All posts by Iona Hostel

Turquoise On The Gate

Dancing Waves, Oil On Board, Alison Critchlow
Dancing Waves, Oil On Board, Alison Critchlow

I arrived as the only passenger on the ferry, with enormous amounts of materials – oil paint, acrylic, watercolours, boards, canvases, paper, sketchbooks – far too much I thought…we’ll see. My intention is to work outside as much as possible. It became apparent on day one that the weather will dictate where I can work and when – more specifically the wind. A Hebridean wind is not something to be taken lightly!

I feel very at home here; relaxed, inspired, energised and I am working hard. Spending lots of time looking, drawing and painting on the beach. I am becoming fascinated by the rocks… how they differ from one beach to the next, the colours in different light, specific formations. It is absolutely mesmerising watching the waves crash over them.

I love the fact that I am getting to know the pattern of the tides and moon. It was a big, bright moon in my first week here so very low and high tides. Wonderful settling into the rhythm of this place. I am starting to learn how the sea comes in around the various formations, the channels and shapes left at low tide and the different angles of the waves coming into the beaches.I am getting close in to the subject and wishing I had some larger canvases (reminding myself I have to get all these slightly wet oil paintings home in a month’s time!) Here are some of the paintings so far:

There is quite a bit of sand getting mixed into the paint, which is inevitable working on the beach. There is also a need to work reasonably fast before the fingers become too numb! I’m finding it very useful to bring the work back to the studio and spend time considering it… a change of pace. Something quite new often strikes me when I get the painting inside.


I must also mention the geese… there are loads of them! I have developed a habit of sitting by a lovely Celtic cross where I draw on my way to the village. It has a spectacular view across the Sound Of Iona. A great place to watch the changing sky, but I love it most towards the end of the day when the geese all lift off in a noisy gaggle and then flick from black to white as they change direction and return to their field of choice. Here are a few sketchbook pages:


I woke up to a power cut yesterday. Thick fog and an eerie silence, very calm… the first really windless day. Everything was dampened by the fog; sand, sounds, colours, smells. I went down to the beach, big waves, flood tide – it was wonderful – only being able to see quite close things – no “view” out to sea. It felt very intimate as though I was isolated in my own little bubble. I decided to take canvases onto the beach, a rare opportunity to use them outside without having to weigh them down with rocks. Beautiful subtle greys and greens, this was all about sound and movement, huge waves pounding the rocks. Very exciting, a real thrill to paint in my own little world… I worked on several paintings and my brain seemed to wake up.

Wave, Oil On Board, Alison Critchlow
Wave, Oil On Board, A Critchlow

Fascinating how the fog not only changed the colour palette of these paintings but by obscuring the view made me use my other senses more, and respond to the movements and sounds with the paint.  I lost track of the day completely…it felt like a very special, private, ageless moment where time stood still…as though all this grey mist had made anything possible…ironic that a fog had brought so much clarity. I started to realise that it is the rhythm and movement created by the action of the tides on these rocks which is of interest, not just capturing a momentary crash of water, but somehow distilling this, getting the underlying rhythm.

Big Sea, Oil On Canvas, Alison Critchlow
Big Sea, Oil On Canvas, A Critchlow

Lots of ideas emerging about time and motion and how these things can be noted down. Thinking of passages of paint being reminiscent of a phrase in music… all about harmony and discord, balance and flow… also thinking about using multiple panels to create larger work. I am starting to envisage large canvases once I get home with big passages of paint and realising that I need to absorb as much as I can about this experience.With that in mind I have been looking in more detail at the rocks.

One of the many wonderful people I have met here is a geologist who is able to explain, in layman’s terms a bit about  the formation of this landscape. Fascinating and slightly mind bending! It is phenomenal to look through his magnifier at the structure of these rocks, like taking a walk on the surface of another planet… and incredible how every detail is a mirror of the larger landscape in microcosmic form. It also made me think about time and notation… how these rocks hold a silent record of their creation if we are able to read it.A few more sketchbook pages…my way of transporting myself back to Iona!

