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greathotshave · 5 years ago

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“Mull isn’t what it used to be.”

Part 2 of Living the Dream: Scotland

Our final dinner in Scotland was in Paisley, near the Glasgow airport. Two ladies senior to ourselves had been talking about movies and books--my attention drifted in and out of eavesdropping as we quietly ate our Cullen’s Skink. We both stifled laughter when we heard one of them adamantly utter the phrase that is my title for this post. What could it possibly mean?

Sixty years earlier, my folks took us out to visit my mother’s clan in Idaho by train. What an amazing way to travel: watching scenery scroll by horizontally from farmlands to badlands to mountains. You could walk to various cars, including the Vistadome, which allowed a view of the clouds overhead. So it was with great anticipation that we began our pilgrimage to the Isle of Iona by the Oban Express train from the Glasgow train station.

In no way similar to the trains I have ridden in the States, the basic experience remains and held me firmly for the three hours it took to get to our next transfer point. We passed Loch Lomond in much clearer weather, exchanging smiles at our good fortune and plain joy of this mode of travel. We drank from our water bottles and ate digestives (cookies) we had brought along. Jessie had her heart set on fish and chips at a certain vendor in Oban that had been recommended.

When we arrived, we wandered the lovely seaport and checked in at our hotel.

It was so nice in Oban, I started to question the wisdom of not staying longer. Would we really be spending five nights on this little island? Would I be able to just sit and meditate and explore the “thin place” for which it is noted? All these second thoughts! But the next morning we caught the first ferry to the Isle of Mull to continue the pilgrimage.

As we’d been expecting, the weather turned more Scottish--rainly and blustery--on the ferry to Mull. We were happy to have light, rolling luggage to manuever to the bus stop at the ferry stop. Soon we were onboard a double-decker with return fare at a price that halved what remained of our British cash, with a very thin chance of converting our US money for more. The likelihood of returning to Mull to see the monastery and other sights was cut off by this monetary concern. Thus, the question of how we were going to fill all this time at Iona weighed on my mind.

The ride in the rain seemed harrowing, along these single lane roads with turnouts every eighth of a mile or so that allowed cars traveling in opposite directions to avoid each other. Despite the modern trappings of the bus, Mull seemed to be a passage into the past, where sheep or hairy coos grazed in yards to keep the lawns neat. We passed small, lonely lochs and through desolate areas that reminded us of the passage through Glencoe a few days earlier.

Time passed slowly even though the bus seemed to be moving, at times, at a horrendous clip. Of course, it was anticipation and fascination with the whole idea of island life. Mull has a population of around 700, yet it is the second largest of the 700 islands that are part of Scotland, which is itself about the size of South Carolina. But “Mull just isn’t what it used to be.”

When we reached Fionnphort, the sun once again peaked out from the clouds and we could actually see Iona in the distance across the water. The apprehension of what would we do evaporated the closer we came to the island. We had this small, magnificent island to explore!

Looking back from the lane on which our hotel was established, we saw the first of several rainbows that popped up during our stay.

At one time,we had considered staying in a shepard’s bothy at the Iona Hotel at the far end of the island. Only a 200-foot walk to shower and toilet. But friend Roy Smoot steered us toward making reservations at the Argyll Hotel, and we even paid extra for the ocean view. As soon as we looked out that window, we knew we’d made the right decision.

The dining room disproved the adage that you wouldn’t get good food when there’s a great view. Every morning we sat in this charming dining room for a wonderful breakfast, and on a couple of evenings for dinner. The staff were personable but unobtrusive and always ready to serve. It was one of the best hotel/lodge stays of my life, not just of this trip.

After close to three hours by ferry, bus, and ferry, we dropped off our things, marveling at the location so close to the water, with picnic tables and garden out front. We took a walk through the main part of town. We found the bothy and were incredibly relieved we had not taken that route. It was our anniversary as well as a pilgrimage. And that is how I resolved the questions in my heart about what we could possibly do with so much time on a small island:

First, and foremost, I was there with the one person in my life who shared this dream unfolding in the present moment and who understood what it all meant.

Second, we would do what we always did in the presence of the blue and green of nature. As John Muir preferred to describe it, we would saunter the trails that presented themselves willingly to our well-booted feet. And it was glorious.

Again, no day-by-day travelogue here. We found an ancient golf course, rugged and colorful coastlines, panoramic views from high pastures filled with sheep, and peace. We walked through a light drizzle to 9PM services at the Iona Abbey (established 563 AD).When we stepped out, the rain had stopped and the stars were undiminished by so few lights so far from large cities. We could see the Van Allen Belt’s countless stars. As we were seated in the front garden of the Argyll, a man and his two sons, dressed in kilts, lead a women’s reading group to the hotel and serenaded all by playing their bagpipes. Unexpected blessings were easy to be had and all-too-soon came to an end.

And so we rode the ferry, then caught the bus, another ferry, and then the train to Glasgow, then a cab to our last hotel stay. And we found ourselves in Paisley pondering the question raised by the ladies at the next table. The mystery of what changed in Mull is going to have to remain what it is.

On our first day, jet-lagged and unable to check in, we wandered beneath the gaze of Edinburgh Castle along the green parkway. We came upon a bench in partial shade as I didn’t have a cap to protect my forehead from the sun. A man sat there and began talking to us. His eyes were the same pale blue as Jessie’s father’s eyes. We would see a number of such men in the days that followed. He was quite friendly but reserved, happy to share his city with us.

Now that is a mystery to savor: how we just happened upon this man on that bench at that particular time, to be touched by his courtesy to strangers from a strange land.

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