Remembering Donald

Aleandria Scottish Christmas Walk

2011-01-09T22:24:00.003-05:00

As I reflect back on the recent Christmastide season, the event that comes to mind is the Alexandria Scottish Christmas Walk. Here is a post and photo I put on X Marks the Scot, that would bring great pride to Donald.

Donald McCallum put the flesh and blood on this Society for me. Donald is no longer with us but his wife, Lise’, children (Martine, Suzanne and Andrew) and grand children (Gigi, Sean and Natilie) carry on his heritage. His son Andrew is wearing his Dad’s kilt. Donald had acquired it as a gift from the Royal Artillery as his Dad had given his life in Syria for King and Country in WWII. Donald wore this kilt for more than 45 years proudly. Andrew has started the same.

Third Anniversary of Donald's Homecoming

2010-06-02T19:45:00.002-04:00

Today is the 3rd anniversary of Donald’s Homecoming. I can remember so clearly Donald singing this song as we rowed the curragh, Colmcille along the Kintyre coast in 2003. I dedicate this song, The Mull of Kintyre to his family.
Miss you, bud!

Second Anniversary - Now

2009-06-02T21:42:00.003-04:00

Today, marks Donald's second anniversary in going home. Fellow traveler David Levite sent Lise' a dozen white roses in remembrance. A very thoughtful gesture.

IONA Then June 2003

2008-08-28T19:40:00.012-04:00

It was time for us to leave Iona. We were to sail out on the tide at mid-morning. I was up before day break and made my way to the Abbey.

I entered the St. Columba Chapel. It's a small chapel off

the main entrance to the Abbey.

Inside the Chapel was a wooden Celtic Cross, staff and worship bell. A small chair and an opened Bible. At this time, I was discerning a call to ordained ministry. I would seek the Lord's will in my prayer time in the Chapel.

View outside St. Columba's Chapel.

St John's and St. Martin's crosses.

Inside the Abbey. The altar with a model of the curragh.

Close up of the curragh.

Leaving the wharf.

Preparing for the long row to Port St. Ellen.

Donald in a reflective moment. We had completed the missionary journey to Scotland and now returning to Ireland.

Donald's dream had been accomplished.

We stopped at Colonsay
for a break from our rowing.

Allistair was glad to stretch his legs.
We would row late into the night and arrive at Port Ellen on the Isle of Islay.

IONA Then June 2003

2008-07-04T19:59:00.009-04:00

Our first night, we slept in the community center near the wharf. The next morning we moved to a hostel for the next couple of days. There we planted some oaks from Ireland. Columba was fond of oak trees. It was our way of exhibiting how small things can grew into something big. Our prayer was for our small expedition to have a big impact on the faith of the people we met.

We participated in a worship service at the Abbey that afternoon. We began a procession at Martyrs' Bay to the Abbey. As I was walking down the road to the start of the procession, I was stopped by group of tourist who asked if, I was Ern Malcolm? Needless to say I was quite surprised. It was a group from the downtown Presbyterian Church in Fredericksburg, VA, my hometown. They had heard about my adventure from from one of their members who had heard my presentation to Fredericksburg Scottish Society. Yes, it is a small world!

Procession to the Abbey from Martyrs' Bay.

Outside the Abbey after the service.

IONA WELCOME THEN JUNE 2003

2008-06-20T21:40:00.010-04:00

IONA WELCOME, by Donald McCallum

It was dark when we reached IONA. We'd left Easdale Island early that Sunday morning with a prayer to speed us on our way, but winds and waves had held us up. The thirty nautical miles to the Holy Island had been long and hard. Our hands were red and blistered from hours of rowing. We were tired and a little hungry.
Late afternoon we'd moored at the south end of the Isle of Mull, close to Malcolm's Point. We'd rested, as the currach pitched and rolled in the waves, which now were against us. It was lonely out there, looking up to the high crags of Mull, watching eagles soar and wheel in the updrafts.

Thankfully we boiled potatoes on our small Coleman stove; a bakers dozen of men from the US, Scotland and Ireland; all together for this, our mission of Saint Columba. We ate the potatoes and some smoked mackeral, bread and cheese, then washed it down with red wine. A repast for a king, which Columba was, but a simple repast, for simple men of God, giving thanks for this 6th century food.

IONA! Holy Island of Saint Columba! Our final destination was only a few miles further on, as we cleaned up our plates, and began rowing again. What kind of welcome would we receive? When he'd landed, 14 centuries ago, there had been no one to greet him and his band of monks. He'd climbed the highest hill of Iona, and looked back towards his beloved Ireland, found that it could not be seen, and decided to stay.

As darkness was beginning to fall we reached Tinker's Hole, a sheltered natural harbor on the Isle of Mull, just south of IONA. It was 9:30pm, and our skipper Robin called for a rest for a few minutes, to decide on our approach. Tides were running against us in the main channel, and Robin wisely chose to row along the west shore of Mull, to take advantage of the eddy currents. It was dark as we left Tinker's Hole, and headed out to complete the last two or three miles to IONA. The wind and waves had died down, as we rowed silently towards the dark island. None of the crew of the COLMCILLE spoke; each preoccupied with his thoughts as we dipped our oars in unison.

Unknown to us, a welcome craft had just left IONA. In it was Jan Sutch Picard, the Warden of the Iona Community; Graham Boyle, working for the Community; and Crawford Morison, and elder of the local church. They searched for us in the gathering darkness, but passed us by on their way to Tinker's Hole. We were almost invisible except for our small masthead red light. Truly we were ships passing in the night!

The dark outline of IONA loomed ahead as we rowed towards it in silence. Then about 400 yards from the pier, a small motor boat approached us in the gloom. In the bow was a beautiful raven haired young woman, who waved at us as they passed, "Welcome to IONA" she shouted, with a smile and a wave. This was our "IONA welcome!" They circled around us, and led us into the dark jetty.