I have been staying in the Shepherd’s hut which is just up the hill a little way from the hostel. I love it ! I have become used to its quirks and gentle rocking… a bit like being in a boat, it is a haven which seems to encourage peace and clear thinking.

Conversations in the hostel have ranged from politics and world affairs to accountancy and espionage, pilgrimage to sugar free baking. I have learnt about all sorts of things, much of it now feeding into my thoughts…there have been lessons in pixels and philosophy, St Bridget and geology, dance notation, quantum physics, seaweed harvesting, bread making, theology, fiddle music and choral singing, making a paint brush from a  goose feather, constellations, Scottish history ,tides, ferries and phases of the moon, sand banks , skiffs and serpentine, orgonite domes and sharing a studio with a blackbird!

Meeting a diverse mix of interesting people is a key part of this experience. The hostel seems to provide a string of well timed experts who are very generous with their knowledge and patient with their explanations. The perfect nurturing environment in which to discuss all sorts of ideas and concepts.

Turn Of The Tide, North Beach, Oil On Canvas, Alison Critchlow
Turn Of The Tide, North Beach, Oil On Board, Alison Critchlow

Natures rhythms, constant , relentless, fundamental motion, percussive sounds of the sea, thinking about notes and chords, pounding beat of the waves…passages of sound and movement…how to translate all of this into paint?

A crashing wave is  momentary and ancient, repeated throughout time. There is something about watching tides come and go that resonates on a very deep level…I think its a fundamental rhythm that we respond to as humans. The work I am taking home is the first stage of a much longer process and will inform a series of larger studio paintings all about time and motion. I want to see if I can make paintings in the studio at home that create the same resonance, something really fundamental to life.It will be really exciting to work on a larger scale and see if I can find the right speed, weight and fluidity of marks.

I think I may be responsible for various shades of turquoise building up on the gate… Oil paint takes time to dry and I have to think my way around the logistics of getting wet paintings home again…so as my last week is here  it’s time  to embrace water based media!

Sea Drawing, Iona February, Mixed Media on Board, Alison Critchlow
Sea Drawing, Iona, February. Mixed Media on Board, A Critchlow

An unexpected aspect of this residency is that I have discovered a lot about myself.  I have learnt to be more open with sharing ideas and thoughts about my work in the early stages and as a result I have discovered a wealth of knowledge and talked to so many interesting people. I am also enormously grateful to the local people on the island who bothered to stop and talk and made me feel very at home, even though I was covered in paint and quite likely had a blue eyebrow or two ! I enjoyed the talk I gave very much and I really appreciated so many people coming along and their interest and questions led to some great discussion.


My aim was to gain headspace and inspiration for a body of new work…which I have certainly done, but I have also learnt something much greater…about myself. I was chatting to one of the local people the day before I left and she asked ” how have you got on ?” I told her that I have gained far more from my month here than I ever imagined and she replied ” You always get more than you expected from Iona!”

Incoming Tide, North Beach, Oil On Canvas, Alison Critchlow
Incoming Tide, North Beach, Oil On Canvas, A Critchlow

I have been home from Iona for a month now, and a new body of work is under way in my studio, based on all of this.The words for this blog post were written while I was on the island and I decided to leave them largely unaltered for this post.It has been a deeply inspiring month, transformative and enriching in all sorts of ways.


I was very lucky to share my time at Lagandorain with some great people – Iona the artist in residence before me ( we overlapped by 2 weeks which was wonderful) Colette, Misa, Marc and John. The creative, nurturing environment at the hostel was enormously important to this experience and I would like to thank them…as well as all the people passing through. Superb coffee at the Craft Shop, healthy seaweed consumption and the Spar have all played their part too! Special thanks are due to John who was happy to let me roam around his croft getting flashes of paint on his gates and leaving my mark on the studio floor and who was kind enough to send my rucksack full of all my worldly possessions back to me when I managed to leave it on the wrong side of the Sound Of Iona!

You can see more of Alison’s work on her website or follow her on facebook at

By Alison Critchlow

Ten Weeks on Iona

“Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, FullSizeRender.jpg
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Strong and content I travel the open road.”

