Imagining Iona

I am currently knitting a hat out of hebridean black sheeps’ wool. It is course and flecked with grey and white mainly composed of that colour somewhere between black and brown – it changes depending on the light. It is beautiful wool anyhow smelling of lanolin and making my hands soft as I pass the yarn between my needles and fingers. It is special because I know exactly where it came from on the Isle of Mull. I met the sheep and admired their wonderful, warm winter fleeces. I also happen to be neighbours to some of these curious woolly creatures.

As I weave these strands my mind also turns to words of wool and I think of the sheep themselves. The gentle click clack of the needles lulls my mind. Sheep have always been an integral part of island life, they have shaped these lands as much as we ourselves have. The sounds of their hooves echoes as much as that of our own footsteps in Scottish history. Someone sound write a history of Scotland and the Sheep.

These beautiful and almost mysterious animals greet me each morning as I emerge into the day light from the sea cabin. I am wary as they follow me so close with their proud horns. Sheep are seen as flock animals, rarely examined individually. As I do so, I see their individual characteristics beginning to appear and that mysterious intelligent gleam in their eyes.

The yearly calendar is Scotland is heavily based on ‘the year of the sheep’ from lambing to shearing to market. The more I think of it they possibly inhabit more of these lands than we do ourselves! I am thinking of those islands, which are no longer inhabited by humans and have since become the private kingdom of these sheep. They are also extremely hardy animals. I often admire them sheltering close to rocks in the midst of a storm while I am sitting close to the fire and listening to the building rattle against the wind.

In as much as we dismiss these animals or see them as a bit of a Scottish joke. It is also important to remember their pride of place in the landscape and how closely our two histories in-twine. Therefore, next time you pull on your fair isle jumper or unravel a ball of wool spare a wee thought for these hardy beasts and their place in the Scottish landscape and history.

Tags: craft, hebridean, history, knitting, landscape, sheep, wool

A place never quite feels like home until you have gone away and come back again. Only then can you gauge your true feelings for the place. It is something about leaving your belongings behind and finding them there on return, something about sleeping in ‘your own bed’ and something about the process of returning itself.

I returned to iona this afternoon across the choppy channel from Fionnphort after spending the night on a bothy over on Mull. There is something about becoming familiar with the process of return and perhaps in this case the effort also involved.

Seeing the island across the sea from Mull and knowing you are almost home, sitting in the wee cafe at Fionnophort and drinking tea out of a polystyrene cup (tastes like drink of the gods after a long trek back), seeing the familiar faces of the ferry crew and hopping aboard at the right time that you do not get your feet wet and then the ‘Caledonian MacBrayne’ announcement, which always seems to amuse me, but can be comforting at the same time. The cabin full of others returning from shopping trips, visiting relatives and other mainland related adventures catching up on the latest island gossip. Watching the boat edge closer to the pier and perilously lower the ramp to reveal the others waiting at the end of the windswept pier to go the other way.  Brief exchanges and shouts of recognitions with those boarding and your feet back on the island at last. Steps closer to home.

On the mile walk back it is good to be recognised and questioned about your time off the island and to notice all of the little changes that have occured since you were last here and sometimes even to see things in a different light. To struggle against the wind, head down, almost there after passing the abby and then Dun I. It gets blowier and more exposed and then there it is and the sheep say hello and you are envoloped by familiarity once again - home?

And then that life saving cup of tea!

In each of the places I have lived there seems to be a mountain or hill, a significant landmark of the local the landscape. A beacon, which tells us we are home or helps us find our way or even just a sight of reassurance and memories.

Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh is a good example. Just the sight of it can stir up some pretty strong feelings and provoke a powerful sense of place within us. I have many memories of the hill itself; climbing it ‘on the way home from the pub’ at 2am as a student, running up it almost completely alone early in the morning or even just gazing at its summit from my flat attempting to count how many people are on top.

There are the ‘twa paps o fife’ – the East and West Lomond Hills, which I had the honour of living beneath for a year or so. Catching a glimpse of them nowadays on the train up to Aberdeen makes me feel a strong something; another landscape on my personal emotional map of landscape.

You get the idea. I’m sure that many people share this connection or association with some geological phenomena or another be it North Berwick Law, Conwy Mountain in North Wales or the mere knee trembling sight of Cuillin ridge.

I climbed Ben More on Mull a few days ago. It was a misty and overcast day, but dry for once and there was less and less viability as we ascended until being completely enveloped in the elements. With little to be distracted by in the absence of the phenomenal view I turned inward to my thoughts and realised there’s certainly a whole lot more to mountains that what appears on the physical level. Different layers of the mountain; especially so on Ben More with its distinctive layers of basalt caused by continuous volcanic eruptions many millions of years ago.

On the physical level there is rock its self – the body of the mountain, the view – how it fits into the wider landscape, the flora and fauna, the water as a mountain stream or in lochans and then perhaps there are the others on the mountain with whom you share the experience. This are generally the main reasons that we are drawn to these elevated mounds of rock.

