We made a good two miles of it, before we went down into the hamlet of Fionnphort and stared across the Sound at Iona.

They are kind smiling folk in Fionnphort, with quiet voices and obliging ways. We got half a dozen eggs which the gentle lady of the shop could hardly spare. The ‘influence’ here was very strong. A brightness difficult to describe and full of peace. Doubtless Fionnphort (Fionn’s or Fingal’s port) like other little places, has its ‘human dramas’. But it would be, I should imagine, distinctly difficult here to work up a pathological aptitude to run amock. Despite one’s very best effort, the crest of it would tend to slide down like a wave, and slide down, and slide down, into the evening glimmer of calm. Or else one would clear out and be haunted remorselessly by the brightness of peace forever more.

Not so long ago I talked to a lady who had once worked here professionally, administering to the ills, ailments, and births of her generation. It was decided to buy her a bicycle with pneumatic tyres, and when it arrived it was the wonder of the place. The tyres, however, were flat, and though the more cunning detached the pump and applied it to the valve and worked it hard, they remained flat. In the end the contraption was brought before the minister, who examined it carefully, retired, returned with the manse bellows, and worked them right strongly but equally without result. So the committee solemnly packed up the pump and sent it back to the makers, requesting a proper pump in its place. But the makers merely returned the same pump together with the suggestion that, before using, it would be as well to withdraw the flexible piece of tubing from one end of the pump and attach it properly to the other end and to the valve. This they did, whereupon the tyres blew up, and she rode about to the admiration of everyone, young and old. But there was one who appreciated her riding above any other, and this was the minister’s horse, for this horse had once drawn a cab in the mighty city of Glasgow, and when he saw the lady coming on her bicycle he would turn and trot away abreast of her, happy once more to be in touch with old days and civilisation.

But many wonderful things happened in Fionnphort a generation ago, and the district round about was well populated, for in addition to the active crofting and fishing life, there were the granite quarries where large numbers of men were employed.

But meantime we had encountered a man who spoke of the Sound as of a road he knew well. He confirmed our belief that there was no good anchorage on the Iona side, but said that we might lie with some comfort on the Ross side in behind Eilean na mBan in what is called the Bull Hole. We enquired about Martyr’s Bay, mentioned in our Directions. Looking across at its white sands, he shook his head. ‘Besides’, he added, ‘you might foul your anchor on the telegraph cables. The best on that side is Port-na-Fraing.’ And he pointed up the Sound, northward. ‘Do you see that house near the shore?’