How could I say it any better than Walt Whitman? I came with such eagerness and a sense of adventure with a simple desire to work in solitude and quiet. My children worried about me coming to this tiny remote island alone.  It is not easy to get here.  It takes 2 ferries and a bus ride across the desolate island of Mull before you see the soft turquoise waters and white sand shores of Iona.  It was late October when I arrived.  I had too much luggage and too many art materials.

Iona Abbey

Thousand of pilgrim’s feet trample over this little island especially over spring and summer.  Most of them come only for a day trip and to see the Abbey.  But now it is winter and they are gone.

I arrived to a hostel packed with travelers from all over the world. Who were these people finding shelter at the hostel from the winds and rain of November and December storms?  Who travels the world in winter?  I sat around the table at dinner mesmerized by their life stories. Free Spirits, entrepreneurs, artists, writers, story tellers, a whole plethora of folks sat at that table out on the north end of that tiny wind-swept island weaving magic in their combined stories.  The air was perfumed by their shared humanity. I was drunk on the richness of their lives.

When I was not in the common room visiting, I was feverishly working in my room on the small seascape pastels I was creating.  The biggest problem I posed for myself was, “Could I make postcard-sized paintings with any sense of movement and life?”. How do I translate the flow and energy of 12 foot long paintings with all their gesture and sweeping line into a 5″ x 7″ painting?  My favorite painter, Emily Carr, said, “Let my talent be in service to my vision.”  So I was asking myself what was my vision?  What are my themes?  Can they be universal and am I able to make art that exists as a metaphor for the larger cosmic energy that animates all things?  Energy that I sense, but could I translate that into form?

I did 25 paintings while I was here.  I achieved my desire to breathe life into them.  Yet I struggled with the dichotomy of my working life in my small cell-like room with the pull of wanting to hear traveler’s tales out in the common room.  The view of the ocean and the myriad islands out beyond the parameters of my window kept calling me, but I pulled the landscape in devouring it, sucking it in like air, like candy, and transmuting it into art.  Some of my questions were answered.  Some were not.


In the two and a half months that I’ve been here, there have been chapters to this experience. Besides the random traveler, there was a time when the hostel was filled with women.  All of them were artists and all of them were authors as well.  We had stimulating conversations about art and being artists.  We sang together in the Abbey and St. Oran’s Chapel.

We made meals together, it felt like we were a community of nuns, save the one lone male Marc who lives and works here.  For him it must have felt like his own private harem.  After our nightly soirees, we would retire to the quiet of our “cells” to read, create art, or sleep.

Marc’s nightly serenade

Often, the  owner of the hostel, John invited us up to his home, a traditional white croft house where we watched movies.  One was about Gertrude Stein.  Lively discussions always came out of these visits.  Gradually over the weeks the other artists did their work, gave a presentation to the community, drifted away and went home.  I was the last one left.



Christmas happened with a great tempest raging outside.  The wind howled so much and beat againimg_4567st the side of the buildings and shook the roof until it became the talk of the village.  Complaints about the inability to sleep became commonplace.  Marc, at one point, left the shelter of his little bothy, swearing and cursing the wind and its bombardment.  He even slept in the hostel for a few hours to get relief.  Collette’s parents were here during the big Christmas storm and had a hard time sleeping.  Out in the great room, the table was filled with nuts, fruit, and gold candles.  Everything looked festive and opulent.  Marc and Collette put up a willow branch and put some small white lights on it and hung seashells from its branches.  The windows were decorated too with Christmas lights and cut out snowflakes. One pilgrim, Heli who was from Finland, made a gingerbread house. It was perfect. Simple. Meaningful.

The ten weeks I spent on Iona impacted my work profoundly.  It was an experience that unexpectedly changed me.  Iona’s ancient rocks and mystical landscape cannot be denied and it’s beauty reflects the beginning of the world. It has a sense of timelessness and light like no other place in the world.

