The Liberation of a Secular Pilgrimage — Inner Hebrides, Scotland
We began on what seemed like the stuffiest, most airless day of a long and oppressively hot summer, at our home on the South Coast of England. With our recent purchases of waterproofs and boots, rations a plenty, and a bottle of grog, we set off on the seven o’clock train to London. The journey passed merrily, the whisky and card games occupying our excitement for the mission ahead. The night air in London was thicker and closer than it had been on the coast, and the reams of traffic and weekend freneticism made the heat more intense than ever. After hurriedly eating, and downing a beer, my partner and I boarded the night bus to Glasgow. Despite our hopes to the contrary, every last seat was occupied, and the air conditioning non-existent. We knew we were in for a stuffy, cramped ride before we could breathe the cool, fresh north Atlantic air of the Scottish Hebrides. As the coach lurched out of west London and through the leafy suburbs, the heat did not abate and the chance for sleep seemed less and less likely. As the coach burbled on, we sipped our neat whisky through the wee hours, hoping its soporific effects would eventually induce a forced, but well-needed sleep. Alas, it was not to be.
The night passed slowly, and as dawn broke through, I found my slightly cooked and whisky-sodden mind was given respite at our stop in the majestic hills of the Lake District. Despite a dense mist covering the landscape, the sturdy peaks stood proud in the muted glow of the Cumbrian sunrise. We were nearly finished with the first leg of our journey, and my fatigue and grogginess were offset by the view, and my thought turned to all the travellers, past and present, who made long and merry journeys, by differing means, seeking enlightenment and peace in places of magnetism around the world.
We arrived in Glasgow, hungry for a hearty Scottish breakfast and another dram of whisky with our morning coffee. With minutes to spare, we polished off our refreshments and narrowly caught the twice-a-day train that snakes through the Loch Lomond and the Trossachs. Impossibly rich forests and imposing throngs of mountains flanked either side of our carriage. The steam from the dense vegetation draped around its deep emerald foliage, hypnotising us as the train window formed vignettes of the landscape. We reached the bay of Oban in the early afternoon, with a few hours to kill before our ferry, we replenished our supplies, fed and watered ourselves, and took in the quintessential Celtic charm of the Highland port town.
As we departed on the ferry around mid-afternoon, the inevitable rainstorm struck, instantly releasing the humid tension of the air and dousing us in crisp, clean water. We stayed on the deck anyway, waterproof clad and peering across the inky brine between us and the Isle of Mull. All the travel weariness left me, and I leant peacefully on the rails, envisaging the souls of past, traversing these insular waters over the ages: insight seeking pilgrims, outlandish Norse sea-warriors, spirited Irish missionaries and starry-eyed Romantics. I felt privileged to count myself among the pilgrims; a secular traveller, seeking illumination through toilsome travel, compelled not by religious piety in my case, but by a newly realised cultural understanding of the liberating and fundamentally human purpose of travel.
In the shadow of the mighty Ben More, we bussed through the wilds to the western reach of the isle, and took the last ferry to the isolated and hallowed Isle of Iona: our final destination. After around twenty-four hours of continuous travel, the imminent prospect of a warm fire, cold drink and comfy bed induced our aching limbs to push on, one more mile to the lodgings prepared for us. Our friend and host greeted us with convivial hospitality in his crofter’s cottage. We collapsed into the chairs beside the peat blaze and poured the last dram of the day. After food, drinks and craic, we fell into a deep, peaceful sleep, arising the following morning with a thirst for further exploration.
The first thing to strike you on Iona is the intense silence and tranquillity of the surroundings; barely a sound can be heard, save for the distant calls of birds and the gentle caress of the sea on the shore, and the square mile speck of an island is imbued with a palpable mysticism. As we quietly traversed ancient bog and granite crag, I understood why the sixth century ascetics crossed the Irish sea in search of transcendence in the first place. The remoteness, repose and sheer beauty of the isle demands introspection and puts visitors in a deeply meditative temperament. Suffice to say the destination, as well as the journey, was a profoundly transcendent experience for us. Ultimately, the arduous but beautiful journey to a place of quiet reflection, led us to discover that the act of pilgrimage is something of a rite of passage, and one that should be undertaken by the faithful and the secular alike.
