Bog Myrtle & Peat

They’ll cancel the ferry to Iona if the sea’s too rough, and all the signs seemed set for disappointment. But the sailors hardly blinked at waves which broke across the prows of their tiny, open boat, and nobody mentioned the dreadful northwesterly wind. There were no cars on our sailing, and only seven foot-passengers to leave from the jetty at Fionnphort. Most were heading for the service of eucharist at the famous abbey on the island, but we’d only spoken briefly in the shelter of the ticket office. It was too early on a Sunday morning to be sociable.

That wind raked the sound and churned the sea into streaks and runnels of foam which turned and boiled upon themselves in the bottle-green water. There were divers and cormorants in the sheltered bays, and mergansers trailed their dripping crests around the wracks of heaving weed – but the open water was dark and empty. Beneath an illusion of sunshine, the boat worked hard from the outset, and I climbed onto the top deck as the diesel engine surged towards buoys and markers in the swell. It was no joke to stand up there in the spray and the sudden rage of water flung high over the decks to swill in pools beneath the gunwales. Every hair on my head strained out behind me in straightened, horizontal lines, and salt bit into my eyes and mouth. It would have been sensible to climb downstairs and hide in the passenger’s cabin, but the sight of eighteen whooper swans held me in check. They were fighting across the wind, heading inland to the dark mass of Mull and the glower of cold clouds which rose against the navy-blue land.

Down on the car-deck, two old women were struggling to stand upright. Clinging to a rail with both hands, one of them abruptly jack-knifed and pumped a gale of vomit against the fo’c’sle. Reaching to comfort her companion, the other slipped and fell onto her side just as the boat reared and sent her skidding through the cooling puke. Whatever they had been trying to do was abandoned, and they went inside to wipe themselves down with tissues. Frozen to the top deck by the wind and the endless buck of heavy water, I could only watch them go.

The ferry splashed and swam, then having battled the tide and the furious wind, it turned abruptly and returned like a slingshot to the harbour at Iona. Later that morning, the smell of stomach acid and frothy porridge overwhelmed the incense and comfort of the abbey.