Read Iona Portal for Free Online Page A

hair.  He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  This sure beats flying in a jumbo jet.
    Taking a sip of the ice-cold Velvet, Patrick savored its rich smoothness while surveying a scene of almost surreal beauty.  Receding behind him was the port of Oban, “gateway to the Western Isles.”  Tucked at the foot of massive wooded hills, the port was laid out in a natural amphitheatre with the harbor as the stage. At the end of the 19 th century, Oban flourished as a Victorian seaside resort and many of the buildings still had that feel.  Gingerbread villas clung to the hillside while majestic old hotels lined the Esplanade.  Along George Street, busy shops and restaurants provided a quaint backdrop for the fishing boats crowded against the quay.   Further to the south stood the historic Caledonian Hotel with its ornate façade of towers and gables rising above the harbor.
    As Patrick studied the scene his attention was captured by an unusual structure on the hill above the town.  Looming high above the picturesque Victorian village was a structure that looked for all the world like the coliseum of Rome.
    Patrick’s mouth opened, and without thinking, he said aloud, “What the hell is that! ”
    “Ah,” the man next to him responded, “sounds like you’ve noticed McCaig's Tower.”
    Patrick glanced at the man.  He appeared to be in his early-fifties with an untrimmed beard, horn-rimmed glasses, and a floppy white hat pulled down over a tangle of graying hair.  Yet he carried a quiet air of confidence and intelligence.
    “What is that thing?” Patrick asked.  “It looks like the Roman coliseum.”
    “That’s exactly what it’s supposed to look like.”  The stranger laughed.  “It was built by a wealthy banker named John Stuart McCaig back in 1897.  Folks around here call it McCaig's Folly.  Old man McCaig wanted to build a replica of the Roman coliseum here in the Scottish highlands and fill it with statues of himself and his family.  It was supposedly a philanthropic project to provide work for the unemployed stonemasons of Scotland.  McCaig only got the outer wall completed before his death, when his sister went to court to stop the project.  It’s a public park now.  Really quite lovely.”
    Patrick offered his hand.  “Patrick O’Neill… Dallas, Texas.  You sound like an American, but you seem to know the countryside here pretty well.”
    The man shook his hand and laughed again, “Call me Michael.  Michael Fletcher.  I’m actually Canadian, though I’ve spent some time in the states.  But I’ve spent many more years studying this part of the world.  Sort of an amateur historian.  Tell me, what brings an Irish cowboy to the Western Isles?”
    “That’s a long story,” Patrick replied, sipping his pint.  “I grew up in the states, but had an Irish grandmother who loved to tell me stories of the old country; so I’ve set out to explore my roots.  I’ve spent the last four weeks in Ireland and have one more place to visit.”
    “And that would be… Iona?”
    “How did you know?”
    “You’ve the look of a pilgrim about you,” Michael observed, “and pilgrims come from all over the world to Iona.” 
    “I don’t know about the pilgrim part… ” Patrick responded, laughing.  “I grew up Catholic but ditched religion in college.  I’m an agnostic now, which doesn’t make me very good ‘pilgrim’ material.
    “My interest in Iona is sheer curiosity.  My grandmother’s stories of the old country included one puzzling detail.  She said our ancestors left Ireland and for almost two hundred years lived on the Island of Hy —what’s now called Iona.  She described Hy as a mystical place.  ‘An isle of lights and faeries’ she used to call it.  She said our ancestors built a school there, attended by kings and princes from all over the world… and faeries would come down and teach them.”  Patrick laughed and shook his