Isles of Iona, Staffa and Mull
At the end of the day the clouds darken from beneath and seem to settle upon the land as a down filled comforter, warm, secure and welcoming. The morning sky when overcast seems quite another thing. The clouds could be ominous or disconcerting. Or like this morning they could simply be a drape masking the magnificence of the day until properly ushered in by the sun. Pewter water was painted silver and our day began.
Remnants of the past reach into the present on the Isle of Iona. One stands upon the spot where St. Columba laid his head and turns slowly to soak up the scene and the sounds. The current Abbey should dominate for it stands before us, solid and strong but it does not. It slips into the landscape of rocky outcroppings and distant mountains across Iona Sound. Rectangular gardens crowded with color and multiple shades of green tell of monastic times. Celtic crosses march across the yard. Not far away a cat naps upon the remaining walls of a thirteenth century nunnery. From somewhere within the confines of extensive iris fields a corncrake rasps its crex, crex song, only to be answered by another of these elusive birds. Rooks shout from the treetops, a healthy rookery. Contentment follows us as we drift away.
The strains of Mendelssohn’s classic The Hebrides embrace the lounge. We close our eyes trying to imagine the scene evoked by the notes but it is hazy. At least it was until we set foot upon the dark columns of basalt and stood within Fingal’s Cave. The rhythmic motion of the surf swirls at the base, circling and rising ever higher to the cathedral-like ceiling and fading away. The muses could reside within this spot. Above, pink thrift trims the edges of green-carpeted fields that cap this Isle of Staffa. Rivers of yellow marsh marigolds flow to the sea. And thrill upon thrill, hundreds of Atlantic puffins wheel from the water to the shore. Bright orange feet stretch forward as landing gear and tiny wings flutter in almost invisible motion. They stare at us and at each other. Some prance proudly to their burrow sites while others bow and bill. Under warm and sunny skies we sit among the flowers, camera shutters clicking.
Evening takes us to the Isle of Mull and the picturesque town of Tobermory. The harbor is crowded with boats and the town bustling on this holiday weekend. One can join in the celebrations or stand quietly on our own Endeavour island and watch the clouds tucking the world into bed.
At the end of the day the clouds darken from beneath and seem to settle upon the land as a down filled comforter, warm, secure and welcoming. The morning sky when overcast seems quite another thing. The clouds could be ominous or disconcerting. Or like this morning they could simply be a drape masking the magnificence of the day until properly ushered in by the sun. Pewter water was painted silver and our day began.
Remnants of the past reach into the present on the Isle of Iona. One stands upon the spot where St. Columba laid his head and turns slowly to soak up the scene and the sounds. The current Abbey should dominate for it stands before us, solid and strong but it does not. It slips into the landscape of rocky outcroppings and distant mountains across Iona Sound. Rectangular gardens crowded with color and multiple shades of green tell of monastic times. Celtic crosses march across the yard. Not far away a cat naps upon the remaining walls of a thirteenth century nunnery. From somewhere within the confines of extensive iris fields a corncrake rasps its crex, crex song, only to be answered by another of these elusive birds. Rooks shout from the treetops, a healthy rookery. Contentment follows us as we drift away.
The strains of Mendelssohn’s classic The Hebrides embrace the lounge. We close our eyes trying to imagine the scene evoked by the notes but it is hazy. At least it was until we set foot upon the dark columns of basalt and stood within Fingal’s Cave. The rhythmic motion of the surf swirls at the base, circling and rising ever higher to the cathedral-like ceiling and fading away. The muses could reside within this spot. Above, pink thrift trims the edges of green-carpeted fields that cap this Isle of Staffa. Rivers of yellow marsh marigolds flow to the sea. And thrill upon thrill, hundreds of Atlantic puffins wheel from the water to the shore. Bright orange feet stretch forward as landing gear and tiny wings flutter in almost invisible motion. They stare at us and at each other. Some prance proudly to their burrow sites while others bow and bill. Under warm and sunny skies we sit among the flowers, camera shutters clicking.
Evening takes us to the Isle of Mull and the picturesque town of Tobermory. The harbor is crowded with boats and the town bustling on this holiday weekend. One can join in the celebrations or stand quietly on our own Endeavour island and watch the clouds tucking the world into bed.
