Clapham village

I set off at 8:30, excited to be spending the day in the Yorkshire Dales. After our lovely excursion last month I was eagerly anticipating another challenging walk. I met up with Judith at Skipton. Our train to Clapham was full to standing room only, with holiday-makers bound for a weekend getaway in sunny Morecambe. The luggage racks were filled to capacity, testament to their owners’ need to pack for all weather possibilities.

On the Pennine bridleway

Clapham station is  a mile and quarter from the village itself, a reminder coming from the clerk at the ticket booth in Hebden Bridge this morning. “It’s the second farthest station away from its corresponding village.” “And the other one is Dent where you have to climb what feels like Ben Nevis after a 12 mile hike” I rejoined, since that was our trip last month!

Rowan tree showing off its berries

We were very fortunate with the weather. in fact, I felt a little over-dressed for the temperature, and there was no sign of the heavy rain we’d experienced in Hebden Bridge only a few days ago. We took a well defined track out of Clapham reaching Austwick where we stopped for a drink at the local, The Game Cock Inn, sitting outside and admiring the little limestone village. From there we took the narrow Pennine Bridleway to the little hamlet of Feizor, which I’d never heard of. Unfortunately my phone had not charged overnight and I was feeling seriously limited to taking very few photos. Judith helped out my letting me use her camera from time to time but I was disappointed not to have my camera to hand at every available opportunity.

Lunchtime – Naptime

We stopped for our picnic beside a gate and I could have easily sat and soaked up the view and the quiet for another half hour.

Lots and lots of stiles that were well camouflaged in the limestone walls

We followed the track marker signed Stackhouse which climbed steeply through sheep and cow pastures and reached a signpost.

Is that Ingleborough in the distance?

Soon after this we got lost – for the first time. The description of the walk in our guide book was somewhat confusing and we found we had to backtrack quite a way, involving a steep uphill climb. I was kicking myself that my phone was not recording all these ‘steps’ and ‘flights.’ They would have added considerably to my August average, this being the last day of the month! But backtracking we did find the sheepfold that we should have spotted earlier and  soon we reached the edge of Buckhaw Brow with the road in gorge below.

There’s a sheer cliff below my feet, Giggleswick Scar

We walked along the length of the scar, being careful not to twist our ankles on the limestone pavement which, unlike the pavement above Malham Cove, has been partially obscure by grass, making the grikes much more treacherous. We had wonderful views of Giggleswick quarry but, whoops, we were on the wrong side of it, and had to retrace our steps again until we had circumvented the rim and could follow a steep track over loose stones down into the woodland of the valley.  This involved me climbing a 5 barred gate, and though Judith had scaled it before I even looked up, I, on the other hand, as those of you who know me, struggled and heaved and hawed and screamed and cried, ‘I can’t” for at least 20 minutes, which is a vast improvement on my time taken at Ingleborough with Rachel three years ago!!!

Couldn’t resist stopping for a giggle!

On our way down  we met a couple of guys and sought confirmation that we were indeed now on the correct path for Settle. Yes, we were, but did we know that the last train of the day from Settle had already left? I produced cell phones to confirm this fact. We had no alternative but to carry on regardless of this information.

The River Ribble, by whose side I had walked in Preston 2 days ago, divides Settle from Giggleswick, and much though I’d have liked to saunter and stay awhile we pressed on, now a little unsure of homeward plans. By the time we got back into civilisation my feet were causing a minor rebellion but we headed for the railway station. Lo and behold there were lots of people there, waiting for a train going in our direction. There were lots of signs and timetable about the following day’s trains – yes, Northern are on strike for the next 6 Saturdays, but no indication of cancelled trains today, and within 5 minutes a train appeared. We jumped on and  two and a half hours later I was ordering an Indian takeway in Hebden Bridge. 14 miles, 12 hours, and looking forward to next month’s adventure!

The natives of Mull just hanging out

The youths of Mull carry on ancient pastimes

Kayaking – Mull style

Driftwood seahorse

Whoops

Even the cows of Iona kneel to pray

The sight of these onions brought tears to my eyes

Creative use for used plastic bottle tops by the local brownies

What goes on in a Highland coo’s mind

Sarah – don’t look at this picture!

Giant ladybug befriends . . . .

. . . . .giant woodpecker

No newspapers here

Good morning kitty

Anyone need wellies?

Willie warmers Mull style

Hey, I’m on the telly

Oban – a town of contrasts

Let’s see how long I can stand on one leg

I never knew there was an island named after me. A flower – yes!