It was now around 10:30pm and we had been at sea for 13 hours. Surely, I thought, we'd have a few people to greet us! My wife, and a couple of other friends. It would be nice to rest up in the village hall. Suddenly my tired thoughts were shattered, as a cry went up from the pier! We had been sighted, and a hundred voices rose in greeting. "Hip! Hip! Hooray!" Cries of welcome rose to the heavens as the currach slid into its final destination alongside the dark slip.
I

In thanksgiving we hugged our friends and spouses, and offered prayers to the Father for a successful voyage. Then we set free our three young doves; a symbol of the Trinity and of our unity. They flew overhead and alighted on the housetops of IONA, soon to join the local population of white doves which inhabit the Abbey. Saint Columba would have been proud of us.
His name? "The Dove of the Church"

[Donald wrote the above as part of a series that was published in the MacCallum Malcolm Clan Society's newsletter the Argent Castle.]

Easdale THEN June 2003

2008-06-16T20:46:00.011-04:00

We arrived at Easdale Island and spent a few days there. Easdale was a slate quarry. Its slate is well know throughout Europe and it has covered many a famous building.

Now there is a small community who live in the former workers residences. A ferry brings visitors over from the mainland. We were fortunate to stay in their new community center.

There were wheelbarrows by the ferry house that the locals used to transport their purchases from the mainland back to their homes. John gives Robin a lift above in one of them.

We participated in a church service on the mainland one evening. We rowed over in our monk robes and was piped by the local pub keeper.

Several local churches participated in the worship service. Afterwards we took folks out on the Colmcille which was a great hit.

Our first day there, Donald told me to hop in the lorry as Roddy was taken us to see Chief Robin Malcolm in Poltalloch. I would meet the Chief! It was the a highlight of my trip.

Crinan THEN June 2003

2008-06-15T17:21:00.019-04:00

We tied up to this stone jetty in arriving at Crinan. We were meet by the Sempes' who would be putting us up at their homes. We would later move the Colmcille to the loch basin where it would be safely moored.

We stayed a couple of days at Crinan. Unfortunately we were two days ahead of schedule and would not be able to meet and be entertained by Chief Robin Malcolm at Duntrune. He had other guests the days we were there. Skipper Robin wanted to push on due to threat of more storms. I was devastated.
We were able to visit Kilmartin and Lochgilphead. I learned about the Kingdom of Dalriada and its link to Ireland.

We departed Crinan on an overcast day. Crinan Loch was busy with ship traffic. We were able to see Duntrune in the distance. I thought this is close as I will get to see it.

Shipwrecked! THEN June 10, 2003

2008-06-12T20:44:00.009-04:00

We awoke the next morning in the to learn that Robin had departed in the middle of the night back to Gigha. Word had come that the storm had broken the mooring line on the Colmcille and wind had driven it on to the rocks. We knew a fisherman had found it and dragged it to a beach. We did not have a report on the damage. We wondered if trip was now over.

After breakfast our charter bus took us back to the ferry. Landing in Gigha we found that the hull had been torn in a few places and some of the wooden ribs had been cracked. The good news it was all repairable. John Martin a joiner (carpenter) by trade and John MacDonald who was talented with a needle the repairs were completed in a day.

We spent a couple of days on Gigha. We enjoyed meeting the local islanders. That Sunday we participated in the local church service. On a more solemn note we laid to rest the ashes of Janet, Emanuel's girlfriend.

We departed from Gigha and headed for our next stop Crinan. There we would be able to meet the Chief of the MacCallum Malcolm Clan, Robin Malcolm.

St. Columba Day! THEN June 9th, 2003

2008-06-09T20:53:00.003-04:00

Five years ago, today, we had to get to Southend by a charter bus. Our landing in Gigha the night before had put us two days ahead of schedule.

Arriving in Southend, we grabbed lunch and then made our way down to the point to see the Columba footprints. A year later I would see Columba footprints atop of Dunadd in Argyll which had been part of the Kingdom of Dalraida. We donned our robes for a photo opportunity.

Heading back to town we were part of the procession to the church. Several congregations had come to participate. We had an active part in the service. Afterwards, we enjoyed a reception. Afterwards we went to the Parish fellowship hall to spend the night. As we slept the storm came and disaster struck our curragh in Gigha.

Passage to God’s Isle THEN June 8,2003

2008-06-08T20:36:00.009-04:00

Passage to God’s Isle by Tony Watson

The next day, we readied ourselves for the crossing to Scotland with a short ceremony at Corrymeela, a humble Christian center for Irish reconciliation perched high on the cliffs overlooking the sea near Ballycastle. The center was a sister to the Iona community, and held a special place in the hearts of all Colmcille crew. Many of the Irish crew were linked with the center in some way, and the ’97 voyage of the Colmcille had been largely inspired by Corrymeela’s work for peace in Ireland. Even the cross we carried with us had been made from the rafters of the building.

It was fitting that here we would re-create a 6th century monk’s processional for the first time, dressed up in robes which had been made for our journey. Given the tensions of the parade we had witnessed in Portrush the day before, our recreation was now something more: a call for peace through Christian love and a physical reminder to those present of nobler, happier times. Donning the robes, however, was a difficult proposition: we were not monks, but wanted to recreate the voyage for those watching as well as possible. We debated a range of questions. “How do you fasten this thing?!?” Emmanuel exclaimed. John McDonald and I debated the best knot to use for the rope belt. We all wanted to know if we should walk with our hoods on or off. It was a sunny, breezy day and we did not wish to overexpose ourselves to the elements. Besides, some of us felt like dorks. In the end, each of us answered these questions on his own, and our ramshackle band of monks loped along in twos from the parking lot to the center. Poised behind the great wooden cross held aloft proudly by Donald, Alastair led us in chants as we processed. Hit by the sea views and the sound of our own voices as we entered the center, we began to feel more comfortable. We actually sounded pretty good! Even if we still looked like dorks.

