Scotland: In search of the magic of the Isle of Iona

On the island of Iona, the cradle of Celtic Christianity, absolutely nothing is happening. But that's precisely what makes it so charming. A report from what feels like the end of the world in Scotland.

Empty beaches, few roads, sheep everywhere. After hours of train and bus travel, I disembark from the second ferry on Iona convinced: I've found the end of the world.

However, I'm not alone in this-about 130,000 visitors come here annually to uncover the magic of this Scottish island. To everyone, it means something different.

Iona is ancient, tiny, and beautiful. Spanning just 4.8 kilometers in length and 2.4 kilometers in width, you find swaying grasses and wildflowers, green hills, and rugged rocks, framed by Caribbean-blue seas, creamy white sands, and pastel pebbles.

Some stones are more than two billion years old. On the roadside, sweet-smelling, bright bedstraw and sorrel, tasting of childhood. Iona is a bit like the Shire, a bit like Highlander, and a pinch of Pirates of the Caribbean, but in neoprene. On the Inner Hebrides islands, it's rarely truly warm, even in summer.

Ever since the Irish monk, missionary, and later saint, Columba, landed on this enchanted island off Scotland's west coast with his twelve companions in 563, built a church and monastery, and made the island the base camp of Christianity in the Celtic region, Iona has become a hotspot for those seeking inner reflection and spirituality.

Back then, the island's location wasn't a hurdle but a real advantage; land travel was far more uncomfortable and slower than travel by waterways.

Long before Columba's arrival, Iona was supposedly the island of Druids, where the veil between the worlds was particularly thin-according to folklore. Columba pragmatically integrated local myths into his own legend.

Thus Fairy Hill became Angel Hill-for the easiest, smoothest conversion to Christianity. The lush, asymmetric hill now lies fenced beside a narrow road next to a farm, and it only seems minimally magical to me. But that might be due to the gloomy Scottish summer weather.

Today, travelers wear neither robes nor penitential clothes but functional jackets and hiking boots. They seek enlightenment, inspiration, silence, the roots of Celtic Christianity, or the rare call of the corncrake, depending on their inner compass and ornithological interests. Most of them are day-trippers.

And so, with the departure of the last ferry, Iona truly becomes still. There are only a few cars, belonging to the roughly 120 residents. During my evening hike to Dun Ì, the island's highest hill at 101 meters, I hear only birds chirping, occasional bleating sheep, and wind, lots of wind.

Hiking on Iona is outstanding. Through flat depressions, over heights, past beaches and rocks. And since the island isn't that large, there's little chance of getting truly lost. There's not much else to do here, or as a fellow traveler said, 'Those looking for action don't come to Iona.'

The best post- or pre-hike coffee is served at the Iona Craft Shop, the most delicious homemade cake is at the Heritage Centre, and fresh mussels at fair prices can be found at Martyr's Bay Restaurant near the ferry terminal.

For those with finer tastes: Even non-guests can dine at the two larger hotels on the island, Argyll and St. Columba; the organic vegetable gardens belonging to the hotels can be inspected on the way to the abbey.

The latter is the main attraction of Iona. Although nothing remains of Columba's original church, the Benedictine monastery from the 13th century stands there, restored in the mid-20th century.

There, Christians of all colors gather several times a day, listening to concerts or the inner silence. Nearby, at the Reilig Odhráin, the real Scottish King Macbeth is said to be buried. Yes, the one from Shakespeare.

Close by, Felix Mendelssohn found inspiration for his Hebrides Overture. 'If I ever find myself in an overcrowded assembly with music and dance and feel the urge to retreat into the loneliest solitude, I will think of Iona,' the composer is said to have remarked.

What constitutes the special magic of Iona changes. From century to century, heart to heart. Whether in the solitude Mendelssohn longed for, in the rare call of the corncrake, with the fairies or angels, in the Fountain of Eternal Youth, in Christian or pre-Christian spirituality.

I discover it between the sharp hills, on meadows sprinkled with clover and buttercups, in the wind and rain. Here on Iona, everything comes together-peace and contentment, inner and outer silence, harmony with the world and the universe. The old Columba himself probably couldn't have wished for less.