Even though I wrote here about life in the hostel, there was another reality outside which impacted me as much as the people I met.  It was the landscape. Ancient. Vibrating with energy and unseen forces. It was not only the power of the weather, I’m speaking of here, but the power of place.  How does history impact the character of a landscape? On this land, I never walked alone. Just as the vivid stories inside the hostel infused that place with life, so too did thousands of ancient pilgrim’s stories of saints, sinners, Scottish Kings, Viking conquerors and mythical beings enliven the land.  I heard their voices in the high winds above me as I walked and I still hear the low rumble of the ocean in my dreams.  In some peculiar way I hear Iona call to me, like a song.  Like a yearning. This is the power of place.

“You road I enter upon and look around.  I believe you are not all that is here. I believe that much unseen is also here.”  Walt Whitman,  Song of the Open Road





Vicki Folkerts-Coots
Vicki Folkerts-Coots is a landscape painter based in northern California. She works in oil, pastel and watercolor. She received a Master of Fine Arts from California College of the Arts, a Bachleor of Fine Arts in Painting and a Bachleor of Science in Applied Arts from Oregon State University, and three teaching credentials from Sonoma State University. Her work can be found in many private and public collections. She maintains a studio in Petaluma California. To see more of her artwork please visit her website here.

Iona Snapshots

St. Oran’s Chapel

Here’s the Abbey. I’ve been to the village, I’ve bought my groceries from the Spar, I’m walking back to the hostel when it starts to rain. I’ll “keep rain” in the chapel (as we say in Finnish), I say to myself, and do just that. The chapel is empty. The ferry’s cancelled today, so there are no tourists around, except for me. When I open the heavy black door to the chapel, it feels like I’m opening a tomb. Old old air comes out and I step back, startled. Where am I entering? What am I entering? This chapel is a tomb and it is very old. It’s also very dark and lonely and silent. After a few breaths, I’ve overcome my fear and make another go of it. Only a flickering red light from the candle on the altar sheds some light in the tomb-chapel. I light another one and think of all the people I once knew but who are now dead, and still very much alive in my mind. “I’m here alone,” I think, and the longer I think about it, the better I start to feel.

We sang in St. Oran’s chapel, me and the other women from the hostel. Our voices echoed from the old walls as if sound could travel in time and we would wake up the kings who slept in their graves. A curious robin came to hear us too. She sat by the door and listened to our harmonies of “Amazing Grace”. I have a video of us singing. We smile like lunatics and look so happy, like we’ve all found something we were looking for.



It’s my first week on the island. Some days are like summer days, at least this one. I sit in the garden by the ruins of the nunnery, once full of industrious women, drink my tea on the bench and admire the flowers that are still in bloom, fuschias and some purple ones that I don’t recognise. To me it’s a miracle that anything can bloom in November. Back home, in Finland, November is the month of death. Nothing grows anymore and the days get shorter and shorter until there’s no light left. This island is paradise to me.

I can imagine the nuns working in their garden and it seems like such a happy life to me. Those happy women! Filling their days with gardening, prayer, reading and writing, without the restrains and threats of marriage and motherhood. I feel like I’m a sort of a nun, coming here to Iona to write, to read, to walk. Back at the hostel, we talk about the nunnery and others point out how harsh it must’ve been for the nuns with food being scarce and Vikings raiding the shores. I tend to idealise the past, I know, and yet, I won’t let go of my image of a community of women, working in their garden. At least one of them must have been happy, sometimes. There must have been days when everything was fine, like this one. The sun so hot I start to sweat, flowers in bloom, birds chirping in the bushes.

Dun I

My friend Kenji is visiting from Southern England. It’s a glorious day and we decide to climb Dun I. I’ve been on Iona for several weeks now, but I haven’t climbed the highest point of the island yet. I’m not adventurous, I say to people, and part of that is true. But I’ve been looking at Dun I a lot. The sun sets behind it turning it into a black silhouette of a mountain. We are nestled beneath it at the hostel. Now I finally sit at the top and look at the setting sun with my friend. Such a glorious day. No wind, no clouds, warm like it was spring, not winter. This is the first time I see the sun actually disappear below the horizon. From the north side of the island you merely look at the sky, and as the colour changes, you know the sun is gone. We drink peppermint tea and I eat a tiny chocolate covered roly poly. It tastes so good and I’m happy and curious and out of breath.

