Following an uneventful flight, Oliver steps out of the helicopter feeling refreshed. The weather, cold but clear, affords excellent visibility and it has been an enjoyable and interesting journey taking no more than three hours. The views have been spectacular, especially over the Lake District and Galloway Forest National Park. As the helicopter turned in over the Firth of Clyde on the final approach to Holy Isle, flying low over the island in preparation to land, the wild ponies, sheep and goats scattered.
For the first time in quite a while Oliver feels a small ray of hope pierce his dark mood. With head bent low against the downdraft, he walks quickly towards the awaiting party of monks, dressed in their saffron robes. They greet him warmly. He glances back at the metallic-blue AS355 Twin Squirrel sparkling in the crystal January sunshine and nods to Captain Mike Burrows. The pilot salutes him in return and, the next minute, the helicopter rises effortlessly from the ground before heading to the Scottish mainland and its refuelling destination.
‘If you would like to follow me, I will show you to your room,’ a gently spoken monk says as he takes Oliver’s bag.
Walking with the monk in comfortable silence, Oliver breathes in the pure Scottish air and feels something buried deep within, shift. It’s uplifting to know he will not be expected to ‘deliver’ during the next fourteen days. He can simply embrace the teachings and explore his spiritual understanding.
The island is as beautiful as he remembers and tranquillity and harmony permeate the air. Several people, seemingly oblivious to the cold, perform Tai Chai on the lawn in front of the blue and yellow Karmapa flag. Oliver recalls that the blue represents the sky (heaven), symbolising spiritual insight and vision, and the yellow the earth: the actual world of everyday experience. He also remembers that the symmetry of the wave pattern symbolises the Buddha’s teachings, which flourish between the two and represents their inseparability. During his previous visit to the island this explanation resonated deeply with Oliver, who so often finds his own spirituality put to the test in the commercial world of show business.
As they approach the old farmhouse, a group of people turn in recognition and Oliver braces himself for the usual response. However, they politely acknowledge his presence without any further intrusion upon his privacy.
If only all humans had this respect for each other.
The monk stops and turns to face him. ‘Your accommodation is here in the Harmony wing, which also houses the library.’ Indicating another part of the building, the man continues, ‘This is the Compassion wing where the kitchen and dining room can be found and this is the Wisdom wing, which houses mostly guest rooms.’
‘Yes, I stayed in the Wisdom wing during my previous visit,’ Oliver says.
The monk nods and enters the Harmony wing. Oliver follows. Ascending a staircase, they walk along a corridor and, halfway along, halt in front of a plain wooden door.
‘This is your room, Oliver,’ says the monk. ‘You are welcome to enjoy the whole island, including the Mandala Garden. If there is anything you require during your stay please let me know. Lunch is served until two.’ Standing back, he allows Oliver to enter the room.
Oliver glances round. Although basic, with the addition of a desk against one wall it is more luxurious than the room he’d been allocated the previous year. Immediately he walks to the window overlooking Lamlash Bay and drinks in the view. Turning to say thank you, he finds the monk has discreetly and silently withdrawn, leaving his luggage on the floor by the door. Oliver quickly unpacks, placing the few clothes he has brought with him in the one chest of drawers. He glances at his watch and, picking up his mobile, walks to the window again.
‘Hi, Dee. I’ve arrived.’
‘Good journey?’
‘Yes, a very smooth flight in Mike’s capable hands. Just to let you know that I’ll be switching off the mobile and won’t phone home during the next two weeks. If there’s an emergency you can always contact me via the office here.’
‘Don’t worry about us, Ollie. Concentrate on unwinding and getting the most from your visit.’
Oliver looks out at the peaceful bay. ‘Deanna...’ He pauses, unsure of what he’s trying to express to his independent, capable and practical wife.
‘Don’t think, darling,’ she says. ‘Just indulge yourself.’
Irritated, Oliver frowns. However, before he’s had a chance to rationalise his feelings Deanna interrupts his thoughts.
‘Must go, Ollie. There’s someone at the door. Love you.’
‘And you,’ he responds automatically, but she’s already gone.
Something uncomfortable lurks on the edge of Oliver’s consciousness, teasing and refusing to take shape. Try as he might, he cannot bring it into focus. It feels important. Perhaps during his time at the retreat it will become clear. He switches off the mobile and places it in the drawer of the bedside cabinet, where it will remain for the duration of his two-week stay. There will be no communication with the outside world. Walking to the basin in the corner of the room, Oliver washes his hands and then heads down to the Compassion wing.
