Six hours driving, Mrs. Fat Lad’s superb company and many, many miles later and we were in Fort William with a week off to relax and recharge. With way too much food eaten and an even more unnecessary amount of ale quaffed Wednesday rolled round too quickly; this was the day we had decided to hit Iona.
From Wikipedia:
“Iona is a small island, 1 mile wide (1.6 km) and 3.5 miles (5.6 km) long, in the Inner Hebrides, Scotland. Its Gaelic name is ÃŒ Chaluim Cille (Saint Columba’s Island), or sometimes just ÃŒ or Idhe. It is approximately one mile (1 600 m) from the coast of Mull. It has a resident population of 175.
In 563 Saint Columba, exiled from his native Ireland, founded a monastery here with 12 companions. From here they set about the conversion of pagan Scotland and much of northern England to Christianity. Iona’s fame as a place of learning and Christian mission spread throughout Europe and it became a major site of pilgrimage. Iona became a holy island where several kings of Scotland, Ireland and Norway came to be buried.â€
By our fireplace sits a picture radiating a lifetime’s love outwards from Mrs Fat Lad’s Mum and Dad. Heart achingly not with us any more this snapshot of sunshine was taken at the Abbey at Iona. In a rare moment of inspiration I suggested to my better half we should recreate this photo and with this is mind a plan was formulated.
Out of bed far too early for a week of joyous snoozing and we were cruising the tarmac of Fort William to our first ferry crossing of the day. The Corran ferry cuts out a huge drive around the peninsula on the way to our eventual destination. The eternal little boy in me still loves all this shit and I sat in awe in the passenger seat absorbing all the marine machinery surround our automobile:
At the other side, Sterling Moss’ re-incarnation gunned the gas and we were firing along through the gorgeous highlands at speed. With the nature of the roads up there getting from a to b always involves a fair old trip and even with Mrs Fat Lads creative motoring skills we had plenty of time to enjoy the views and shoot the shit to the next ferry port.
Reaching Lochaline to cross Loch Fyne to reach Mull a coach load of old folk had just arrived and (in what we Brits do best) queued up for the toilets. Waiting for the ferry to come back and dock Mrs Fat Lad felt the urge for a pee come on strong. “Go now babe, it looks like they’ve all finished from where I’m sat…†My better half handed me the keys and off she jogged to spend a penny. “You’ll be okay driving the car on won’t you†she shouted back over her shoulder. Of course, consummate motoring legend like me? Easy. The ferry arrived and once more the inner ten year old was satisfied watching the loading ramps descend in a whir of hydraulics:
Starting the car up I rolled on with no problems and to great relief. The ferry soon filled and the ticket inspector came round to collect the fares. All around the crew are starting to get the ferry ready for sailing again and there is still no sign of my betrothed. Now the panic sets in, what happens if she misses the ferry? I haven’t got a bleeding clue where I’m going, what the feck is a Fat Lad to do?
Strolling up the just starting to close ramp she makes it and my minor (well sort of) panic subsides and we wander up to the top deck to watch the world go by.
Arriving at Fishnish port, sorry just going to have to type that again. Fishnish. There got that out of my system. Nope not quite. Fishnish Fishnish Fishnish! Say that after four pints of heather ale! That’s better.
Anyway arriving at Fishnish (what a very very cool name) it was more driving to make our way across the Isle of Mull to get to the next ferry. Once again the stunning views compensated for my cramping legs and we made our way to Fionport to take the ferry to Iona. Pulling up my better half wandered down to the ticket office while I struggled to change into my riding gear and not offend the Americans who’d just arrived too with my semi naked flabby body.
Bikes assembled and all kitted up we coasted down to the launch to wait for the ferry to Iona. Non-residential or essential vehicles are not allowed on Iona so I wasn’t bothered one little bit by the prospect of riding some tarmac here. The ferry arrived and we wandered on standing with the bikes on the lower deck. An engineer in the oily uniform of the fleet said something along the lines of:
“lee yer bikes doon thes nae cars on this crossinâ€
I smiled politely and Mrs Fat Lad always more comprehending of accents than I (she’s from North Yorkshire you know, but don’t hold it against her, she’s actually really nice…) understood entirely and with the GPS still recording we once again wandered up to the top deck. What can I say, I am a full on card carrying geek. I wanted to know how fast the ferry was going…
We roll of the ramp onto Iona and immediately you can see why it has the stunning reputation it does. The island is beautiful. The tea and pee brigade are out in force and in the saddle we weave through trying to be as polite as possible on the way. We follow the main road out past the nunnery ascending the only climb of the day distancing ourselves from the blue rinse ensemble.
The grey hard route rolled underneath us quickly and with the dry stone walls surrounding us the summit of the road merged with the horizon threatening to lead us into the sea. Over the edge onto more road we reached a gate to take us to the coast with a really arsey notice up about not taking bikes onto the path. I was far too chilled out to be risking arguing with anyone so we turned round to roll back to the abbey, stopping here and there to watch Mrs Fat Lad point the SLR at what caught her photographic fancy.
Wandering into the Iona Community Centre shop we shuffled round with the geriatric gaggle and exited soon after. Across the narrow road we propped the bikes up against a fence and then propped up the Church with our entry fee to the abbey. The very nice lady behind the counter asked us if we would like to put the bikes at the back of the hut to be safe. I momentarily thought of asking her the risk to them in such a serene place but instead I smiled and rolled them to rear of the kiosk.
We strolled into and around the abbey and after asking in hushed tones a nice lady if she would take a photo of us:
The abbey itself was beautiful and one of the most tranquil places I have ever been privileged to visit. The night previous I had transferred the OS map of Iona to my smart phone and we perused it in the light of the glorious late summer sun. The teeny map showed a road to be followed and so that’s exactly what we did. Past the ferry ramp and away from the main habitations we followed the coast of the road and turned a corner to haunting tunes carried on the breeze. Sat on the rocks playing a tin whistle, a young man serenaded the sea the waves previously his only audience. Awe struck we stopped, listened and soaked up the experience.
We tore ourselves away and pedalled to the tarmac’s end, following the path to the beach it transformed into. On unsteady feet I wandered down to the sea to unsuccesfully skim stones and precariously made my way back up to my love over large millennia smoothed pebbles on cleated soles.
We rolled back to the ferry launch to head back to Mull and our temporary home. Mrs Fat Lad was in her element once more rallying round the narrow roads and I believe only now the grooves from my fingertips have begun to recede from the passenger side dashboard.
By the time you have read to here it’s probably been longer than we pedalled that day. But what it lacked in miles it more than compensated for in beauty and history. Iona is a genuinely inspiring place and I have seen little that can compare to that serenity and grace that the island imbued.
If you must worship an almighty father figure in sheeplike obedience from a fear of your own mortality, this is the place it should be done.
Fat Lad
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