White Strand of the Monks

I go to the beach a lot. The one just next to the hostel is the most familiar, most comfortable place. It’s easy to get there, you just step down at the earth’s edge and skate down on the white sand. But on days when the North Beach seems too familiar, too comfortable, I walk to the tip of the island, to the beach they call The White Strand of the Monks. The rocks there are black because a bunch of Vikings killed a bunch of monks a long time ago. They say that sometimes you can see a ghostly Viking ship appear from the distance. Do the Vikings come back to finish what they started? Or do they just like these shores, like me.

History is often about men killing each other. When I stand on the beach and look at the waves crossing each other like in some kind of rough dance, I don’t see monks, or Vikings, but the presence of what’s still there: the sea, the sand, the sky and the mountains on the other side. They change daily, by the second, but defy such human ways of counting time. For them, there is no time, except that which continues. The waves keep hitting the shore, like a giant washing machine. The sand keeps getting whirled about and rubbed into smaller and smaller grains. And the sky looks on, indifferently, at what happens below, and I like to look at it, since it’s bigger than me and above me and full of order and chaos.



The sofa is where I begin my days and where I often end them. I wake up late, later than everybody else, so the kitchen is usually empty when I have breakfast. I take my tea, my book and myself and sit by the big windows. Sometimes I read, but mostly I just look at the landscape. The sea is on my right, the hostel kitchen on the left. The sky is big and looks different every day, every moment, so it’s important to keep a close watch on it. The sheep are black dots that move across the grass, the machair, and go about their day. Now they run across the window in wild panic. Now they appear in a neat line, one after the other, pausing in the middle of the path like obedient children. I’m especially attached to Poopy Bum, who has poop stuck on his bum and who is old and cannot quite keep up with the others. One day I stand and watch how he looks longingly at Marc and Caroline, the volunteers, who are having a conversation on the other side of the fence.

The Christmas tree next to the sofa is full of decorations, an Art Deco Santa, another Santa on a wooden boat on his way somewhere, a glass bird with “Love you” written on its body. I never get tired of watching the decorations or this view. When I’m down, it lifts me. When I’m happy, it elates me. I walk down to the beach to watch the sunset and think to myself: It’s worth being alive when you can come to a place like this. We’re the lucky ones. The sofa has been my centre for these past few months. The people around it have been my family, the hostel my home, the island my world, and I have been the lucky one.

Vappu Kannas
Vappu Kannas is a Finnish writer and researcher. She spent November and December as writer-in-residence at the Iona hostel. Her chapbook As an Eel Through the Body, co-written with Canadian poet Shannon Maguire, appeared in 2015 (Dancing Girl Press), and she is currently working on a novel based on the life of Emily Dickinson and her sister, Vinnie. Her PhD dissertation explored the diaries of L.M. Montgomery, the Canadian author known for Anne of Green Gables, and incidentally Montgomery also visited Iona on her honeymoon in 1911.

turning the page


Sometimes there is a blank page inserted in novels before a new and prominent section starts. These past 15 months have been this page in my story. I needed this time for reflection, this space for exploration, before I could move to the next chapter. Now, with only 1 day before my flight home, I hold the paper in my hand, feeling its weight, edges crisp and sharp on my fingertips. It’s a bit surreal, to be honest. Friends and family continue to ask me if I’m ready. I think I am as ready as I can be. I gave myself 6 weeks on Iona to prepare for ‘the return.’