On a deeper level there is perhaps the ‘mountain of the mind’ – the challenge, which ascending represents and what it means to you, the thoughts you experience during your time on the mountain, and as I mentioned earlier the significance of the mountain in your emotional geography. The lack of view almost enhances these others aspects of mountain; like walking in the dark you gain heightened feeling and perception of place.

This is something which the deep ecologist Arne Naess wrote about and the subject has also be deeply and beautifully explored by Alistair MacIntosh in the book ‘Soil and Soul’ in which he examines the underlying meaning of the mountain on a more spiritual level when a super quarry is proposed for a mountain on on his homeland of the Isle of Lewis.

Even on a smaller local level; I look out of the window as I write this at ‘Dun I’ the highest point of Iona, which may only take 10 minutes to so to clamber up, but for many this represents an important spiritual beacon and for others a landmark of their home providing a strong sense of place. We can begin to peel away the layers of ‘Dun I’ and investigate its history as a fortified mound providing protection from viking raids, its rich geological layer of how it was formed and the different minerals within it gradually getting deeper and deeper.

We all have our own stories and perspectives of our personal mountains, the landmarks of our emotional geographies. Blindly clambering up Ben More the other day I certainly experienced that something deeper exists under the physical skin of each mountain and this certainly rings true for my own experience of landscape, but prehaps I am just providing a beautiful excuse for those of us who happen to climb mountains on the worst of days and miss out on the awe-inspiring view. With ever way it may be – happy climbing!

Tags: climbing, iona, islands, mountains, mull

Every island seems to have it’s own term for incomers to their land. Shetlanders refer to outsiders as ’sooth moothers’ and those from Orkney as ‘ferry loupers’. When I lived in Ireland last year I was regularly referred to as a ‘blow-in’.

I’m not a local here on Iona in any respect. A temporary resident, an outsider looking in. It’s a quiet time of year and none of the businesses really open until Easter, so I imagine the population is currently at it’s lowest and most stable. I’m quite used to having the beaches to myself - all this peace and quiet!

I remember being here in mid-summer a few year ago and being totally stunned when getting off the last ferry at the amount of day trippers waiting to head back to Fionnphort queing all the way down the pier - a very different story! I imagine the locals breathe a sigh of relief at the end of high season and most likely the island does too. I’m amazed that it can bear the weight of the amount of tourists and pilgrims who clamber aboard her shores. I do see however that the tourists are also the livelihood of the island and that this is the case with most islands. For most it is a romantic escape from the hustle and bustle of the mainland.

It seems you can always tell a true native here because they will be wearing yellow wellie boots - the trade mark of an Iona local whereas a visitor will generally be decked out in matching gore-tex jackets and rucksacks - apologies for the stereotypes.

It’s interesting sitting on the edge and looking in watching the island ebb and flow changing from month to month gradually waking from her winter silence.

Living by the sea it is difficult to escape being weathered by it in some way or another.

I walk along the beach collecting odd bits of driftwood each bit completly different to the next and beautiful in it’s own way. Some full of holes housing barnacles, some twisty and contorted, some smooth and white like bones, some lined with dark black veins. I can’t help collecting them and bringing them back to the sea cabin. I observe them before I turn of the lantern at night and then drift off to sleep imagining the journeys they may have taken.

There is a chapter in Rodger Deakin’s book ‘Wild Wood; A Journey Through Trees’ focusing in on driftwood, which is worth a read and extremely thought provoking.

I imagine this piece was once a proud ash tree until one day this branch was removed and made into a Hurley used by one of the champions in Ireland. Then one day he lost a match, finished with his girlfriend and then tossed as far out into the sea as he could. After several storms, swirling about in the ocean a fair bit and smashing into a few cliffs it happened to be washed up upon a beach on Iona and taken home and admired by me. Many stories, many mysteries…

The ocean is a constant erosive action showering us with salt and storms all year round. It contributes to the lines on our faces, it washes over our thoughts and moods, occasionally it takes lives, in turn weathering us with grief. It can flood and destruct, it can soothe our feet and souls.

Everyone who lives on this island has their own history of the sea, their own stories, tragedies and joys connected to this over powering force. If you have ever been a surfer, a sailor or a fisherman your stories may be all the more epic and understanding of the immense power of this body of water even more so. To be a surfer out on a stormy day being continuously pounded you really get a sense of your own small-ness and helplessness amidst the massive ocean.

Island residents all have a deep respect for the sea and awe and awareness of how it effects so many aspects of our lives. On Iona, purely the fact that we are separated from the rest of the world by a 10 minute ferry journey across a stretch of the sea is reason enough to observe its impact on us. I love the fact that each evening after 6;15pm stranded daily overnight on the island to sit beside the first and listen to the storm outside.

