Holidays are wonderful things…

Here we go.

Here we go.

I would complete the trio, but I am too knackered.  Another crazy before-holiday-madness kind of day ends. I am home, and shoud be packing the car, but here I am blogging.

We will be filling the car with camping stuff and driving off to France for a couple of weeks.

Our hopefully UN-fragile tent that is…

But I am forced to ask the question again about the meaning in this life of ours that leads to us managing the stress and strain of life and jobs by surviving until the next chance to holiday.

But I have no more time for such philosophical fripperies.

Time to sail away…

Eileach an Naoimh

I have just been checking out some photos of a trip I took with some friends to the Garvellachs in May.

The Garvellachs are a tiny Archipelago of islands in the Inner Hebrides. They are uninhabited, and the only way of getting to them is by boat charter.

The islands are absolutely beautiful. Anyone who has ever visited and explored small islands like these will know that they are all different- and that being within their confined boundaries can be a very expansive experience. A chance to be at peace, to pray, worship, think, talk, sit around campfires, and seek shelter in caves.

The Garvellachs offer something else however. On one of the islands (Eileach an Naoimh) is an almost complete monastery dating back to the time of St Columba. Some say that this was the site that Columba used as his own place of rest from the busyness of Iona- the famed Hinba.

We spent three days full of gales, sunshine, and sunsets- sometimes scrambling over cliffs, sometimes huddled in ancient buildings, or in the privacy of our tiny tents.

It was a time of blessing- and so I offer here some photos, and another poem…

Eileach an Naoimh

Hard place
Stones ring and rattle
Upon this hollow ground

Soft place
Pillowing the prayers
Of a thousand saints
In the skein
Of tender years

Thin place
Between this wonderful world
And the next

Mysterious
Like the purple veins
Of a pregnant woman
Singing in those parts of us
We used to call
Souls

May 2008

The Garvellachs, Inner Hebrides

The view from our window at night…

Firth of Clyde

Broad estuary
Flowing coal black
Flecked with the streetlight
Lines of amber combed out by the current
Moving
Yet standing still

The Clyde is running clean now
Rich in all manner of living things
Yet somehow
Sterile

The fresh paint
On a mothballed dockyard crane
Is masking memories
Of an age of smoke and steam
Now gone

No more slap of paddles
Or thump of ships moving in the night
No more bulging holds
Of empire plunder
No more sugar, no more spice

A thousand ships have carried off the morning tide
Past Bute and beyond the Cumbraes
Beckoned on by Paddies Milestone
Now drowned by Sirens on some distant shore

Just flotsam
Of this mighty River

Chris Goan

20.12.06