Author: Paul Sentobe

Inns na Druineach – Isle of Iona, Scotland

Innis na Druineach
Isle of Iona, Scotland

“Visitin’ yer unsestors r ye?” The driver asked as I gratefully climbed into his clapped out old van. I ignored his mistaken questioning. A mistake caused by my red hair, a mistake I was hearing all the time in Scotland. “Are you going as far as Tobermory?” I asked hopefully, by way of a response. I was going to the “capital” of The Isle of Mull, the third largest island in the Scottish Hebrides.

I was beginning to question my reason for coming here. I specifically wanted to visit the Isle of Iona, the “cradle of Christianity”, the major influence in Scotland becoming the independent yet united country it is today. On paper it all looked pretty straightforward � in reality, I had been waiting for a lift for hours. This was becoming more travail than travel. When the guidebooks mention “infrequent” public transport, remember it.

History in this part of Scotland, explodes from a paintbox. The tiny wind-ravaged “Innis na Druineach”, or Island of Druids as Iona used to be known, has bright, white beaches, lush green hills, and all below a sky I didn’t think possible in Britain. It was from here that Scotland’s many squabbling tribes developed a conscience and turned to books instead of swords. An exiled monk of royal descent, St Columba, landed here with his band of 12 monks in 563. Devote Celtic Christians as they were, missionaries were soon sent out to the mainland to spread the word of Christianity.

I’m sure their religious dedication was further aided by the fact that women were banned from Iona. St Columba argued with his own unique brand of logic that, “where there is a cow there is a woman, and where there is a woman there is mischief.” I’m sure the monks couldn’t wait to set sail for the mainland, where both cows and “mischief” were more plentiful.

The pagan kings, especially the Pict and the Scotti tribes, far from resisting, realised that their political powers would increase by adopting the new religion into their system. Fighting between the two groups slowly fizzled out following a shared religion, leading to intermarriage and leading eventually to a united country � the beginnings of modern Scotland.

Hunkered down against the almost perpetual wind, the abbey on Iona, looks suitably austere, dark and sober. Within the complex are several large crosses decorated with the elegant swirls of Celtic banding. Originally chosen for its isolation, it now attracts a steady stream of visitors all year round. It has been rebuilt several times since Columba’s time, the latest in 1938 by the saintly socialist George Macleod.

The original abbey apparently required human sacrifice to guarantee God’s approval. A monk, overcome with religious fervour, elected to be buried alive. When his grave was subsequently dug up, several days later, he emerged, still breathing and explaining how he had been to Hell and hadn’t thought it such a bad place. His shocked audience duly reburied him for being sacrilegious!

As I wandered round the abbey, I found it hard to equate it with its eminent origins. This is probably due to the fact that the whole complex now has the feel of a local museum about it. At regular intervals a gaggle of gaudily coloured anoraks would descend on the abbey, each clutching a thermos. Escaping, I retreated to a nearby hill to soak up the grandeur of the scenery. By turns tranquil and storm ravaged; St Columba and his monks must have found the horizon of undulating hills of the mainland both a daunting and inspiring sight.

With little accommodation in the area I was using Tobermory on the Isle of Mull as a base. Picture postcard perfect, pastel coloured houses surround a tiny sheltered bay. I expected it to be a hive of inactivity; instead I stumbled upon something akin to the Reading Festival by the sea. In total contrast to Iona, here the three pubs in the village were already overflowing with drinkers despite the early hour. Casualties were flaked out on the harbour wall, sleeping off the morning’s excess. Campervans and motorbikes were parked on every available spot. Out in the bay, yachtsmen from the mainland were jostling with local fishermen for the few available free berths.

I asked a laconic local shop owner if he minded all the disruption. “Na, livens the place up a bit,” he drawled. Wandering around the handful of shops that made up the “capital” I could see what he meant. The village was organised around the grandly named “Main” Street, although, “Only” Street would have perhaps been more accurate.

At one end, languishing behind a garden fence was the other reason most people visit this part of Scotland. The Tobermory Distillery and the nearby Oban Distillery produce some of the finest whiskey that Scotland has to offer. With a free tasting in mind I went on a guided tour of the tiny whiskey producer. After the tour, over an all too brief sample, the guide sadly informed me that the place was under the threat of closure. The local spring water they use, which gives the whiskey its unique peaty flavour, doesn’t come up to the new stringent European standards � I bought a bottle for posterity’s sake.

In one of the pubs on the seafront, waiting for the last night of the festival to begin, I feared the worst when I spied an acoustic guitar and accordion. When a boy fresh out of diapers started tuning up the accordion, my fear turned to panic. Suddenly, like a scene from The Wicker Man, the place erupted into song. An old man next to me started playing a pair of spoons. I seemed to have found myself on the set of Whiskey galore.

As the music got louder and the tempo increased, the old guy next to me, puffed out, stopped playing. Taking a well earned sip of whiskey, he leaned closer to make himself heard above the din, and asked, “So, you here visitin’ yer folks then?”