Charcoal cheese is pitch black

A flight of starfish

Reflections

Words fail me

It was bright and sunny when I woke and the fine weather urged me to get out and about. When I’d walked to the northern tip of the island I’d passed a high outcrop of rock marking Iona’s highest point and I could just make out a couple of people by the cairn, so this seemed a good plan for a hike. Again, there was no signpost to guide us from the paved road.  Soon we were scrambling up a path that was more of a sheep track than a

footpath in places. The makers of the said track eyed us suspiciously, watching our shenanigans with amusement, or was it pity? There was a large cairn on top, and yes, the view was indeed wonderful. Just slightly west of north I could pick out a distant island – possibly Tiree. It was quite wet underfoot and going down I had to resort to my ‘Heather special’ – sliding down on my bottom rather than risk going head over heels on the slippery grass. We had fine views of the abbey far below us and I wondered idly if the monks and nuns ever came to this very spot. I’m sure they must have – “nearer my God to thee.”

By the time we got down to sea level again it was still only 11:30 but we decided on a very early lunch at the Martyr cafe which seems to be perched on the ocean when you’re inside, and retired for an hour before visiting the abbey – this time by daylight. Many of the capitals in the cloister have been newly carved with surprising modern scenes. Several portraits appeared to be African.

For me the highlight was the museum containing the broken remains of several ancient Celtic crosses held in place by ultra

modern contraptions of metal and glass, forming a wonderful contrast to the ancient carvings. All this  was highlighted by dramatic lighting looking more like a stunning lighting set for a modern drama than a traditional museum. Some of the grave slabs were carved in the 1300s representing knights of the MacKinnon family, and they were very well preserved. Other satellite chapels had sprung up around the church. One, Michael chapel, was constructed in the 1200s and featured wonderful piscina arches with statues of heads weathered until this look decidedly ghoulish.

I inquired at the bookshop about the writing of the Book of Kells. I’d grown up with an awareness of this illuminated manuscript of the gospels after doing a project about religion and art in high school, and when I was in Dublin earlier this year I’d hoped to see the original book but the museum was closed. Written around the 800s at Iona the book had been taken to Kells, Ireland for safekeeping to protect it from the Viking invasion. Though the Vikings couldn’t read they knew a valuable artifact when they saw one! I saw a poster advertising a talk about this book, starting in an hour, so off I trotted. About twenty people were gathered in the bookstore to hear Jan Sutch-Pickard talk about her sabbatical learning about the making of the book and how she uses the information that she gleaned in her own poetry. I discovered that the blue coloured paint used in the book is made from ground up lapis lazuli (I have a jewelry set of that stone) which could only have come from Afghanistan – in the 800’s! Ultra-marine actually means from ‘beyond the sea, or from beyond these shores.’ Some people believed that the book had been written by angels, so intricate is the workmanship. THAT would certainly have been from some other world. Jan had also visited the extensive library at Cheetham school in Manchester, which I’ve visited, as part of her research. Apparently ancient books should not be stored on oak shelves, because the oak is a living organism. They should be stored on steel shelving. How dull! This research has resulted in the entire library at Iona being rethought.

I headed back passing St Oran’s chapel, the oldest intact structure on the island being built in the 1100s. I wanted to take a look around the extensive organic gardens, the perimeter of which I’d passed several times each day. The gardens are open for anyone to walk through and the produce is for sale to the public, but also used in the kitchens of the 2 hotels. I had been very surprised to see so much fruit on this remote Scottish island and here the boughs of the apples trees were bending low with the weight of their bright red fruit. Rows upon rows of veggies, neatly raised and well weeded, stretched almost down to the pier. Amazing!

I stopped off at the Argyll and ordered a Thistle cider just to be able to sit in the hotel’s garden overlooking the Sound of Mull. After 20 minutes or so the wind grew fierce and

as I headed by to the St Columba Hotel a faint rainbow joined Iona to its big sister. We had dinner in the hotel then strolled down to the Martyr’s cafe for a cup of tea before returning to the hotel to back for the long trip home tomorrow.

All set for dinner

We’d rented a car to explore Mull but unfortunately we’d had to pick it up all the way in the Northeast of Mull, to Tobermoray in fact.  It wasn’t so much that the distances were long but the roads on Mull are mostly single track with passing places every few yards so the driving speed probably averages something like 25 per hour!

The weather was changeable all day – one minute we were basking in bright sunshine, the next we were being oppressed by black clouds heavy with rain. Google maps estimated the drive time from Fionnphort, Mull’s south west tip, where we’d left the car to the deserted villages of Crakaig in the northwest of the island as 2 hours and 10 minutes  for the 52 miles. We ended up  with a long day of driving – 7 hours all told. And this was difficult, intense driving with sudden pullouts into the passing places  every couple of minutes.