The dining room has a rustic charm with a collection of simple, communal, wooden tables around which half a dozen people sit. In the lounge area a fire has been lit in an open fireplace, and two women relax in comfortable chairs. From behind the food counter, another woman smiles at him. She makes no comment as he walks towards her; everyone is equal here. Describing the vegetarian meals on offer, she invites him to help himself. Oliver picks up a tray. Selecting a meal and a glass of apple juice, he turns to survey the room and heads towards a table where a young man with a ponytail sits scribbling in a notebook.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ Oliver asks.
The man looks up. ‘Feel free.’
‘I’m Oliver, by the way.’
And so it begins. Throughout his stay on the island, everyone warms to the great-looking, famous actor who possesses not an ounce of arrogance. He touches them all in one way or another, and all leave the island with lasting memories of the spiritual man behind the public face.
For Oliver, it is a time of quiet reflection, understanding and acceptance of his place in the world and the days soon fall into a routine of Tibetan Buddhist chanting ritual, periods of silent meditation and walks around the island. At first, the other guests find it awkward when he helps out with basic tasks, such as making breakfast and simple cleaning duties, but his generous, unaffected nature soon puts them at their ease and, before long, they have forgotten his public image. He is simply a fellow human being on a quest for spiritual enlightenment.
On day three, Oliver makes his way to the Peace Hall: a spacious room with natural light streaming in from two sides of a high pyramidal ceiling. About twenty people are present, either sitting on mats or chatting in small groups. As he enters, the noise abates. Over the years Oliver has grown accustomed to the public’s reaction to him but he still doesn’t find it easy. Slowly, the talking starts up again. Sitting at the front of the room is a slim, middle-aged woman with startling green eyes, sharp cheekbones and short-cropped white hair. She smiles warmly and invites him to approach. Oliver is immediately struck by the gentle air of wisdom exuding from her.
‘Welcome, Oliver. I am Francoise La Chance, your course leader,’ she says in a soft French accent. ‘We are delighted you have decided to join us again. Please help yourself to a mat and find a place in the room that feels comfortable to you.’ She indicates several mats stacked up in the corner of the room. ‘The majority of the people you see here have been on this course since the beginning of January though there are a few newcomers. I will ask you to introduce yourself and, perhaps, you would like to say something about your particular spiritual journey.’
Oliver nods and heads towards the mats. Picking one off the top of the pile, he surveys the room. To one side, near the back, two women sit in the lotus position with eyes closed. He walks towards them. As he places his mat on the floor, the younger of the two opens her eyes and immediately does a double-take.
‘You don’t mind if I sit next to you two ladies, do you?’ Oliver asks.
‘Err... um...’ the woman stutters, looking like a startled rabbit caught in headlights.
The older woman opens her eyes. ‘No, dear, you park yourself there.’
Oliver sits down. The younger one stares at him, her face growing ever redder. Mousey-haired with pale blue eyes, arching eyebrows and high cheekbones, she could be quite attractive but there’s something about her as taut as a coiled spring.
‘You look just like…’ Her voice falters. ‘Are you…?’
Oliver’s lips form a thin smile. ‘I’d like to say no but I’d be lying.’
The older woman glances at him with interest.
‘Oliver Foxley,’ he says, introducing himself.
At this, the younger woman breaks into a sweat, her chest heaving expansively as if unable to take in enough air.
‘Gosh, it’s warm in here,’ she says, wiping her hand across her forehead. ‘I know underfloor heating is a good idea, especially at this time of year, but honestly!’
She can’t take her eyes off him and there’s something wild and strange in the pale blue eyes that survey him.
‘I’m Margaret,’ says the older woman, ‘and this is my niece, Sylvie.’
Oliver smiles politely.
At the front of the room Francoise rises from her mat and, instantly, a hush descends. All eyes are on her but for one pair. Acutely aware of the intense scrutiny coming his way, Oliver keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead.