In truth, I have spent the last 6 weeks doing very little, but I have also spent the last 6 weeks doing enormously profound things. I have been sketching and painting and journaling and walking. I have ambled down Iona’s only road every other day to the village in order to buy the essentials for my island life (veggies and hobnobs). I have baked and I have cooked and I have brewed cups and cups and cups of tea. I have sat for hours on the sofa in the hostel living room staring out at the ocean. I have watched the landscape transform amidst constantly shifting clouds and sun, and I have marvelled at this endless theatre of color and light and shadow. I have read some radical life-changing books, and I have allowed myself to rest and relax and try to process the past year and a half. I have thought a lot about what I want my life to look like when I return to Portland. Even more importantly, I have thought a lot about the kind of person I want to be as I live this life.

When I first was the Artist in Residence at the hostel last February, I became enchanted with Iona. You can read more about that starting here. I came away with a body of work of about 25 paintings that had been created in just under four weeks. During my stay, I was encouraged by some of the locals to use this art for a second book. I loved the idea of returning and carried this idea with me when I headed off to Spain to exhibit my work in Santiago de Compostela. As the months passed, I realised that I did, indeed, need to return to Iona. At the beginning of July, I emailed John to let him know I wanted to head back to the island. I decided to give myself a bit longer this second time. I knew I would use these weeks not only to sketch and paint, but to prepare my heart and my mind for heading home.

Consequently, in late October, I found myself nestled amongst a hostel full of creatives from all over the world. The community John has fostered on this wee island in the inner Hebrides is quite unique; I would even venture to say it’s magical. These past 6 weeks I have been surrounded by beautiful, inspirational women who shared their art and their lives with me. We talked about fledgling projects and our hardest challenges, past and present. We peered into the future, sharing tentative hopes buoyed by encouraging words and kindness. Within this community, I started to flesh out the idea of a second book, but I still had no idea what the underlying story would be. The text in my book about the Camino de Santiago had been pulled directly from my journals and pieced together with a small amount of additional writing. I knew this book would be different, but I wasn’t sure where to start.  There are a myriad of books written about the history of Iona and its famous Abbey, and I had no intention or desire to delve into something that had already been covered so thoroughly. I basically had a collection of drawings but no narrative. So I prayed for guidance.

If you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time, you probably have noticed that I use a main painting to tell a story. I start with an image that speaks to me, and then I build from there, weaving my words around the metaphor of my painting. Traditional illustration tends to work the other way around, with art that is created to enhance the written word, but I always like start with the visual piece first. As I thought about my writing process, I realized that the imagery I had been painting on Iona could tell the story of my journey this year; not just where I had gone and what I had seen, but what had transformed and changed in me along the way.

This painting above is of a piece of the ancient Nunnery on the island. The wall I decided to draw is set sharply against the blue of the sky, with crumbling rock creating a vivid contrast to the stark angles jutting heavenward. I like these ruins a lot, perhaps even more than the abbey. They feel more approachable somehow. The ladies at the hostel would laugh and joke that we were all from the nunnery; all of us single, cloistered together on this holy isle. The outside surface of this building looks smooth and flat, but from my viewpoint one could see the vast amounts of rock that were used to construct each wall. It is hard to believe that when such varied stones are placed just so, they can be used to build a magnificent structure.

I hope that my stories will be like these stones; I think that I can use each one, stacking them just so, to create a narrative that will share my journey during this time of travel. We’ll see how things progress when I get back to Portland, but I am setting a goal to have the book finished by the spring of next year. It is a bit ambitious, I’ll admit. I have quite a lot of stone stacking to do.


Friday was my final day on Iona and although my mind was swimming with the excitement of heading home, I wanted to be wholly present. I wanted to breathe in the richness of the island one last time. The weather was unseasonably warm and so I decided to do the very best thing to ensure I would remember the fullness of the afternoon. I headed out to sketch on the beach.

Afterwards, I wrote the following in my journal:

Eucharisteo. The silver sea. Rose tinted hills in the far distance. The ache of my back as I perch on this rock. Waves gently settling onto white sand at the water’s edge. Clouds, great sculptures, wild and puffy stacks of cotton over Mull softening as they move out over the Atlantic. Mild air and virtually no wind. A November day spilling over with grace. My heart is full of gratitude. Iona, thank you for rest and respite before I return. Thank you for holding me. 

