We arrived in Oban, home of the famous single malt scotch whisky, and decided it has a western coastal B.C. sort of vibe. Like Prince Rupert, it has trains and ferries, and a road which ends at the sea. However, the shops and restaurants are decidedly more tourist-friendly, and the waterfront is more Victoria, B.C. than Prince Rupert. Some misty rain, but nothing by Ketchikan standards. We were impressed that some parts of Scotland reportedly get 120 -140 inches of rain a year. I think temperate west coastal areas in the 53-60 latitudes all get their share of misty rain.

The mission here was a day-long Inner Hebrides tour with a ferry excursion to the Isle of Mull, a bus to the south end, and a short ferry to Iona. We had tickets to Iona Abbey, but they also accept the Scottish Heritage membership we purchased. The ferry was a 45 minute ride, not unfamiliar to folks from Southeast or Puget sound.  At the other side we boarded a full-sized tour bus and started the 37 mile, 85 minute, drive to the south end of Mull.  Why so long?  Because after the first mile it became a single-lane track with pullouts every 2-300 yards. Narrow windy road up and down, and Beth without remembering her Dramamine. Actually, she was OK. 

We saw several shaggy highland Coo’s, some deer, a castle, and countryside which was oddly familiar from several trips through Destruction Bay area of the Yukon, or trips between Skagway and Whitehorse. I know they are at similar latitudes, but the Yukon does not have Coo’s or stone ruins from 1000 years ago. It reminded me how awe-inspiring the countryside is in Alaska, and how harsh such an environment can be for eking out an existence. The real aha moment though, came later on Iona.

You see, Beth planned the trip.  When she asked what I wanted to do, one of the things was to see the Shetlands, a setting for one of our favorite British cop shows.  However, we learned that it was a 7 hour ferry ride or flight in a smaller aircraft, neither sounded good to my motion-sickness-prone bride. So we decided the Hebrides would give us the flavor for a remote Scottish Isle. Beth booked a tour to Mull and Iona, and for good measure we decided to get tickets to see the Abbey. 

This was my second big surprise of the trip. After learning, only when we showed up, that the “writing seminar” we signed up for in Tunbridge Wells was a poetry writing seminar, I thought I was done with surprises. It was not to be. I only learned when we toured the Abbey that Iona Abbey is the birthplace of Christianity in Scotland and England, having been established as a monastery in the sixth century.  Not only that, it was the place where the Book of Kells (which we saw at Trinity College in Dublin 12 years ago) was penned, before being transported to Ireland to be safe from the Vikings.  

The surprise was one borne of my repeated ignorance and lack of preparation for the historical import of our destinations, but made the visit all the more magical for the new discoveries which resulted. I recalled when I saw the Book of Kells that I heard it was created at an Abbey, but I pictured one of those beer-making castles with monks in brown robes like Friar Tuck. This was an outpost on a barren island bordering on the open Atlantic Ocean, and with limited access to supply lines or significant population centers. Iona is 3 miles by 1.5 miles, and has less than 4 square miles of land.  It has basically no trees and lots of rock outcroppings. These guys really took their dedication seriously, and that deserves respect, if not reverence.  You could feel the significance of the place.

We also enjoyed a delightful lunch of root vegetable soup and a raspberry rhubarb scone prepared by a family-run café where the mom bakes fresh scones and rustles up a soup each day, and the 5-year-old son had me take and stick his foam Viking sword in the chip box on a high cabinet just because he thought that might be fun. When he had me put a grass stalk his 3 year old sister had picked in the same spot, I did that too, but we also decided we should probably warn their mom that there was a grass stalk in the chip box.

We checked out the white sand beach, sent a postcard to our dear friend Kay Jones, and boarded the ferry to return.  This time we had a double-decker bus for the ride.  Swaying to and fro as we passed the herd of jet-black sheep and the tres-lochs (three lakes along the middle island route) we made it back unscathed, and I enjoyed another beef and ale pie.  I am getting pretty good at evaluating the various versions of this after sampling pubs in several towns. This was towards the top, slightly soggy bottom, but great flavor.

Tomorrow to Inverness and across the highlands.