‘Welcome, friends, old and new, to the Ngondro Retreat on beautiful Holy Isle,’ says their course leader, smiling at the group before her. ’Here you will gain a greater insight and understanding of your own particular spiritual journey. The retreat is run in accordance with the traditional way of practicing Ngondro, as taught by Drupon Rinpoche. For those of you who have newly joined us, we focus on the four ways of changing the mind with teachings and guided practice. The four ordinary foundations include appreciating how rare this human life is and how fortunate we are to have the freedom and opportunity to practice the Dharma. We reflect on the impermanence of everything in this world, especially the human body, and resolve not to waste time but to practise the Dharma right now. We reflect on how our thoughts, words and deeds create consequences for ourselves and those around us, and resolve to commit to a virtuous lifestyle. We also reflect on the suffering inherent in conditioned existence, or samsara, and see how Dharma practice is the best way to make use of this life.’
As she talks, Oliver becomes increasingly aware of the inspiring acoustics in the room.
What a wonderful space to perform in!
Glancing to his right, he sees that the younger woman is still staring at him.
Francoise continues, ‘I have spent over twelve years in retreat and specialise in the Vajrayana practices of Tibetan Buddhism, including the Ngondro.’ She pauses and looks round the room. ‘Perhaps our new participants would like to introduce themselves.’ She turns to a young woman sitting at the side of the hall.
Momentarily startled, the woman takes a deep breath. ‘Hello. My name is Jenny Harding. I’m a schoolteacher from Brighton.’
Francoise smiles encouragingly. ‘And what has brought you to Holy Isle, Jenny?’
‘Well, my boyfriend came here last year and his stories encouraged me to find out more for myself. We were hoping to come here together but he’s away travelling in India.’
‘Thank you for that, Jenny. Perhaps the fact that your boyfriend is currently in India indicates you are meant to start your spiritual journey alone.’ Francoise turns to a middle-aged man sitting immediately in front of her. ‘Perhaps you would like to tell us who you are and why you are here?’
There are four new participants in total. Finally it is Oliver’s turn. As he starts speaking, the young woman to his right leans forward eagerly.
‘My name is Oliver Foxley…’ The room erupts into good-natured laughter. It’s absurd for him to introduce himself; his is a household name. Oliver laughs too, comprehending the joke. ‘I make a living by giving form to many words – someone else’s words. I am expected to find and give meaning to these words, even when sometimes there is no meaning.’
The room is silent and Oliver wonders if he should stop there. What would the fall-out be if any of what he says finds its way into the press? Does he really care? He’s not so sure he does. He takes a deep breath. ‘As time goes by I find myself longing to hear and say words that mean something real, not just something I have to conjure up or create. Something bigger.’
The silence is a living being; pulsating, waiting…
‘I understand that you have practised Ngondro before,’ Francoise encourages softly.
‘Yes. Last year I spent a month on Holy Isle during which time I practised Ngondro. That experience left me wanting to expand my knowledge but it’s only now that I have found the time to do so.’
Francoise observes him with intelligent eyes. ‘It must be difficult finding the balance between your existence in the wider world and your personal beliefs.’
‘It can be,’ Oliver responds, liking her compassionate understanding.
‘Thank you for your honesty, Oliver. It can be difficult for all of us to keep spiritualism alive in a consumer-driven world, but it is achievable.’
Turning her attention to the other participants, Francoise says, ‘For those of you who are not undertaking the full course but have already embarked on Ngondro practice, if you are only here for a short period of time you can continue with the practice you are doing. The daily routine will consist of periods of group practice with most of your time devoted to individual practice, together with periods of silence.’
The hours pass quickly. Aware that the ‘grey mist’ is quiet and still, Oliver wonders whether these teachings are threatening its existence and reducing it to a non-consequential entity at the very edge of the kingdom in which it has reigned supreme for more than thirty years.
At lunch, he finds himself seated at a table with Margaret and Sylvie.
‘Is this your first visit to Holy Isle?’ he asks, making conversation.
The older woman shakes her head. ‘When I lived in Nottingham I used to attend every year, but I live in Vancouver now and it’s more complicated to arrange. This is my first visit in three years.’
‘And what about you, Sylvie?’ asks Oliver.
Staring at him, she mumbles, ‘My first visit.’
The young woman’s demeanour is still intense, despite the morning’s meditations. She has been close to him at every given opportunity and it occurs to Oliver that sharing a table is not mere coincidence. He listens politely as Sylvie informs him she is thirty-five, single, works in publishing and is a keen filmgoer. In fact, she discusses most of the films he has ever been in, regaling him with her knowledge of the actor. Wryly, Oliver thinks that if ever he needed a reminder of his filmography he would know who to ask. She seems pleasant enough, but needy, and each time they happen to bump into each other Oliver metaphorically rolls his eyes. At first, it’s just in the dining room or the library but then it becomes a little too obvious. When he chooses to walk the island by himself and she appears, seemingly, out of thin air, he knows it’s no coincidence.
