Searching for the Celtic Spirit – Part 2

Stepping out along the way

Stephen and I meant to start our journey in Ireland but close to the departure date I fell off a ladder and had to spend two weeks flat on my back (painfully pondering what it meant). We cut some parts of the trip, tagged Ireland onto the end, and flew to Scotland to begin there. From vigorous Glasgow we drove north around idyllic Loch Lomond, every roadside resplendent with late summer wildflowers – cow parsley, cowslip and rosebay willowherb – to the rugged Island of Mull. Then along winding single-lane roads where cars often have to back up or you needed to dodge a darting deer, and by ferry across to the mystical island of Iona.

Although it’s a tourist spot, there’s a pervading stillness across the island with folk meditating in the renovated open-faith abbey and wandering among ruins. Some people visit every year. Some came and stayed, like our landlord from New Zealand. The locals don’t mind the ferry crossing and the slow drive across Mull for school and shopping. They are so proudly in love with their island.

This is the ‘thin place’ where the border between the physical and spiritual worlds wavers and sometimes disappears altogether.

In previous ages the boundary between the physical and metaphysical was not so defined. Very occasionally, we can still experience this. This island of pilgrims certainly had an effect on me. Mostly I had only subliminal awareness of the mingling of spiritual and physical, felt in the austere beauty of the place, except for one moment. I stood above the abbey, looking down on the tall Celtic cross and the sea beyond. I experienced something of what those ancient people would have known as normal – that there was no break between the worlds, none at all. It was only for a short while yet timeless, and its impact endured. As we departed and the ferry crossed the water, unexpectedly I began to weep. I wanted to remain on that magic island in that other consciousness. It’s not possible, yet I don’t think these kinds of experiences are exceptional. All we need is openness to what is different.

We didn’t set out for Europe in a tiny boat like the Irish monk Columbanus and the other brave venturers (see part 1). We headed east and took the train through the ‘chunnel’ under the English Channel. But we did try to follow his route through Burgundy and on to Lake Constance, with Paris as an essential first stop – I had only ever spent a day and a half there. This time it was a week taking in the delights of this city. But the ‘quest’ began in Burgundy.

I think I was looking for something ephemeral, like resonances or echoes. What follows is impressionistic – brush strokes made up of selected moments that somehow come together as the picture I want to paint.

Summer was fading into autumn as we puttered slowly along the Canal du Nivernais in a barge called L’Art de Vivre, with plenty of time to walk ahead to the next lock. In this ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’ the air shimmered and sometimes bit down sharply under the ‘maturing sun’. Yes, it brought on the urge to quote Keats and other poets.