We took the 10:10 ferry from Iona across to Mull and apart from a 50 minute hike I did to see the village of Crakaig we were driving all day. Lunch was just a quick stop in a layby to eat our sandwiches and give the driver 5 minutes’ rest. I’d read about the Highland clearances and two villages, long since deserted, were high on my list of ‘must see’ on Mull. I’ve spent many many vacations exploring ghost towns of South West America, had made the long arduous trip to St Kilda,  and now, here was a chance to see two more abandoned villages. I knew that the footpath led behind Reudle schoolhouse, described in my

guidebook as ‘a tall gaunt building. It is now ruined an deserted. Scratched into the plaster of the walls you can still see graffiti of full-rigged sailing ships and the initials of scholars long gone.’ This was a place of my dreams. There are so few buildings in this heather covered landscape! A village might consist of  5 to 10 buildings so when I saw a lone, isolated two storey building on the hillside I presumed this was the schoolhouse. I questioned my judgement for a minute though, since this place was obviously lived in – smoke coming from the chimney, car outside, and it looked newly painted. We back- tracked for a couple of minutes and set off up the steep track. Keith continued while I ran back to the car for my camera and by the time I got back he’d check out the trail. It was

No, this is not a stream. It’s the footpath!

The only sign I passed was totally illegible even if it once had writing on it.

severely water-logged. In fact, much of it looked more like a stream than a trail, so while I set off  into the heather Keith settled for a bit of r and r back in the car. Just as on Mull there were no footpath signs anywhere indicating that I was on the correct trail. Occasionally I had to leave the trail to scramble over rocks to avoid the deepest puddles but eventually I was rewarded with a distant view of ruined buildings.

First view of the abandoned village of Crakaig with the Treshnish islands.

There was no cell phone connection but I’d told Keith to give me 50 minutes before sending out a search party. I did get to Crakaig, but didn’t have time to reach the second village of Glacguagairidh (Hollow of the dark grazings). As many as 200 people once lived

Exploring what remains of the village, emptied during the Highland Clearances

in these houses, surrounding an ash tree from whose branches a villager committed suicide by hanging many years ago. According to my guide book “There have been well substantiated reports of  the ghostly sight of a unaccountable dark figure flitting past the doorways of certain houses.” I certainly felt ill at ease, but I  put that down to fear of

The old school house, now refurbished

getting lost and having no cell phone! As coincidences go, the fact that Brian had sent me a map of the track to the villages (which he had no idea I’d planned to visit!) the night before was at least somewhat reassuring, and fortuitous since I’d only had a few minutes of internet service in which to see and download the map!

Traffic congestion, Mull style

Our return to Fionnphort was another two hours of difficult driving, exacerbated by endless roadworks and roadside pruning, but Keith put his foot down wherever possible and we caught the next to the last ferry back to Iona, where we found we were the only ones aboard.

Waiting for the ferry back to Iona

Taken from our moving car!

We’d booked a table for dinner in the hotel at 6:45 so we had half an hour of r and r before heading into the lovely dining room with wonderful sea views. My butterfly chicken with portobello mushroom and cherry tomatoes was delicious and Keith tried haggis, tatties and nips for the first time, beautifully served in a whiskey sauce.

Keith’s first taste of haggis. What IS it made from?

So, it was now 8 o’clock and we’d finished dinner. There was no TV, no internet, so I couldn’t even listen to the radio, so how should I spend the evening? Well, this being Iona, so go to church, I guess. There’s a service a 9 every evening so ‘the tolling of the iron bell calls the faithful to their prayer.’ I’d not been inside the abbey so far so it was rather splendid to set foot inside by candlelight just as it would have been for the monks. I was quickly shown to a seat in the choir stalls and as I sat I immediately became aware of the music. Someone was playing an improvised version of the first Bach Prelude in C major, and was having quite a few problems with it. This was the piece I had played in Glasgow Central station on my way up to Oban, and I know the piece well. The service began by a not very skillful cantor teaching  the congregation  two hymns to ‘La.’ This wasn’t what I’d expected at all. People of many nationalities had gathered together in this place which many find highly sacred and somehow I’d expected a high standard of music. In fact, the following day a choir from Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, were providing the music. Various readings were spoken, perhaps by members of the clergy but they were not wearing any specific pieces of attire that would distinguish them as such. One reading was an excerpt from George Eliot’s Silas Marner and one was an exhortation written by two 14 year old boys when they were on a religious retreat to the island. Many members of the congregation, which numbered around 40,  sat with eyes closed, a beatific expression on their serene faces.I gazed around looking at the strange combination of the original parts of the building and the obvious restoration work. I rather liked the contrast.

The service was short, lasting just 40 minutes and I hung around afterwards taking photos of giant carved tombstones, and through an open door I caught glimpses of the now dark cloisters and decided i needed to come back in daylight hours. By the time  I left it was pitch dark, not a single light to be seen anywhere. I was glad of the flashlight on my phone!

Inside the Abbey, after the service.