Free Iona Portal by Robert David MacNeil Page A

ARGYLL, SCOTLAND
     
     
    For Patrick’s first morning on Iona the sun rose bright in a cloudless sky.  From the window of his room in the Saint Columba hotel, Patrick could see sheep grazing contentedly in the nearby fields.  Beyond them, the early morning sun glistened across the calm waters of the Sound of Iona and starkly illuminated the distant, red granite mountains of Mull.
    Michael was already eating breakfast when Patrick entered the hotel restaurant.  He motioned for Patrick to join him.
    “Good morning, Patrick,” Michael said cheerfully as Patrick took his seat.  “How did you sleep?”
    “Wonderfully,” Patrick responded.  “I don’t think I’ve slept that well in years.  There’s something very peaceful about this place.”
     Glancing around the restaurant, he added, “How’s the breakfast?”
    “Outstanding, as usual,” said Michael. “I’ve stayed at the Saint Columba several times, and the food is always superb.  They have their own organic garden behind the hotel, and much of the food is grown right here. 
    “By the way, might I suggest the blood pudding?”  Michael pointed to a black sausage-like disk on his plate.  “Most Americans are afraid to try it, but once you get used to it, it’s really quite tasty.”
    “I think I’ll have to pass on that,” Patrick laughed, as he glanced at the menu, “but the food does look good.”  Patrick ordered a full breakfast, beginning with strong black coffee, which was promptly brought to the table.
    Taking a sip of his coffee, Patrick again looked up at Michael. “So, what will you be doing here on Iona?” 
    “I want to start by interviewing some of the locals,” Michael replied.  “There are always new angel stories on Iona.  Just about every inhabitant is ready to bend your ear with story after story of strange events.
    “But mostly, I come here to write.  I’m working on my fourth book, and somehow Iona just seems like the right place to write about angels.”
    As they ate, Michael quizzed Patrick about his recent travels in Ireland.  Michael seemed particularly interested in Patrick’s visit to the city of Bangor—situated in a section of County Down known as the Valley of the Angels.  According to legend, Saint Patrick had once encountered a large gathering of angels in the place.  Michael hadn’t yet visited Bangor, and immediately began to pepper Patrick with questions. 
    Unfortunately for Michael, Patrick’s most vivid memory of his stay in the Valley of the Angels was of a pub called the “Salty Dog,” a few blocks north of his hotel on Quay Street.  He couldn’t recall seeing a single angel.
    When they finished eating, Patrick stood and stretched, still stiff from his long journey.
    “Before I get to work,” Michael said, pausing to drain the last of his coffee, “How about a quick tour of Iona?”
    “I’d like that.” Patrick replied. “You know, if you ever give up writing, you’d make a great tour guide.  Your knowledge of this part of the world is incredible.”
    “Having a photographic memory does help.”
    “I have a photographic memory too …” Patrick quipped as they walked from the restaurant, “I just keep forgetting to buy film.”
    Patrick purchased a map of the island from the little display beside the front desk, and they were off to explore Iona.
     
     
    “Let’s begin in the south,” Michael suggested as they exited the hotel.  They turned to the left and followed a winding road that led past the crumbling ruins of a medieval nunnery, through the tiny village of Baile Mòr, and along the waterfront.  Odd formations of twisted rock lined the shore.
    “Patrick, on the map, Iona looks like a little sliver of land that crumbled off the end of Mull.  But actually, Iona is enormously older.  In fact, the rocks on Iona are some the oldest on Earth… four billion years old.   Iona literally dates from the beginning of the earth itself.  These rocks formed when the