Once inside, we were amazed at the number of people who had ventured there to see us off. The Crois, or inner sanctum of the center (from the Irish Gaelic for “little heart”), was full of assembled friends, family, past crew members. We were even humbled to see a few of the individuals we had met in the pubs of Portrush the night before.

We pushed off at 4:30 to a rousing dockside send off from the crowd. We pulled strongly out of the harbor as a crew, paying careful attention to the timing of our strokes. “Look good, boys, remember we have an audience,” Robin intoned. The weather was perfect, with a bright sun and a light breeze. In almost no time, we were in the channel between Rathlin Island and the Antrim coast, pulling in unison as the sharp cliffs of Fairhead slid past us to the southeast. Razorbills flew overhead and skimmed the water to our port side, and the deep blue water was occasionally rippled by a curious seal poking its head above the surface to investigate our strange craft crabbing its way across the water. Once parallel with Rathlin, the winds moved to our Southwest, and we were able to set our sails which, combined with our rowing, allowed us to hit a fairly consistent speed of about 4.5 knots for several hours. The effect on the crew was euphoric, and with the hazy cliffs of the Mull of Kintyre closing on us to Northeast, Donald began to lead the crew in rowing songs.

Pulling as we sang, we made our way across the channel and into the North Channel between Islay and Kintyre, alternating breaks from the oars and passing around food. In keeping with the spirit of recreating Columba’s voyage, we restricted ourselves for the most part to 6th century foods: dried fruit, nuts, smoked fish, bread, and water. We laughed and joked as we tossed food to one another from the stern. Unable to take a break from rowing, I made a sandwich out of smoked mackerel and wholegrain bread, setting it on the bench beside me and grabbing a one handed bite when I could.

John Logan began tossing oranges to the crew.

“Would you like an orange, Tony?,” John asked.
“No thanks,” I replied, squinting in the sun. “I have a fish sandwich..”

He continued tossing them toward the back, when suddenly a chaos of clanking oars ensued on both sides of the boat as Ern and Alastair reached out to catch the same orange, sending it bouncing among their neighboring crewmen.

“Such chaos from a simple orange!” John said, looking at me with a twinkle in his eye. “I know!” I exclaimed, waving my mackerel sandwich high, “That’s why I had a fish sandwich!!”

Our spirits were further lifted when we experienced our first miracle. Searching under some bags at the bottom of the boat, Emmanuel discovered a case of “mead”—in bright red cans with a white stripe and c-o-c-a c-o-l-a down the side-- and began to pass them around. As we gulped the sugary liquid down, the brilliant green cliffs of Ireland began to fade away. We could now barely make out the smoky form of our destination, Gigha, on the horizon.

Our destination was actually the cause of some controversy among our crew. The itinerary clashed with what was actually possible with our mode of travel. Our originally planned destination was South End in Kintyre, the possible site of Columba’s first landing in Scotland (it is equally probable that he landed further up the Kintyre coast; no one knows for certain.) The weather, however, was not going to cooperate. The forecasts called for winds growing from a mild Force 1 to a respectable Force 3 out of the Southwest by morning. Those winds would lash the rocky shores of South End for several days. A landing at South End might be possible if we made it there before the winds had an opportunity to build in strength and alter the sea state, but this was unlikely given the time and our speed. Most likely, we would arrive at South End’s dagger-like coastline after the wind had churned up the surf enough to make a landing highly treacherous for crew and boat alike. Our landing would be fraught with peril as the wind powered surf battered the shore harder with each intensifying gust. This was bad enough, but the deciding factor was the extended forecast for the next few days: storm and Force 7 gusts out of the East. These winds would hit South End head on. Even if we were able to land, we would be unable to leave South End in those conditions. Assuming we ignored the sheer danger of such an attempt, we would still have to row our 4 ton boat directly into the raging surf against a 35 knot wind to get away from the rock strewn coast. This feat was simply not possible, and the resultant need to wait out the storm would throw the rest of our schedule in jeopardy. To many of us, the debate over landing at Gigha instead of South End underscored the challenges of trying to adhere to a 21st century timetable while traveling according to 6th century methods. Given our mode of travel, it was clear we would be beholden to the winds and the tides. While this would make keeping our modern schedule more difficult, it also underscored the challenges Columba would have faced on his original journey. Most of us felt this brought us closer to the spirit of our voyage as a result.

Around 11 pm the sun began to set behind the mountains on Islay, a salmon sky behind purple mountains over a sea of flame. Now in the protection of the Sound, the winds had died just prior to sundown, so we struck our sails. We rowed on as the twilight passed into half-light, with the Mull of Kintyre to our East, Islay and Jura to our West, Gigha slowly coming into view ahead. As darkness fell, these land masses on our horizon turned black, with the cobalt sky above subtly undulating to darkness over a silver moonlit sea.

By 2 AM, we had been rowing for almost ten hours, and the fatigue was beginning to wear on our crew. Our oars clashed regularly as we struggled to pull the boat the last few miles to port in Gigha. Passing Cara Island, a cliff faced island just to the south of Gigha, the exhaustion had reached the point where a few of us nodded off at the oars. Onward we pulled as the long shape of Gigha slid past us to port, wishing to a man that the harbor of Gigha’s main town of Ardminish was located on the southern end of the island. Finally, with the northern dawn beginning to rise over the horizon , the iron jetty came into view, and revitalized, our crew pulled the final half mile into port. We tied up to the jetty, and unloading our gear for the night, stepped ashore onto Gigha.