So, it’s time to turn the page. As I hold the paper in my hand, feeling its weight, edges crisp and sharp on my fingertips, I hope that you’ll come with me. This next section is unwritten… I’ll need company along the way.


Kari Gale
Kari Gale is a illustrator/writer from Portland, Oregon specialising in food and travel. She has spent the past 15 months living, walking,  painting and writing in Portugal, Spain, France and the UK . She has documented the entire journey in her journal with pen/ink and watercolour and has shared her experiences and art on her blog.  She published her first book ‘The Art of Walking: An Illustrated Journey on the Camino de Santiago‘ in June of 2015, and has spent the past 6 months exhibiting her work in Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, Spain. You can find out more about Kari and her work on her website at

November Harvest

odhrans-chapel-2Almost seventeen years ago I planted a seed: I called my son Odhran after the legendary saint associated with Iona. There are many versions of Saint Odhran’s story, most of which involve him being buried alive. You’ll be relieved to hear that I didn’t name my son after this saint because of his gruesome end! Rather, I gave my son this name because Odhran had been prepared to tell the truth as he saw it.

Over the past year my urge to re-tell the legend of Saint Odhran has grown stronger. My rational explanation for this urge is that, in re-telling this legend, I will somehow find it a little more bearable when the time comes for my son to leave home.

As a writer, folklorist and storyteller, I believe the land holds stories and memories. For me, to ‘unlock’ the legend of Saint Odhran, I’d need to go to the places associated with him. I’d need to walk the landscape into my bones. I’d need to listen to the wind. I’d need to see how the sky illuminated special places and how the stars hid secrets in the night sky.


Thanks to the Arts Council of Northern Ireland and the Iona Hostel residency programme, I’ve been able to do exactly what I needed in order to start unlocking the legend. During November I spent two weeks on Iona, staying in the bothy at Iona Hostel. In the mornings I wrote, in the afternoons I researched (which involved some reading and a great deal of walking 🙂 ) and in the evenings I spent time with the other artists in residence. On the last Friday of my stay I had the opportunity to talk about my work, tell stories and read from my book, The Faerie Thorn & Other Stories. It was great to share an evening with other hostel guests and artists in residence – and it was really lovely that some of the islanders came along too.

iona-3In terms of the writing and research aspects of my residency, I kept to my plan and have everything I need to support the completion of my new book project. However, Iona and the residency gave me a little more than I expected! The island is a magical place: it had a profound effect on me both emotionally and physically – and I think these effects will play out in my work and in my relationship with my son. The residency is a magical opportunity: it gave me the chance to meet other artists (illustrators, writers, pastel artists) and be part of a free-thinking, playful, supportive and creative community.

I talk a little bit more about my residency experience in this video:

It seems that the seed I planted almost seventeen years ago has grown well. The November harvest has been rich for me: I have left Iona with its spirit – and its stories – in my bones. I am ready to re-tell the legend of Saint Odhran and feel more prepared to handle the next stage of parenthood.

Jane Talbot
Jane Talbot is a writer and storyteller based in Northern Ireland. Her first collection of short stories, The Faerie Thorn & Other Stories (Blackstaff Press, 2015), is being adapted for the stage by  Big Telly Theatre Company. The stage production is due to tour the UK and Ireland in April/May 2017. You can find out more about Jane and her work on her website

Art Residencies, Autumn 2016

The plan, as usual, was to have one artist come for a month long residency… and the picture below tells what actually happened. Vappu (writer) and Vicki (painter) asked to come for a couple of months, then Kari (illustrator and writer) who did a residency in the spring wanted to come back for a month, then Jane (story teller and writer) asked to come for a couple of weeks. Hele who is a writer then washed ashore from her travels for a while. Caroline, Colette (water-colourist) and the irreplaceable Marc make up my fabulous team.

It’s a happy, stimulating and creative group and it strikes me as extraordinary that in this little hostel on a dot of land surrounded by the heaving November seas there should be a coming together of such talent and warmth. When they get the chance I hope that some of them will introduce themselves on this page so that you can find out more of what they do and what brings them here, to Iona.