Iona & Staffa
Slowly summer slips away. The darkness of night shrouds us and robs our morning light for longer periods each and every day. This morning steely gray clouds hindered the appearance of the sun, turning our world into a charcoal rendered sketch. Even the whitecaps on an ebony sea seemed to be lacking in light. Head tucked in, a lone northern gannet bobbed upon the waves deep in slumber. Was it the slosh of water against our undulating bow that warned it of our presence? In one smooth movement, its head rose, long wings unfurled and with a pattering run, the bird was lifted skyward, appearing to have gathered all available light to give it a brilliant luminosity.
Clouds, light and rain dominated the day. One moment all was gray. In the next, a shaft of light swept across the green fields and white buildings on the island of Iona, off Scotland’s western shore. It bumped along the pink feldspars and white quartz crystals in granite building blocks of dry stone walls and the Abbey of Iona. It peered through encircling arches uniting the arms of Celtic crosses. It filtered into the courtyard of the cloister and lit upon chiseled life-like images of native birds and flowers. Tiny peeping voices drifted from the rafters. A choir of barn swallow nestlings broadcast the welcome message of the Abbey. Just as we grew accustomed to greater expanses of celestial blue, sheets of rain blotted out the sun sending us seeking shelter.
The wind gathered strength snatching the tops of waves away and pulling the clouds across the sky. The island of Staffa was a perfect place to sit and watch their transit. Giant hexagonal columns of basalt rested upon a fine grained foundation. Worn away at the water’s edge they were stepping stones to Fingal’s Cave and stools to rest upon as one listened to the music of the surf.