Gigha comes alive at dawn. At least the island itself does. Even as we were entering the harbor, we could hear the Dawn Chorus of birds singing in the half light. Now, as John Martin led us to the quarters where we would spend the night, the birdsong was overpowering. Birds were everywhere in the bracken, in the bushes, in the hedgerows. John guided us along a path through the fields, silent figures in the mist, awestruck as the Island raised its voice to greet us. Gazing out across the mist shrouded fields, the nighttime chill still in the air, with the sunrise just beginning to turn the villager’s stone cottages to salmon and purple, we were awestruck. Turning down the main lane of the
island, gravel crunching under our feet, we watched as the mist began to turn salmon as
well, and we were struck by the smell of flowers coming from what seemed to be every
bush. We arrived at John’s house just south of Ardminish in silent appreciation.

In Gaelic, Gigha means “God’s Isle.” Laying our heads down in John’s house after our long journey north, we began to understand why.

Day Off in Portrush THEN June 2003

2008-06-07T15:39:00.006-04:00

Day off in Portrush by Tony Watson

The next morning, we awoke to a Saturday festival atmosphere in Portrush as folks from across Northern Ireland descended on the town. We had the day off to get ready for our voyage, and the long range forecasts indicated we would either be leaving early or late Sunday. On that partially sunny Saturday, a 1 kilometer swim in the outer harbor had been planned, drawing contestants from as far away as Europe. It would be a difficult swim, with the distance, the swell, and the 50 degree water temperature to overcome. John Martin, professing polar bear blood, stoutly decided to compete, and some of us gathered at the beach during the race to cheer him on.

The rest of us wandered about town gathering provisions and visiting some of the local sights, mixing with the crowds. We would have ordinarily expected a pleasant day of strolling families, sunshine, and beachside fun, but today the Loyalists were set to parade, and a sense of tension pervaded. Around 1pm, the main street was cleared, and the orange-bedecked paraders began to snake their way along the main street to the deafening sound of bass and snare drums. Uniformed young toughs marched past, shouting among their ranks, pumping their fists in the air, earrings and rings glinting in the sunlight. Over their heads flew a banner swearing vigilance in the destruction of Popery. They were followed by a group of uniformed school girls, an unspoken vow that the next generation would carry on the fight, and raise children of its own into it. The effect the parade had on the crowd was unsettling; some people cheered the parade, many tried to ignore it, some watched in stony silence. Like many of the onlookers, I suddenly found myself on guard over my own Catholic upbringing, and tried to look Protestant.

I found myself fingering the emblem of our curragh: the “Bantry Boat” pin on my lapel. The pin, which had been given to our crew by Robin and the other C.C.M.H.G. members, was the hopeful symbol of their group’s attempt to reconcile the terrible divisions that have set Christian brother against brother over the centuries. Pulling its intricate design from an early Celtic Christian grave, the pin recalled an era when the fresh Christian message of God’s infinite love, compassion, and forgiveness freed the warrior inhabitants of this island from their fear of death and shadow. I felt sad for the marchers, knowing that this hopeful Christian message of mercy and tolerance would be lost to them as long as they felt the need to march. In marching they kept alive the traditions of the past few centuries; traditions of bitter struggle, sectarian warfare, and manipulation of the mob by those in power. They sadly believed their march honored their past, ignorant that each discordant step marched them further from a legacy reaching through the mists of history to the early days of Christianity in Ireland. It is a legacy rich with kings, artists, heroes, and saints. It is a legacy which speaks to their noblest traits as a people.

That night, our crew had dinner together. We told stories. The winner was John Martin, who with his deep gravelly voice proceeded to describe his race without ever divulging the actual result. “T’wuz nothing at all. Less than a kilo-meter. I wuz ashore ‘fore I knew’t.” After dinner, some of us ventured out to some of the pubs of Portrush. As we made the rounds, we talked with people about our voyage. After people got over their initial astonishment (“I didn’t know you were allowed to drink!”), we found that many wanted to talk about our voyage, and in many cases about their own faith. In the course of that night, we were able to reach out to a few individuals with Christ’s message of hope. The experience made it clear that our mission had truly begun. It also showed us that we would achieve it best by meeting people on their own terms, talking frankly about our voyage and the faith that drove it, and leaving them to draw their own conclusions. We would have to trust in God to show them the way; this would be the subject of much debate during our voyage.

The Launch THEN June 2003

2008-06-07T15:02:00.011-04:00

The Launch by Tony Watson

The next morning, we awoke early, said prayers and had breakfast together as a crew. Robin had seen to it that we all could stay together at Malvern House, a bed and breakfast overlooking the harbor. Joan, our hostess, and Kate, her friend from next door, both went out of their way to help us settle in so that we could focus on the journey ahead. For breakfast, we were served the specialty of the house: an Ulster Fry, which we learned was a traditional Northern Irish breakfast of sausage, Smithfield ham, fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, potato bread and soda bread. It was delicious; we devoured the contents on our plates, trying hard not to think about the impact it would have on our arteries!

After breakfast, we walked to the Causeway Coast Maritime Heritage Group boathouse which would serve as our headquarters in Port Rush. Staring out to sea on a head of rocks just outside the entrance to Port Rush Harbour, the squat, white concrete turn of the century pavilion had previously served as a launch point for the Port Rush lifeboats. The R.N.L.I. lifeboats, which still operate today, have been the salvation for many a ship in distress on Antrim’s beautiful but treacherously rocky coastline. Manned entirely by volunteers, the lifeboat crews are renowned for their selfless work setting out to sea in conditions that keep the even the most experienced sailors ashore. As we poked around the boathouse, we took notice of the long stone ramp descending into the surf from the back of the building. In the not too distant past, the lifeboats—which were rowboats at the time-- would be raced to the boathouse by horse drawn carriage to the top of the ramp, and launched out into howling surf below on their missions of mercy. The lifeboat crews are a testament to both the dangerous temper of the seas of the Northern Irish Coast as well as the courageous selflessness of the communities that have lived on it for millennia.

