Isle of Iona: An overnight stay

The last stop on my May vacation was an overnight stay on the Isle of Iona. I'd been to Iona twice, but had never had time to stay overnight (there is no Sunday ferry or bus service in the off-season!). Finally!

Unfortunately, only my Instagram photos survived the return from Iona. They became corrupted somehow, This is a view from the edge of a cliff looking out into the beautiful Atlantic Ocean. The pink-flowered plant is called thrift, Armeria maritime. It was probably the bravest thing on the island, clinging to the very edges of sheer cliffs, hanging half in the wind.

It was an early start for me from the Craignure Bunkhouse, but the sun was well ahead of me. It was an easy-going bus ride through the beautiful Ross of Mull and the familiar pink marble hills of Fionnphort welcomed me back. The ferry ride was as brief as I'd remembered, but......the warmth of the sun wasn't. As I walked to the Iona Hostel, I broke a sweat.....huh? This is Scotland....right?

The day held so much potential since I didn't have to catch a 3 p.m. ferry. It was already past 10 a.m., but I didn't have to worry. I changed my shirt to something with short sleeves and headed to the beach. The day was clear and the water was aquamarine blue. I picked up rocks and denied the urge to go swimming (because no amount of summer weather would make the northern Atlantic Ocean water any warmer).

Intrepid sheep paths through the heaths to all the far reaches of the island.

I just continued along the edge until the beach ran out and a faint path passed out into the northeastern rocky crags of Calva (map of Iona). I followed it, climbing up and down and around the many hills of the coast. Sheer cliffs dropped into the ocean, into the arms of twelve-foot seaweeds, and heaths twisted in the timeless winds that beat against the rocky hills. The sun beat down and the wind blew around me, but still I followed the endlessly clever paths of the herds of sheep that had come before me. Who knew how old these paths were?

Wind-sculpted heaths of all shapes, sizes and ages.

Once I came out onto a strange hanging field with towering cliffs on either side of it. A perfect grass edge ended in a sea of perfectly smooth stones. In the middle of the sea was a low ruin of a stone wall. The herd of sheep beyond were as surprised to see me as I was to see this wall. I was in the middle of no where, having no idea how long I'd been walking, but here was this ruin. Later, I would find out it is the rumored secret hermitage of St. Columba himself, now known at the Hermit's Cell.

After about three hours of random, extreme hillwalking, I made my way southwest, by way of the sheep paths, as I knew there was a farm that way. I passed the carcass of a sheep that had fallen from a cliff; a stark reminder that what I was doing was still dangerous and that not all sheep are graceful. I came out to a rolling field of perfect green grass, good enough to make any golf course manager jealous, that was being grazed by a formidable herd of even more sheep. I made my way across the field, careful to keep my path straight and away from the sheep with their new lambs, toward the Bay of Angels.

The tide was lower than I'd ever seen it and it made the familiar bay look completely new. I walked through bands of abandoned seaweed stipes and down to look for more stones. I played in the sand and forgot for a moment that I was in Scotland: it felt like a day at the beach back home. I took a brief nap on the beach, listening the tide slip away further and the seabirds cry to each other. I felt my exposed skin start to burn, surprisingly.

My final adventure of the day was to find out where the path I'd seen people coming down on the far end of the bay went. I'd been to the island twice and had never noticed it before. It was a steep climb, well-pounded by foot and hoof. I came to a hanging lake, Loch Staonaig, fenced off from the roaming herds of sheep and cattle, which might have been the source of drinking water for the island. The path itself was in good shape; obviously well-tended. Piles of cairns, rocks of offering, pilgrimage, and homage, dotted the path. I realized I was on the path to St. Columba's Bay.

I came over a hill to see the bay below me. It was a half-moon bay with another sea of perfectly-smooth stones between the cattle and grass, and the waters of the ocean. I carefully passed through the herd of cattle and came to the edge of the sea of stone. There were piles of cairns everywhere, of all shapes and sizes. The logistics of the whole scene made no sense. How had this place come to be this way?

Again, I had the whole place to myself, and enjoyed the sound of the waves and the changing tide as I looked for more stones. What an enchanted end to a solid day of adventures.....