Oidhche mhath

Tags: deep ecology, island life, islandography, sea

It seems to be a regular occurrence that I can be seen running pretty much the length of the island (the road part at least) to catch or meet the boat. The distance between baile mhor ‘the village’ and Lagandorain ‘the hostel’ seems to vary depending on the weather/your mood/company. Apparently it’s 2km, I always say a mile, which is about the same I think. Friends and guests never seem to believe how far it is; hence me regularly running ahead to attempt to ask the ferrymen very nicely to hold the boat while my friends catch up. Also, while to are walking/running towards the boat you can see all the way across to Fionnphort and see how far it has come/how much time you have left. It’s a beautiful sight at night - like a lantern floating across the bay.

It also amazes me the contrast between the two micro-climates that exist between the village and the hostel. You will be generally battling against the wind until you reach the big white house under Dun I where the village begins and at this point you hardly notice the wind and may even need to loose a layer because it suddenly feels so much warmer! I think this is due to a mixture of shetler/going down hill/prevailing wind plus Dun I; but the difference never ceases to amaze me. Hence us who live on the north end of the island being a lot hardier

The other thing I’ve been reflecting upon is how Spar seem to have a bit of a monopoly going on Mull/Iona - it’s quite amazing really! I tend to feel very sorry for the vegetables looking sorry for themselves on the shelves and wonder how long since they were actually in the ground. Spar really do seem to manage to get into the most bizarre and remotest of  places; I remember seeing one in a mountain village in Northern Spain and being pretty amazed. I was thinking that they should rebrand spar marmalade as ’sparmalade’ - this would be a definite selling point for them!

Part of the idea of my current meandering between wee isles as an organic grower is to eventually find somewhere that would support a CSA (community supported agriculture) scheme where I could help to supply the island with its own fresh fruit and veg with support from the islanders. This idea really excites me and makes a lot of sense.. one day…

Tags: Add new tag, food, island life, spar, walking

Doing your washing ‘island stylee’ requires a certain amount of skill and knowledge of the local climate and weather patterns. There are also several other issues surrounding island washing that I would like to raise.

Let me explain; Growing up on an island my mother passed on the valuable skill of making the most of the gaps in the weather to use that perfect strength wind to dry your undergarments etc.

Shetland, where I grew up managed to fit at least 4 different types of weather into each day. The general pattern is a squally wet shower followed by a burst of bright sunshine and gusty wind -perfect hanging out clothing conditions! This is your window for getting them out there! Then as soon as you sense of hear the first splat of rain upon the glass you need to be pulling on your wellie boots and legging it outside to pull out the pegs with frozen fingers. Trust me, it’s worth it though for that ‘it’s been outside’ smell that I can never quite describe. Therefore, childhood days were punctuated by cries of ‘it’s raining!!! drop everything, get the washing in!!)

The other technique is just to hang them out in the morning and hope for the best. Even if you do end up putting them through spin cycle again it’s worth it for the ‘added freshness’. And some of us do have to go to work I suppose.

I notice that hear too on Iona, the islanders seem to manage to make the most of each day and always seem to manage to get their washing out. I must mention though; that if you are considering engaging in this chancy activity there is one vital piece of equipment… storm pegs! you know, the curvy,  plastic different coloured one. Wooden clip pegs don’d quite cut it and before you know it you’re washing will be blowing about the iona abby alarming pilgrims.

Another issue surrounding island washing; why do tourists always take a picture of the washing line? yes, perhaps it is one of the most scenic washing line experiences in the UK, but I do find german tourists taking pictures of my pants and socks blowing in the wind a little strange.

R.

Tags: island life, islandography, islands, weather

archipelagic – what a beautiful word .

An archipelago meaning in geographical terms a number of scattered islands in a group or perhaps in a broader or more social context; a ‘group or scattering of similar things’.

One of my favourite nature writers is a Mr Robert McFarlane who uses this beautiful term as a context to write about ‘such littoral territories as islands’ as they do not quite fit into the boxes labelled ‘environmental’ and ‘nature writing’ – these phrases are perhaps a little mild to do justice to such deep, elemental, chthonic and entwined places as islands. He talks of how branches of this line of writing stretch back as far as far as the sixth to tenth century when monks and pilgrims ‘travelled west to live on the remote littorals of Britain and Ireland’ using this medium to reflect back on their journeys and as celebration of belonging, connection linking to the landscape.

I am concerned with the resurgence of the ‘archipelagic imagination’. The way by which we are gradually pulling away from the mainstream and seeking out these places which speak to us. What is it that calls us here and how long too until these places become archipelagos within themselves? These currently sparsely populated areas begin to fill up and link up. I’m out here and it is truely happening once again. Archipelagic magnetism.

Some Thoreau before I go…

I did not wish to take a cabin passage, but rather to go before the mast and on the deck of the world, for there I could best see the moonlight amid the mountains. I do not wish to go below now.
Henry David Thoreau

Tags: deep ecology, islandography, islands, philosophy, poetry, travel