With the modern lifeboat crews now based exclusively out of Port Rush Harbour, the C.C.M.H.G. boathouse now served as the base for all maritime heritage efforts and sea kayaking on the Causeway Coast. Robin and John were active members of this group, and Robin had attained some local fame when he rowed a sea kayak from Ireland to Scotland a few years before. This made all of us feel all the more confident in his ability to lead us on our journey.

We spent the morning sorting through gear and painting the oars we would be using on our voyage, setting them out to dry on the rocks by the surf. By this point, we were beginning to develop a group dynamic, and our work was accompanied by banter, laughter, and playful boasting. This morning also was the first time we had an opportunity to practice the hymns and songs we would sing in services along the way to Iona. We had much practice to do. Alastair was to lead our efforts, and later that morning we had our first formal song practice in the upstairs of the boathouse. The room, looking out to sea from a bank of solid looking windows at the back of the boathouse, was soon filled by the beautiful harmony of a dozen men singing rowing songs, psalms, and hymns. It was a special moment for our crew. Singing in unison, it became clear that were not only to be a crew, but a brotherhood of pilgrims who would try to touch those we met with the faith that had sparked our journey. In many ways, it was this aspect of our voyage which would bring us closest to St. Columba’s original voyage: his mission of conversion had been undertaken out of faith, and buttressed by his faith in Christ. He had set out confident in his worldly abilities as a sailor, but entrusted the success of his mission to God. Sitting in our small boathouse looking out at the sea we would soon be crossing, we realized that despite our own confidence in ourselves as a crew, the success of our mission would also depend on our faith in God to guide us safely.

That evening, we gathered at the slipway in Port Rush Harbour to launch our curragh. This would not be an easy task. Colmcille was quite possibly the largest curragh afloat, being 2 feet longer than the Brendan, which Tim Severin had famously sailed across the Atlantic in 1976-7. Built in 1997 in Dingle, County Kerry by the renowned curragh builder Eddie Hutchison for the C.C.M.H.G’s original voyage to Iona, our curragh was 38 feet in length and 8 feet in beam. Made of a basket-like latticework of oaken bent ribs and stringers, the frame was then covered by layers of canvass that were sewn together and covered in tar to seal the hull. An open cloth boat without the benefit of a keel, the result was a sturdy, flexible, craft that slid over the waves rather than cut through them. The simple design of our craft would have other advantages to modern craft, as we were to learn later during our voyage.

At the moment, however, our thoughts were on getting Colmcille off of its trailer, down the slipway, and into the water safely. Our boat, despite its lightweight design, weighed in unladen at a very heavy 2 tons. Laden, it would weigh as much as 4 tons, and could flex to a lengthy 40 feet.
To get our craft into the water, we would have to lift it off of the trailer and roll her down the slipway on her rubber fenders, which would serve as makeshift rollers. This would have to be done with utmost care; there was a strong risk of damaging her fragile cloth hull on the concrete surface of the slipway until she was safely in the water. To do this, our crew gathered on either side of curragh and lifted her 2 tons across the trailer and set her gently down onto the ground, resting gingerly on her strong side gunnel while a number of us held her in place. The rest of our crew then scrambled among the others, placing the fenders alongside the length of our curragh. Then, carefully and slowly, our crew lowered her gently right side up onto the fenders. Getting on all sides, we rolled Colmcille along the fenders and down the slipway towards the water. As we rolled her slowly along, some of us raced fenders from the stern to the bow, adjusting them underneath as necessary to keep her fragile hull from coming into contact with the concrete surface below. With some of us knee deep in water and a few of us in the curragh to fend off from the seawalls, we gently rolled her the last few feet. Colmcille was launched!

By this time, we had attracted quite a crowd. While curraghs are still used in some parts of Ireland as fishing craft, none come close to size of our craft. Many of the comments and questions by onlookers concerned our voyage, our craft, and comments on its size. “Ye mean yer goin’ to row t’ Scotlan’ in tha’!?!,” volunteered one such onlooker, the deep lines on his face indicating that he was no stranger to the water himself, “I’ll pray for ye!”

Scrambling down the seawall and into our curragh, we took her out to sea for the first time for a training run. Many of us had been training on our own for months prior to coming together as a crew. Now, as we passed the seawalls that formed the entrance to the harbor, we pulled together for the first time as a crew. Well, almost together. Our first time out was marked by the clashing of our oars as we tried to find a rhythm as crew. We would clearly need some more time practicing to get it fully down. The curragh itself performed beautifully. Gliding across the waves, she proved herself both highly maneuverable and seaworthy. Despite the frequent clank of the oars of our crew, she moved with a grace that I had only previously seen in the finest sailing vessels. She could clearly make the journey. Any failure would be ours as crew, and we all were resolved to meet the challenge of the voyage ahead.

Back ashore, we ate at a local restaurant together and jokingly chided each other over our lackluster coordination as rowers. We knew we would have plenty of time to work the kinks out. In the next few days we would set out for Ballycastle, a port 18 miles down the Antrim coast, and we all looked to the days ahead with anticipation of the long rows ahead of us.

1st Anniversary of Donald's Homecoming

2008-06-02T20:54:00.003-04:00

Today is the first anniversary of Donald's Homecoming. To Remember Donald and to commenerate the 5th Anniversay of the St. Columba's Voyage, I'll be telling about the Voyage through pictures on my Flickr account, St. Columba's Journey -2003. Click here to go to the account.

