Tag Archives: Creative Residencies in Scotland

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 karigale.com

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