Hurtling through space at nearly thirty miles an hour, we mutinied, and the Mate at the wheel eased off a bit, and gave us time to realise that we had acquired some elementary knowledge of navigating a small boat in unknown waters. With a bigger boat we might adventure farther—say, to Norroway over the foam, to the west of Ireland, to the Orkneys, the Shetlands, the Hebrides, even in some nostalgia for the sun to the Mediterranean and so open out for ourselves the fabulous mountains of Africa.

So the peace of Iona and its light came back upon the mind, the tumultuous seas of the Torranan Rocks, the spacious bays of Oban and Tobermory, the granite walls of the Bull Hole, the lobster fishers, the seaweeds, the calling of night birds, that day—already bordering the realm of the unreal—when we had rounded Waternish and Dunvegan and seen the fixed dream of the Outer Isles over the fins of basking sharks. Portnalong and Eigg, the Cuillin and Rum. Loch Etive of legend and sun. Should we ever find anything more memorable? One may perhaps hazard the enigmatic smile the Crew directed upon us when she saw the cloud of light over Iona. All the same, it would be fine to make sure. And with a land like this behind us, how naturally generous should be our appreciation of the marvels and beauty of a strange land. For all lands have one common bond—the sea.