I'm using photograhs from fellow crew member Emmanuel Gorres, Rodney Lightbody our land support van driver and a few of mine. I have tried not to overwhelm a visitor with a slew of photos of the same thing. This is a "work in progress" as I tell the story and create the captions. I'll probably change a photograph or two. Pleae feel free to comment. Slainte' mhath!

Alexandria Scottish Christmas Walk - NOW

2007-12-02T22:26:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I attended the Alexandria Scottish Christmas Walk. It was the second I attended. The first was in 2005 with Donald.

My friend, David Levite of the Colmcille crew invited me to his home in Old Town for an open house before the walk. Donald and I had gone there, before the parade, too. David is a great host and with his friends made the open house a fantastic way to start the day.

After leaving David’s and heading for the MacCallum and Malcolm Clan line up area, I was met by Kathy. She was looking for us and was the first one there. Neil McCallum with his son, Sean would soon find us. Neil spotted Marianne and Doug McCallum in the clan staging area in line with our banners. Soon, we would be joined by another newcomer to the Clan, Mike McCollum with his wife two children and his mother. All decked out in the MacCallum plaids.

As we waited for the parade to begin and catch up with us in its tail’ we definitely were in the rear. I visited with my friends in Gordon House and Donnachaidh Clan. There was a sense of excitement and feelings of camaraderie between the various groups whether they be clans, dog societies, pipers, re-enactors as the moment grew close for us to fall into formation and march out becoming our part of the parade.

Our time came and out we marched. The streets were lined with people young and old, but all excited. With waves and shouts of Merry Christmas from the participants and spectaculars everyone was enjoying themselves. The group behind us was a merry group called the Clan Macathair. With quite a few toasts of wee drams they were fortified to belt out chants along the route.

Following them were the MacAlpin Regiment, which would stop and fire a volley of gunshot every other blocked we marched. There were many bands, pipes and marching ones that added greatly to the festivities. It was a grand time. The day would be topped with lunch at the Fish Market restaurant with Gordons and Donnachaidhs.

Donald you were missed, yet your presence was there.

VA SCOTTISH GAMES - NOW

2007-09-17T22:37:00.000-04:00

Last Saturday attended the Virginia Scottish Games and Festival at Sky Mountain State Park. It was the first year at this venue. It was a better drive than to the City of Alexandria and the scenery made you think you were in the Highlands of Scotland. It was a winner for me.

Kept Doug McCallum company at the MacCallum Malcolm Clan tent. Meet up with David Levite another crew member from the '03 Voyage of St. Columba. I remember being at the festival in '05 with Donald. I found him at the fiddler tent where he sponsored an award in honor of his father. Donald did much to remember and support his heritage.

PORTRUSH -THEN

2007-09-01T21:35:00.000-04:00

A couple of hours wait at the train station in Belfast put us on a local train to Portrush. The four Americans with their duffle bags were a curiosity. It was an idyllic ride through a picturesque countryside.

I was able to strike up a conversation with a man who was commuting home from work. It was a strain for us both to hear one another as the sound from the wheels clicking across the rails was loud. As I told him what we were doing our conversation turned to spiritual things. He explained he had grown up in the church but upon reaching adulthood ceased attending.

I sent up an “arrow prayer” for help from the Lord to reach this man. The train slowed and then stopped. My companion commented, “That’s strange the train has never stopped here before.” I then was able to share my faith story in the quieted coach. When I finished, he commented, “I see that you are a man of strong faith. You have given me much to think about. Thank you.” Then the train lurched forward and our journey continued.

Arriving in Portrush, we were met by our Irish crew contingent, skipper Robin Ruddock, Jim Allen and John Logan, and Donald. Robin loaded up our gear in his Range Rover and would take it to the bed and breakfast where we were to stay. We were off to the warehouse were our boat, the Colmcille was stored.

A long day was catching up with me and the rest of the evening was a blur as the affect of jet lag caught up with me. Colmcille was on a trailer, upside down with its bottom up. It was totally black and a formidable sight. We did some minor work on the rails and then hauled it to the waterfront where the boat shed for the Causeway Coast Maritime Society was located. Not much else is remembered that evening.

For our time in Portrush we stayed in a lovely Bed & Breakfast and each morning received an “Irish breakfast” of eggs, sausage, bacon, blood pudding, and grilled tomatoes. Cereal and oatmeal was available, also. The lady of home took great care of us, Joan was her name. The next morning from our arrival others of the Scottish contingent were there and others came in during the day. It was all very exciting!

Happy Birthday Mum! - NOW

2007-08-02T21:27:00.000-04:00

My Mum would have been 78, today. She went home five years, ago. I got the Scottish name from my Dad. My adventurous spirit from my Mum. She was some lady. Very proper, but no push over. Yes, Jessie Robertson Boyce Malcolm was as tough as they come. This picture is of her and Dad, 1957.

My mother challenged me when I was in Junior High, that if I graduated from High School with honors, she would give me a plane ticket to England for me to spend the summer there. Dad had met Mum when he was in the Air Force stationed in England for the Berlin Airlift. Mum's Mum eas born in Inverness. Her Dad was English, with Scottish roots.

I claimed my prize at graduation and went to England. I met my Liverpool family. I stayed two weeks with my Mum's uncle Jim Robertson. Uncle Jim became a piper with the Scottish Liverpool Kings as WWI was ending. Served 20 years in India, brought back to the UK when Dunkirk fell. During WWII he was air dropped into France for commando raids. Worked his way back to the coast and would be picked up by British submarines. Then he repeated it over again. After the war, he served in Palestine. He retired when Israel became a nation.

