffle past. What secrets lay behind the upper windows, what events imprinted on the stone walls, what answers to life's questions? Just as in other cathedrals I have visited, I could feel the weight of the centuries in the air and in the very fabric of the building. Perhaps there were hidden passageways leading back into history. Scenes from Umberto Eco's Name of the Rose came to mind, as I wondered if the monks had jealously guarded their store of written knowledge. Ancient knights carved on memorial stones leant against the walls like silent witnesses.
In one of the corners came the inevitable reminder of the twentieth century. Bowing their heads in single-file, the tourists trampsed over well-worn slabs leading through a tiny passageway into the cramped giftshop. In a Mecca-like swirl, we all spun around the central table of souvenir key-rings, pencil sharpeners and stickers. Lumps of polished green stone lay in a basket. This was Iona marble for which quarrying has now been stopped. At the back of the room, there seemed to be a good selection of religious and history books, but the general over-crowding soon chased me back out to the relative harmony of the cloisters.
It seemed a shame that most people, myself included, had only limited time to spend on Iona, consequently rushing to "do" the abbey and seeing little of the rest of the island. With the majority on day-trips either from Mull or Oban, it must be difficult for them to appreciate any of the real tranquillity or timelessness of the place. I felt there was much more here to which I hadn't been able to do justice. Slaves to our coach and ferry schedules, we latter-day pilgrims merely went through the motions like pre-programmed robots.
I went outside, past the old caretaker's house and around the back of the abbey to the infirmary, now a museum. Opening the heavy door, I found a time-switch for the lights and a room full of early Christian and Medieval stones. At one end stood the partly reconstituted form of Saint John's Cross, possibly the first ever Celtic ringed cross. Its position in front of the abbey is now occupied by a replica, whilst the shattered original is pieced together with perspex.
I returned to the front of the building and noticed the sign for Saint Columba's shrine. The cell was illuminated by a single candle next to an open bible. Nearby is Saint Oran's Chapel which sits in a burial ground containing the bones of 48 Scottish kings, including Macbeth and Duncan I, together with numerous other sovereigns from Ireland, France and Norway. Legend has it that when the rest of the world sinks below the waves, Iona will remain. However, nothing very recognisable is left of the tombs today, but the chapel, dating from the eleventh century and probably the oldest building on the island, is intact.
Iona of my heart, Iona of my love,
Instead of monks' voices there shall be lowing of cattle:
But before the world comes to an end
Iona shall be as it was
Thought to be the words of Saint Columba shortly before he died
(according to the Life of Saint Columba, the biography written by Saint Adamnan).
I don't know who wrote that but here is a link to a site where you can use the virtual tour, of course there are many more sites.
Seachd bliadhna 'n blr'ath
Thig muir air Eirinn re aon tr'ath
'S thar Ile ghuirm ghlais
Ach sn'amhaidh I Choluim Chl'eirich
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The prophecy above tells that seven years before the day of judgement the ocean will sweep over both Ireland and Islay. Yet the Isle of St Columba (Iona) will swim above the waves.
take care you all,
maat
