Dispatch from Iona: Monday, May 30

I’m sitting in the library of the Iona Abbey. It’s a quiet lovely room, lined with books and paneled in wood with that musty old-book smell, sun streaming through the little squares of a small Abbey window facing the rocky hills of the nearby isle of Mull. As I have probably said of every place we’ve stopped along the way--this is a stunningly beautiful place. We’ve learned that there’s no use comparing places for beauty for each place has its own quality, and each one is brushed with the kiss of God’s creating love. But Iona, well Iona has for over a millennium a place of pilgrimage and prayer, and has this special quality of being a holy place, a place where one draws near to God. More of that in my next dispatch.
As I think back over the last half week, it could be characterized with the title of that old John Candy movie, “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles”. It was a blur or travel and old friends. We arrived in London after an all-night flight from Cape Town, flew right on to Glasgow, caught a bus almost immediately for downtown, arrived just in time to hop on another bound for Edinburgh (a surprisingly short 45 minute ride), and finally caught a van within 15 minutes to our backpackers hostel at the outskirts of the city. It’s now about noon, and we’ve barely caught our breath, but with only one afternoon and evening for Edinburgh, we ate a quick lunch, and hopped back on the van to Edinburgh’s center city.
Edinburgh is a great gray old city that deserves much more time than we had to give. There’s a walk called the historic “Royal Mile” leading from the Holyrood Palace (a royal palace still in use) on one end to the Edinburgh castle on the other, with some winding side streets to wander down in between. Unfortunately both the palace and the castle were closed for the day for reasons unknown to us and which no one was about to explain, but we had a great time just soaking up the atmosphere of old medieval buildings and churches along the walk. We spent some time in St. Giles, the main church of the city, belonging to the Kirk (church) of Scotland. John Knox, the Scottish reformer, was preacher here for a time right after he came back from Geneva. The guidebook, hopefully not written by the historically Calvinist Church of Scotland, describes Knox coming back from Geneva full of “dour” Calvinism, and bringing the reformation to Scotland. Granted, Knox was not what you’d exactly call a “nice” man, but Calvinism certainly had no monopoly on dour religion in that day. Anyway, he must have been turning over in his grave for all the votive candles and side chapels in St. Giles church. It is a beautiful church, especially its uniquely ornate open steeple.
Edinburgh is also Scotland’s art center, especially with its annual summer festival. We were too early for that, but found lots of posters for various concerts and other events, none of which seemed to be occurring that one evening. But then we visited another old church, The Greyfrair’s church with its huge churchyard. It was closed, a notice on the door informed us, for a rehearsal for a concert that very evening of the Estonian National Philharmonic Choir performing a piece by Arvo Pärt, one of our favorite composers. We decided to have a quick supper at what turned out to be a really greasy Indian restaurant nearby, and rushed back just in time for the concert at 7:45. The church was packed with about 500 people for the performance of a choral text for evening prayer from the Russian Orthodox Church. The composition and the choir were outstanding, and we found ourselves caught up in a powerful performance of a deeply penitential text some six pages long in the English translation and taking 75 minutes. It was done in the choral style of the Orthodox liturgy with lots of droning bass but beautifully modernized by Part to include some dissonant notes and choral counterpoint.
The next morning we set off for St. Andrews (about an hour away by train) and were met by a smiling Jane Torrance at the station. It was so good to see her beaming with health and moving with vigor, sporting short curly hair that was recovering from the last round of chemo. Not having communicated with the Torrances about more than arrival dates and times, though making sure to note that we were aware of Jane’s possibly not feeling well, we were especially grateful to see her looking so well. By the way, as one of Alan’s colleagues remarked, we were part of a crowd of South Bend visitors, the Plantingas and Marsdens having left a few days before.
Jane drove us right to their home, a beautifully proportioned 18th century country house of which they occupy the still very roomy center section. From the windows on the east side you can see all the way to the water of the Firth of Forth. After some tea and catching up, Jane drove us into town (about 4 miles away) and dropped us off to roam for a few hours while she ran some errands. St. Andrews, like Edinburgh, is an historic city with lots of great old university buildings, the ruins of a 12th century Abbey, and some16th century and older churches, but it’s much smaller, and easy to walk in an afternoon. And, as any golfer knows, St. Andrews is the “sacred” home of the Royal and Ancient Golf Club with its “old course” links, the sight of many a British Open (the viewing stands are already partially erected). It all looked so familiar from seeing the view of the 18th fairway and green on TV many times, but no less a thrill for that, though Jeanne couldn’t quite understand my awe and excitement at walking on the grass of the old course. (Yes, any visitor can walk right on the course, or even drive across the first and eighteenth fairways.) I did manage to keep myself from kissing the sod, and Jeanne understood enough to let me watch several groups tee off. I especially enjoyed the obvious fact that some of them were once a week duffers like myself. Unfortunately I didn’t get to play, maybe some other time.
Jane came back to pick us up along with David and Peter from school, and Alan from his office. I wouldn’t have recognized the boys, it was six years since I saw them last, but Allan, bounding to the car, all smiles and breathless with talk, was unmistakably familiar. The man’s a virtual dynamo of intellect, energy and good humor.
We spent an evening of welcome and gracious warmth in their home with a fine dinner, a fine single malt, fine wine (our gift from South Africa) and the finest conversation. We got all caught up on our families and mutual friends, explored memories of their visit, and discussed the state of the church in our various countries. Their guest bedroom ranks with the finest bed and breakfast you could find in Scotland—a spacious room with a warm comforter, and a broad view of the land banking down to the Firth of Forth (or Fifth, or whatever Firth it was—a Firth, we learned, is the estuary of a river as it enters the sea).
After a lazy morning and lunch in town, Jeanne and I were back on the train back to Edinburgh where we caught another bus to Glasgow where we spent the night before heading up to Iona.