He told me about the 21 men he lost in his command when the King David Hotel was bombed. It was shown in the movie Exodus. Fifteen years later as I traveled through Israel finishing four years of working in Kuwait, I went to the King David. I toasted the 21, with single malt.

That summer of 1970 with Uncle Jim, he had told me to go down to the local tailor and have a kilt made. I asked him what tartan. Boy, he said there is only one, Robertson! Foolish me, I didn't go. But in 2004 when I was in Inverness, I purchsed 9 yards of Robertson plaid. My first trip to Scotland was that summer in 1970.

My Mum was the greatest Mother, ever. She tempered Dad's displinary ways with her mercy. I could talk to Mum about anything. Mum had a big heart and was always caring for others. She was still making her rounds taking care of the sick and infirm up to her last few days here. Only her family and closest friend knew she had cancer. When the last stages came and she was hospitalized, my Dad, my sister, Denise and myself were with her. She looked at us and said I don't want to puit you through this. I am ready to check out of here. With that she raised her thumb. The Angel of Mercy came in minutes and took her to her eternal reward. Thank you, Jesus.

We miss her.

Mum's birthday in 1997.

Crossing the Pond - THEN

2007-07-28T21:47:00.001-04:00

Donald had left several weeks earlier for Scotland. Emanuel Gorres, Tony Watson, David Levite and myself were headed for Dublin, Ireland all leaving on the same day. Donald would be coming over to Ireland as we and the Scots contingent all emerged on Portrush.

As it turned out Tony and I were on the same flight from BWI to New York. As we prepared to take off I started a conversation with a fellow passenger next to me. As I explained what we doing. The passenger in front of me turned her head to hear the conversation.

She exclaimed how exciting! I'm Roman Catholic and I know about St. Columba. (Most Americans don't.) She said her neighbor was part of senior management of the Discovery Channel and she would tell him to send a crew to cover our adventure. (Never saw them, but many UK correspondents did.

After landing in New York in disembarking from the plane, the female passenger stuck out her hand to shake mine and said, Bless you, Ern Malcolm! I felt something in my palm which turned out to be a tightly folded fifty dollar bill!

I believe Tony and David were on the same flight, Emmanuel would arrive before us. The flight to Ireland was uneventful and as we three picked up our luggage, Emmanel showed up.

We took a bus to the train station and there we encountered our first difficulty with a divided Ireland. We didn't see on the train schedule boards any trains that would take us to Portrush. We asked the ticket agent and he just shook his head and looked away. Two more agents gave the same response of can't help you.

We were really perplexed. Then another traveler came up to us and said he overhead our conversations with the ticket agents. He told us to take the #XX train that will go to Belfast, NORTHERN Ireland and there you can get a train to Portrush. On the schedule board that train showed no stops in Northern Ireland. He followed his advice and got to Belfast.

Belfast City Hall

Grandfather Mountain Highland Games - NOW

2007-07-21T15:33:00.000-04:00

Last weekend, I was in Linville, NC for the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games. It was a wonderful time! I have posted photographs of the weekend here.

I first attended the Grandfather Mountain Highland Games in 2005. Chief Robin Malcolm was to be the honored there. Donald and Lise' were going. How could I not go. I had meet the Chief in 2003 on the Voyage of St. Columba. It was to be really big! I made my reservations as a camper.

I was also interested to meet Don Malcolm. Don was President at the time. I appreciated his making available to the Clan a cotton Malcolm tartan. I had purchased several yards which I wore as the feilidh mhor or Great Kilt. I had been married wearing it!

I haven't been able to locate my photos of the 2005 games, but here is the link to the Clan MacCallum/Malcolm Society website with photos of the event. I do have this one of Donald and I with the Chief. When the Chief saw me, he remembered me from the 2003 visit and referred to as the oarsman. What a compliment! My fellow crew members may chuckle as I was probably the one more likely to be out of sync in rowing.

I would like to jump ahead in my recounting the Voyage of St. Columba. Here is the link to photographs of a side trip to Duntrune Castle the seat of Clan Chief Robin Malcolm. Chief Robin was expecting us to land in Crinan and was preparing to entertain the crew. But a storm had placed us two days ahead of schedule. Chief Robin had other entertaining to do when we arrived.

Our skipper Robin knew we must press on to Iona. As we pulled out of Crinan, I could see Duntrune Castle and was so disappointed that I would not meet the Chief. We arrived at our next stop Easdale Island. Our lorry support driver, Roddy Lightbody arrived and he and Donald told me to get into the truck. We were off taking the back roads heading for Duntrune to drop in on the Chief.

Nearly two hours later we entered the gate of Duntrune. Opening the great door to the turret, Donald called out, CHIEF ROBIN! Aye, came the reply, come on up. We entered and went up the spiral stone stair way like so many movies I had seen of castles with knights fighting their way to the top.

At the top we found the Chief in a huge great room. Donald introduced us as this was his third meeting with the Chief. Chief Robin expressed his disappointment the crew could not be there as he made all the provisions to feed us royally. Chief Robin asked if we like a beer and cheeky me replied, "a wee dram would go down better, Chief!" Our hospitable host readily obliged.

After time of getting to know one another, the Chief offered to fill our glasses which suited the parched voyagers. He said we are moving up to the better quality whiskey. We had passed the test!

Chief Robin told us about his family and answered our many questions about the Clan. The Chief of course knew his long lineage and told us of family members who had done well in the USA. I told the Chief that my father had told me as a young man, not to get interested in genealogy as he wanted me to know I came from a long line of thieves and drunks!

The Chief roared with laughter and slapped his thigh and said, "Ernest, be proud of that, as we Scots of nothing but thieves and drunks! That's how my family gained our lands and wealth. He showed us the narrow slits in the castle walls that his forefathers had placed thier arrows/muskets to keep their wealth from other thieving Scots!

