Now to get hold of Dunstaffnage, which we had missed on the way in. Out of curiosity we decided to try the inside passage round the island. And at last we did descry the upper parts of a turret and gable, pointed like the tall trees amid which they stood, and agreed that anyone might be forgiven for not picking up the building, as a sailing direction, even close at hand.

The Mate was now getting the benefit, in snatches, of our inflated knowledge of legendary times.

‘Did you know that the Stone of Destiny was once Jacob’s pillow?’ inquired the Crew.

‘No.’

‘Did you know that it went to Ireland, via Egypt, and from Ireland came over here to the Dun of the sons of Uisneach—even to this very Dunstaffnage?’

‘And from there to Scone. No.’

‘No. From here to Iona where it was Columba’s pillow?’

‘Iona! Columba! Really? Now you’re talking. His pillow! And to think that the part that occasionally rests on it now is no longer the head. O tempera! O Moses!’

I had to talk to them pretty sharply for the mists were thickening and all I could see was the northern point of Lochnell Bay. Sometimes I thought Lismore loomed vaguely ahead. The rain was coming straight down on a windless slow-heaving oily sea; and our intention of spending the day on Lismore got swallowed in the gloom. A gigantic and fathomless gloom. We kept well clear of the north point, which is very foul, and presently picked up some small islands to port, one looking as if it carried a ruined fortress, but astern they bore an astonishing resemblance to four great ships riding at anchor in a row.

‘Sad that I should have learned the limitations of a camera,’ sighed the Crew. ‘When you start a thing, you think there’s no end to it.’

‘And you end by being unable even to land on Lismore,’ said the Mate.

‘Columba landed there. A horrid story,’ said the Crew.

‘Never about Columba!’

‘Yes. It’s about churches, so you’d better ask him. He’s getting good on churches.’

‘Lismore’, I said, ‘was an important ecclesiastical centre in ancient times. St. Moluag was the founder. He was a contemporary of Columba, and there is a legend to the effect that Moluag and Columcille were racing for the shore, each anxious to land first and so claim the island. Columcille would have won, of course, but Moluag, seeing this, cut off his finger and threw it on the shore and in a loud voice claimed possession by his flesh and blood and blessed the island in the name of God.’

‘There were no clegs on him,’ murmured the Mate, regretfully.

‘Obviously a Lismore man’s story. But the tone of the conversation that followed is more interesting. “May you have the alder for your firewood,” said Columcille. “The Lord,” replied Moluag, “will make the alder burn pleasantly.” “May you have the jagged ridges for your pathway.” Moluag smiled sweetly: “The Lord will smooth them to the feet.” ’