By Hut2Hut Pilgrimage Editor Amanda Wagstaff

I arrived in Glasgow and immediately realized that I was overdressed. It was only the first of June, but a spell of cloudless summer weather had overtaken the west of Scotland. As I walked across town with my backpack, I could feel sweat dripping down my face and the beginnings of sunburn on my neck. I was a mess by the time I reached Queen Street Station.

I had some time to kill before my 6 p.m. train, so I ducked into a café for some iced coffee and a rest. From my cozy chair, I watched commuters zigzag quickly and efficiently through the queues into the station. The British are so good at queueing, I thought. Thousands of people moving in and out of the city everyday – alone together.

My previous trip to Skellig Michael completely upended my ideas about pilgrimage and solitude. I came face to face with the loud and crowded nature of visiting an ancient site that has become a tourist destination. I had some anxiety about this trip as well. The Abbey at Iona is also a popular travel destination, although this trip gave me a new perspective: travel to Iona is not a contemporary phenomenon; it is part of a tourism industry over a thousand years old. I realized that medieval European pilgrimage was actually an early manifestation of popular tourism.

Iona is a small island off the west coast of Scotland, among the the Inner Hebrides. It is the site of a Celtic Christian monastery founded in the 6th century by St. Columba, an Irish monk and one of the patron saints of Ireland. It was one of the most influential centers of learning in the early medieval period and likely the birth place of the Book of Kells. Pilgrimage to Iona may have begun soon after the monastery was founded, but after Columba’s death, many pilgrims came to pray at his shrine.

Like many sacred sites, Iona is a bit hard to reach. The best way to get to the island is via Oban, a small resort town and jumping-off point for travelers on their way to the Inner and Outer Hebrides. From Glasgow, I took a train on the West Highland Line to Oban. It was nearly 10 p.m. by the time I arrived at my AirBnB.

The next morning, I was bright-eyed and ready for the journey to Iona. First, you must catch a ferry from Oban to the Isle of Mull. Then, the ferry company buses you to a port on the other side of Mull (an hour-long journey) where your catch another ferry to Iona. Thankfully, my host made sure that I wouldn’t be hungry along the way. She prepared an incredible Full Scottish Breakfast for me, west coast style with ‘Stornoway black pudding,’ and wrapped a piece of whiskey cake in foil for later.

As with the Skellig Michael pilgrimage, I felt a little conflicted and disappointed at first, probably because of the absence of walking. Sitting in the ferry terminal, sitting on the ferry, sitting on the bus…just didn’t feel like much of a pilgrimage. Walking has become so important to me as a way of gaining some head space, and mental clarity is one of my favorite aspects of pilgrimage. I don’t think I’m alone in thinking this way. I’ve read numerous clichéd passages about ‘the journey through the inner landscape’ that defines spiritual pilgrimage. The physical journey through a landscape, wherever that may be, is just the enabler – it sets up the possibility of moving through the inner landscape. For me, this is only possible because I am moving through that outer landscape at a humble human pace.

But this time, I was sitting still, feeling agitated and anxious. I was also eavesdropping on the conversations around me – people making friends with other travelers, discussing their travels, American politics (because everyone is so fascinated by American politics) and gossip. I wonder if this is how Geoffrey Chaucer got material for The Canterbury Tales? Except he was eavesdropping while WALKING. Ha!

Have humans changed? Haven’t we always been curious about the world and desperate for meaning? The medieval pilgrimage phenomenon allowed lay people the chance to travel and have their own spiritual experience without taking the vows of a monk or nun. And it may have functioned as a vacation of sorts. People were on the move, and an industry was born. Hostels, markets, vendors of indulgences, and the abbeys themselves profited from this ‘tourism,’ which is probably why it was later condemned by Christian reformists. In their eyes, it had shifted too far away from the spiritual.

We grapple with similar issues concerning contemporary tourism. Does tourism harm communities or help them? Is there an ‘authentic’ way to travel? We must think so, otherwise travel companies wouldn’t work so hard to market their wares as such.

Travel and pilgrimage are each motivated by desire – the desire to change oneself, the desire for adventure, the desire for a meaningful experience. We put so much value in seeing something ‘in person,’ on ‘being there,’ as if that alone means something. Like medieval monks, we seek ever more remote locations to get away from the familiar, but this can be problematic as well. Access to a site becomes a privilege. Is it better to allow people an equal chance to visit a site? Or are we ethically obligated to protect it? These are fundamental questions that travelers/pilgrims should ponder.

Meanwhile, the ferry arrived in Iona.

The turquoise waters around the island distracted me from my turbulent thoughts of travel ethics. Iona is called a ‘thin place,’ a place where the divide between the earthly and the divine is breached. This first impression made me a believer in ‘thinness.’

I shuffled onto the pier with hundreds of other tourists, and quickly made a break for a quiet spot. I moved down a side street and noticed a stone ruin nearby. Consulting the map, I learned that this was the nunnery of Iona Abbey. There were fewer people here, so I took my time wandering around the ruins and admiring the wildflowers.

I eventually made my way towards the main abbey complex where I paid my fee and received a headset and audioguide. I joined a small crowd of people near one of the high crosses and listened to the commentary.

Then, my audioguide died. Maybe it was a sign? I walked around the Abbey, but didn’t linger long. I wanted to wander down the road a bit before it was time to catch the return ferry. It was such a beautiful day, with the clear sky and the saturated blues and greens of the water and grass, that I just couldn’t be disappointed.

I like this idea of ‘thin places.’ I experience them all the time, but in unexpected places. In Dublin, for example, during my commute to and from work. It may sound odd, but walking in Dublin during rush hour is one of the most magical experiences I’ve ever had. It has a particular vibrance and energy, people walking with a purpose, weaving around each other…

Once while waiting to cross the street with a group of strangers, I realized that we were all postured in anticipation, leaning slightly forward, or just barely rocking on our feet waiting for the moment when we could go. Then it came, and it was like an exhale. Some invisible energy held us back and then released. We spilled out into the street. This must be how the city breathes, I thought – inhaling and exhaling people. The traffic lights mark the beating of the heart – the halt and flow of cars through the circulatory streets.

Thinness is everywhere. Perhaps pilgrimage is an attitude.