As we departed, Chief Robin gave us each a wee bottle of Scotch to wash the dust out of our mouth with a return to Easdale. What a trip!

Present Past Interconnections - NOW

2007-07-21T05:46:00.000-04:00

It's 0545 as I begin drafting this post. The one day, I have to sleep in, my mind is a whirl of past memories and present experiences. I sit at my desk in my sportkilt, Clan An Drumma t-shirt, with a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea in my recently acquired 'delft' china Grandfather Mountain Highland Games cup and with traditional Celtic music from AccuRadio streaming from the Internet. Who wants to sleep in!

It has been over a month since beginning this blog. I feel badly, that this will be my second post. I am overwhelmed in the enormity of the project, I've begun. My desk is covered with packets of photos and items I picked up on our trips. Time is limited, as I work two jobs (part-time in a Wal-Mart and manage a home owners association). My real vocation as a minister of the Gospel seems at times not given first place. Confession is good for the soul.

Last night, I renewed a friendship; Peter Mcleod had come to Virginia! David Levite of Alexandria, VA (part of the American contingent of the Colmcille crew) had emailed that Peter of Skye was coming stateside for a college seminar in Ohio. I offered to spring for dinner for us all to meet.

David offered to meet half way from Alexandria and Spotsylvania, my home. It was only fitting to select the Macaroni Grill in Woodbridge to be the place. It was here in the winter of 2003 that the American contingent first met together with Donald to discuss our upcoming voyage.

I remember Donald sharing his faith with our server who happened to be of the Jewish faith. Our server last night, introduced himself, Gershom. Peter quickly noted his name as the first son of Moses and began a Bible lesson on Moses.

On the Comcille voyage, I overheard a couple of times fatherly advice Donald would share with Peter, the youngest member on our crew. Peter seemed to be searching for his place in life. What I now realize Peter is a genius (like an Edison or Einstein) who functions on an intellectual level beyond most of us.

Peter has a website on his theory of the cosmic forces in creating Noah's flood and posted a paper on it. A college professor of a Christian college in Ohio had read Peter's website and offered him a all expenses paid trip to their seminar on creation theory! And David was serving Peter in being his companion in taking him there. What a friend!

The photo here Peter gave me last evening. He and David before dinner, had visited the town of Occoquan seeing a friend of David's who owned a curio shop. There Peter acquired this photograph entitled 'Monks in a Boat' by Jerr ODauritzen of Kerry, Ireland. It speaks to me of us three with Donald in the hand of God.

The Summons - THEN

2007-06-13T13:09:00.001-04:00

I had not been very interested in my Scottish ancestry, until the late nineties when I was in my forties. As a young man my father told me, "son, don't ever get interested in genealogy because you come from a long line of drunks and thieves." Enough said. Not sure how it happened but while I was working in New Jersey I caught the Celtic connection bug and would buy my kilt (filabeg) from Pipers' Cove in Kearny.

Later with my transfer back to Virginia, I took up residence in the Fredericksburg area and attended my first Scottish Highland Games there. At one of the festival booths I find the Clan McCallum Malcolm Society address and joined. I learned of the St. Columba connection to my name and was inspired by the life of this Saint. I also joined the Fredericksburg Scottish Society.

During this time I had been 'struggling' with a perceived call that I may have to ordination as a priest in the Episcopal Church. With entering the new century I found myself in a fortuitous situation that allowed me to step back from a fast pace professional work life and to discern this call to ordained ministry. I began the formal discernment process with the church and started taking online and intensive week long campus courses at Trinity Episcopal School of Ministry.

On December 7th 2002, I received my copy of the Argent Castle from the Clan McCallum Malcolm Society. As I sat in my office reading it and turned to the last page where I read an article by Donald McCallum who was calling men of the clan to join him in re-enacting St. Columba's departure in 563 AD from Ireland with twelve monk companions sailing to Scotland. Where they would establish an abbey on the Isle of Iona. These monks would bring the Christian faith to Scotland and northern England. Donald wanted to re-enact the voyage, but more importantily fan the embers of a diminishing Christian faith in his native Scotland.

When I finished the article, I called to my wife, Sharon who was in the kitchen that I believed God had placed me in front of an open door. She replied then I must go through it.

Donald had only gave his email address to contact him. I searched for his phone number via the internet and found it. I called and got Donald immediately. I told him I just had read his article in the newsletter. I explained that I was a Christian and had done some sailing. Yes, Donald exclaimed and a member of the clan! Donald explained that he had a letter of commitment to sign, but I was now welcomed aboard to be part of the crew.

As it turned out I would be the last of the four man American contingent. Donald had a fellow member of his church that was to go - Emmanuel Gorres. Donald had gave a presentation to the Washington DC, St. Andrews Society and two men had stepped forward; Tony Watson and David Levite.

Later That evening my wife asked about the door God had placed in front of me. After I told her about the voyage, she asked are you sure it's from God? Yes, I was!

Within a couple of weeks Donald, Tony, David and myself met for dinner at an Italian restaurant in Woodbridge to discuss the trip. There would be a couple of more meetings to make preparation for our departure.

Donald had been putting the trip together for over a year and had the ground laid on the other side of the pond with more crew members, boat, support and itinerary with local people to met us as we sailed along the coast.

It seemed Donald had thought of everything. His enthusism was contaigous. I had the expectation of an event of a life time. As it would prove to be.

I would be commissioned by my local church and Donald and David participated. When Donald heard the offetory song, he recognized it as the Summons from the Iona Community written by John Bell. The lady who sang it was my wife Sharon.

Six months had flew by from signing up. We would be departing for Ireland to begin this journey of a lifetime.