My Favourite Friend

 Once again, she smiled kindly on me.  I knew not why.  My early walk; I stop by the Sheelagh-na-Gig to offer my thanks.  Again.  I mention to her that her babies now approach the end of their studies; soon to set out on their own paths.  It was five years since they had been to see her.  Five years too since Gilly had returned.
  
Five long years, since Gillian and I, together, had been able to spend time on Iona.  That last visit, a post lockdown escape, had been on the campsite, all four of us.  After torrents of rain threatened the tent we walked to the village.  Dinner at the Argyll.  A huge treat.  Changed into dry clothes, we were shown to the table.  Social distancing, screens and sanitiser.  We ate well.  And warmed.

I had returned to the hotel three years later, a selfish retreat.  The opportunity came round again this year.  And this time Gillian joined me.  Candles to light; puffins to watch, whilst I communed with others.  And she saw the corncrake.

A morning walk, against the wind and through driving rain which would soon blow over, to The Bay at the Back of the Ocean.  Past the Fairy Mound, and on to Yellow Bare Hill, which I remember well from all those years ago. 

I slog up The Trough of the Cornpatch, to reach Loch Staonaig.  Wide views to the bay behind, surf curving through the arc, rolling and tumbling.  Sand swallows ferried flies to burrows.  Turning I took a breath, recognising Mouse Island and Black Island, off St Columba’s Bay.

I recalled a long walk we had made together, many years previously, when we had climbed back up from the bay, pockets weighted with pebbles of marble.  From Hector Young’s Garden the path took us through the Meadow of the Bull, towards the remnants of the Marble Quarry.

That was long, long before those dark days when Gilly had candles to light, and I a need to chat with Sheelagh.  Before two became four.

I return from my walk and, once freshened up, we breakfast together.  A civilised repast, of eggs – scrambled for me, poached for Gillian – and some delicious smoked trout.  It’s a fine way to start any day.  On my return I’d taken the coastal route, a mere nod up the hill from the jetty towards Shelagh;  nod of apology, a promise to return later in the day.

The promise of puffins, a lure, a desire, is strong.  The boat trips will be for Gillian alone. Neither of us need be concerned that each will spend most time in the company of others.  The Staffa puffins may elude her, no landings yet.  That gives her a bonus trip, one we have never done.  There is a landing on Lunga; longer there.  New isle to explore.  Untold joys and many, many photographs.

We can go there again, together, another time.  But this first visit is hers alone.  Green eyes sparkling.  And more happy tales from Iona trips.

High on the rocks, above Port Ban.  I have no camera to take in the massive vista; no Merlin to confirm the singing birds.  I relax, like never before.

The Shelagh-na-Gig
And the Answered Prayers, with
Sunshine on Iona

Reflections.  This isle is good for them.  Little Missy has a 21st birthday this August; younger brother just 14 months later.  We must have been winter visitors back then.  November.  I remember it to have been cold, and it was wet.  It mattered not.  From a base near Bunessan we had ferried to and fro, working around winter timetabling.  Time on Iona was short, and all the more precious for that.  Through the gloom Sheelagh smiled kindly, candles burned slowly.

Our time on Iona this year is coming to an end.  When I return to the Argyll Gillian will be back,  those green eyes gleaming, filled with the wonders of Lunga’s puffins.  I hadn’t anticipated the bloodied nose, stains and splashes.  Wet seaweed.  One day we’ll go there together.  Hold each other steady; or fall together.

My time this trip has been packed.  Long hours of concentration; long walks to fill the sleepless hours.  We meet up again at dinner, with other moments snatched between times.  Precious moments.  Iona moments.

It is such a perfect day.  High azure skies; a gossamer light breeze; surf turning on the sands and rocks below.  The writing exercises are done.  The puffins visited, on a new island.  We have a final Iona dinner together; one last glass in the bottle; one more fish dish.

Angela Locke, another dear friend, has this way of gelling a disparate group, some of them friends from past events, others strangers.  And her Singing Bowl, her meditations; in this place.  Spine tingling, raising hairs you didn’t know you had.  Deep, meaningful.  Massage for the soul.  And so inspirational.  As a group we all produce words from deep inside, shuffled into an order never before considered.

One more session.  Presentation of work; celebrations and readings.

And then time for Gilly.  And reflections.  In Iona’s light.  Only to Iona could we come, together, for separate purposes.  It is not an arrangement I could imagine for anyone without deep, deep friendship.  Without long years of satisfaction.  Without love.  Or for us in any place other than this special isle. 
 
We journey home tomorrow.  Our first born awaits, home from her studies in Stirling for the summer, preparing for her final year.  Her brother remains at his flat in Dundee this year, as he should, ready to spread his wings.  And with a summer job to start.  And so we remember those days in November 2003;  when Iona healed, and sealed our foreverness.  She makes fine babies does Sheelagh, makes great friends.  And it’s not just those meditations, those vibes from the Singing Bowl, that finish me off today.  On the worst journey in my world; the one that takes me from My Favourite Place, with My Favourite Friend.