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.....

Hiking up Dun da Ghaoithe, "the fork of the two winds"

Don't let the Gaelic spelling (click here for the pronunciation) of this gorgeous Corbett intimidate you; instead try out the view!

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No, although the photos do not do it justice, this mountain is more of a gentle giant. The scale is hard to understand from all the photos, but trust me when I say it's spectacular.

Approaching the beginning....

My climb began mid-morning to cool winds and an overcast sky. I was hoping for better weather, but I wasn't going to be deterred: I was finally getting to climb the mountain I've been looking at for months!

Spring had come to the mountain and little woodland ephemerals of all kinds poked out of the grass. The bracken fronds were unfurling, the bog pink was blooming, and the Primulas were everywhere. I began the ascent easily enough, stopping often to peek at the bits of color of all the tiny flowers.

The views were a bit dreary, but I was lucky enough that the clouds were high. It sprinkled on my only a little bit the first half, and soon spots of sunshine were able to break through. I paused at the radio tower, but was eager to see the peaks of Dun da Ghaoithe once more peek out around the bend.

Two people passed me the whole day. It was just the mountain and me.

Skywalker?

It was amazing as I made it to the second radio tower that the roads behind me, if I turned to look at them, seemed to end at the sky, as if you'd walk off the edge of them.

View down from the lunch spot.

Then, the real hillwalking began. I mistakenly followed dear trails more often than I'd like to admit. They knew how to get up the quickest though. At one point I was almost ascending a rock face, but when I came (well, really rolled on to) the top, I almost slipped down the other side of a very steep hill into the next valley. After a moment to catch my breath in the soft moss, the sky opened up around me and I could see 360 degrees around me. I realized I'd perched where a bird of prey usually did by some interesting droppings, but I couldn't blame it for the view.

I finished the climb to the first cairn steadily, calculating my climb amongst the interesting and misleading boulders. The path between the tall cairn and the sudden drop into the valley was a bit unnerving, and I was very keen to put just one foot in front of the other without looking around.

The path between the cairn and the sheer drop into the valley.

The wind suddenly kicked up as I descended the dip between the two points of the mountain. I began to understand why they called it "the fork of the two winds." I had to put my jacket on and put my bandana around my ears, and then finally put my hood up enough to keep from getting a major headache.

The final hill to ascend to the top. Notice the scree.

The wind made the approaching scree climb ahead of me look very precarious. There was another sudden drop if I were to slip or be tripped up by a sudden gust. *Gulp!* But the jagged pieces of rock were surprisingly sturdy and ages of rain had formed gentle stairs up the face. Slowly, and with sure step, I climbed the last major hill between me and the very top (still making sure to give plenty of girth between me and the edge).

Scree steps...?

And then finally, I was there! The wind came rushing from the Atlantic and Ben More to welcome me with such force, that after a look around the summit, I took shelter on the leeward side of the cairn for some rest. The views were spectacular, stretching over to the mainland and almost to Skye and Iona. It was everything I'd hoped and more.

The path finally taken.

Winter Hillwalking in Scotland: Hiking around Aviemore

What the Scottish call hillwalking, most everyone else would call hiking; however, I do believe there is a subtle, but critical, difference between the two. Hillwalking is very much a Scottish pastime and modern tradition for those who desire for "wild and lonely places." Scotland is rich in these places, with plenty of space in the Highlands to lose yourself, find no one, and be with a raw landscape.

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I have to admit I was a bit worried about hillwalking in the winter for some reason. Although, I found it's really not that much different than hiking in a cooler, weather-wise, version of North Carolina, which I've done many a-time.

The snow greeted me off the train in Aviemore, in the north of Cairngorms National Park, and I had enough light left in the day to clamber and slide to the top of Craigellachie Nature Preserve. The next day, after a bit of a hike change, I made my way down the Ryvoan Pass, which passes through Abernethy Nature Preserve.

My photos don't do the golden (and warm!) weather and breathtaking landscape any justice, but I hope they honor the experience.