Notes from the isles

A pilgrimage meets an unexpected hurdle, a family trip stirs memories, and a very welcome guest comes to stay

Words by KATE FRANCIS

ABOVE:

Kate and Cronie, her faithful Border Terrier

TOP RIGHT:

The Pictish hill fort at Craig Phadrig

Afriend of my daughter Mary recently organised a pilgrimage from Craig Phadraig, above Inverness, to Iona, and Mary decided to join the expedition. The route retraced the steps of St Columba and his 12 disciples (in the opposite direction) who came to Inverness from the Isle of Iona around AD565 to try and convert the Pictish King Bridei and his followers to Christianity. As they neared their destination, Columba and his disciples had to ford the River Ness where it ows into Loch Ness. According to Columba’s biographer, St Adamnan, Nessie emerged from the water with a mighty roar and attacked one of the monks as he swam across the river. Columba raised his hand, made the sign of the cross and ordered the monster to go no further...it meekly obeyed him and slunk back into the water.

Craig Phadrig is the hill on which King Bridei had his castle, and is presumably where Columba began his converting. All that’s left of the vitri ed fort today is a stony hollow covered in grass and abundant with beautiful bluebells and wild owers, approached by a path that zigzags up through trees.

The pilgrims assembled here on a Sunday morning, and I couldn’t resist skipping church to see them off.

It was a diverse group of at least three generations, from teenage to mid 70s, and I needn’t have felt guilty about not going to church. We all sang a hymn; there was a bible reading, some prayers, and a brief and moving sermon from the leader. Then a ‘Druid’ in a robe marched round anointing everyone with holy water, splashed with a birch twig dunked into a dog’s drinking bowl.

The group then set off through the drizzle, serenaded by two kilted pipers: a van carrying their camping regalia to each pre-planned stop. Some rode Highland ponies and one woman claimed to have walked barefoot. Their numbers uctuated from about 20 to 15.

The rst ve days along the Great Glen went smoothly, I am told, with campsite camaraderie and wayside inns, but when they reached Glen Kinglass, disaster struck. All through one night everybody, except lucky Mary and one other, was violently and continually sick, struck down by norovirus. It was as if a medieval plague had swept through the camp, but after a day lying listlessly around the eld, they nally made it to Oban, from where they sailed to Mull and, two days later, made the crossing to Iona, where they paid homage to St Columba and swam in a turquoise sea.

I have just returned from our Outer Hebridean retreat, where I joined my youngest daughter Henrietta and her family, with some of their friends. We were 12 in all, and we ate like royalty: feast after delicious feast, none of them planned, provided, or cooked by me. I didn’t lift a nger domestically, except to take the kitchen waste down to the shore every morning and night, to tip the bucket into the water for the gulls. They always saw me coming and swooped

down to grab what they could of our tasty leftovers, which frustrated Cronie who doesn’t swim voluntarily.

We had perfect Mediterranean weather throughout and the days were spent climbing local hills, swimming in the Atlantic, picnicking on sandy beaches, and collecting shells for my granddaughter, who plans to use them to decorate a mirror frame.

There are such amazing shells to be gleaned once you start looking for them in the sand and we became obsessed with who could find the most cowries. We went over to Eriskay on a cockle-hunting errand one day, with kitchen forks to rake them out of the sand. We got enough between us for a delicious first course, and then I spotted a local lass who had a bucket full.

I asked her to show us the best way of finding them and she produced a potato masher which she cleverly used as her rake and directed us further up the beach from where we’d been looking.

Two of our party were keen fishermen, so we were well provided for. One day, a cousin took a group off to the Monach Isles in his RIB (rigid inflatable boat), where they caught mackerel and pollock, but only a few, so I bored them all with stories of the good old days, when we used to go out in our boat and catch several fish boxes full.

Each person would have a line with eight hooks and a weight, which they would lower into the sea, leave for a short time, and then pull up to find a fish on at least four, if not all, of the hooks. We caught far more than we could use each day, so the children would go round the glen in the evening distributing the surplus. There were certain places, marked by gannets diving into the sea, where you could be sure of catching mackerel.

My brother-in-law David came to stay last month with a friend, and Mary and I arranged a programme of treats for them. This was David’s home when he was still at school, when Douglas – ‘the Bro’ – had gone off to join the Cameron Highlanders, so he has many happy memories here.

We decided to take them to the Plodda Falls, a mesmerising waterfall in a spectacular canyon at the head of Strathglass. To get to the top, you go down a fairly easy path through woods to a viewing platform like a diving board, on which you can stand directly above the cascade. Far the best view, however, entails a very steep path down rocky steps to the bottom. Foolishly, I advised David to stay at the platform, so naturally he insisted on going the full distance. “Of course I shall go on down. The Bro would have.”

He got there – and back...triumphant! We cheered. The Bro, four years his senior, would have been 90 today. It’s Sunday so, after Mass, I shall take a fresh posy to his grave. S