‘Sylvie, you never told me you enjoyed walking,’ he teases, as he exits the Information Centre with leaflets in hand. God knows, she’s told him everything else about herself!
‘Oh, it’s such a beautiful day I couldn’t resist,’ she says, falling into step beside him. ‘You don’t mind if I join you?’
With long experience of satisfying the expectations of fans, Oliver charmingly acquiesces. ‘Please do, but I’m not doing the whole circuit, just going as far as the rock paintings.’
‘Oh, but that’s where I’m heading!’
Walking together, they pass an area of newly planted trees and climb past swathes of bracken and gorse, pausing to take in the beautiful view of Arran’s mountains.
‘This is so special,’ Sylvie says turning towards him, her eyes shining.
Oliver acknowledges the truth in her statement, hoping it’s the atmosphere of the place that’s making her radiant and not some other misplaced emotion.
Following the western shore, they reach a sign indicating the cave where St Molaise lived. As Sylvie climbs the steps leading to the cave, Oliver opens a leaflet.
‘What does it say?’ she asks.
Oliver clenches his jaw. Why did he agree to share his walk with this woman?
‘It says, “The cave is situated about ten metres above the high-water mark and consists of an overhanging sandstone rock with a sunken stone floor. It is thought that in Molaise’s time much of the opening of the cave was closed up by a wall to keep the weather out.”’
‘Let’s take a look!’ Sylvie smiles down at him before disappearing inside the entrance.
Oliver sighs and follows. Carvings of simple crosses adorn the walls of the cave and an unusually designed cross is carved into the roof.
‘Perhaps these were made by pilgrims?’ suggests Sylvie.
Oliver glances at the leaflet again. ‘That’s what it says here. Apparently these are Norse runes and personal names.’ He walks to one of the runes and runs his fingers over it.
As he studies the ancient carvings, Oliver becomes increasingly aware of Sylvie invading his personal space. A wave of claustrophobia consumes him.
Placing her hand on his arm, Sylvie purrs, ‘What else does the leaflet say, Oliver?’
Every fibre in his body tells him to get the hell out of there, but Oliver steadies his nerves, hoping he’s not about to have a panic attack.
‘“In 1263, King Haakon of Norway brought a fleet of ships to the shelter of Lamlash Bay before fighting the Scots at the Battle of Largs. Vigleikr, one of his marshalls, went ashore at Holy Isle and cut runes with his name on the wall of St. Molaise’s cave.”’
Her fingers caress his arm and, swiftly, he steps away.
‘There’s a holy well a little further on I’d like to see,’ Oliver says.
He can sense her disappointment. Quickly, he exits the cave and heads off towards the well at which, for centuries, people have come to drink its cold, crystal-clear water for the healing powers it is said to have. Sylvie catches up with him.
‘What does the leaflet say about this?’ she asks, the purr in evidence again.
This calming walk is turning out to be anything but!
Opening the leaflet once more, Oliver reads aloud. ‘“The Healing Well, or Holy Well, is thought to cure ills and bring blessings. In the eighteenth century it was recorded that the natives used to drink and bathe in the well for all lingering ailments. The same source describes the water as gushing out of a rock. At the beginning of the twentieth century apparently there was a cistern present, built of masonry with a stone spout, which delivered the water.”’
He glances up to find Sylvie staring at him with fanatical lust.
Oliver rapidly continues, ‘It goes on to say, “The spring is overgrown now so you wouldn’t get more than a footbath from it but the water is still cold and clear, albeit does not meet current EU standards for drinking water.”’
The look in her eyes is feverish. She’s going to pounce.
‘So, Sylvie,’ he says hastily, ‘I trust you haven’t got any lingering ailments that need addressing?’
‘Wh-what?’ she stammers.
‘It’s not safe to drink the water. We wouldn’t want you to catch anything, now, would we?’ he teases.
Sylvie laughs nervously and bites her lip.
When she loses her intensity she really is quite attractive.
‘Come on, Sylvie,’ Oliver continues more gently, ‘let’s find those rock paintings.’