The next day she was leaving Yorkshire, traveling by train up North to the Inner Hebrides of Scotland and would complete her journey by ferry to the tiny Island of Iona.
Although still cold outside, the sun was shining brightly in a vain attempt to warm the chill October air. Inside the carriage, Andrea was cozy, sipping a cup of coffee and watching the world race by. The scenery of the Northumberland coastline stretching its way up North was breathtaking, the sunlight dancing and glimmering on the waves as they brushed against the solitary, rocky bays.
She felt truly liberated.
It would take most of the day to reach Iona, so Andrea settled back in her seat. She had no book to read but then remembered the small pocket diary from 1956 in her bag and eagerly pulled it out.
The pages were yellowing and the diary entries didn't start until June that year. The writing was faint, but she could just about make it out.
June 13th, 1956
Arrived on Iona after a long journey. Fishing boat brought me over from the main Island of Mull. Mother still not pleased with my decision to take a few months away, but I need some time to paint and think. There is plenty of time to become a housewife.
Andrea smiled. She had married Grandpa Joe in 1958, so not too many years of being free and single.
Little pencil sketches filled the margins of the paper: a fishing boat (maybe the one she had traveled across the water in?) and a hut or shack standing alone. It looked bleak.
June 14th, 1956
Digs are basic and chilly. The walls are made of corrugated metal so very cold at night. Porridge and kippers for breakfast, which I have surprisingly enjoyed. It’s much warmer outside in the early summer air than in my poky little room. Glad to get out in fresh air and now am going to walk over to the Abbey.
19:15- Had a lovely day. The Island is truly breathtaking. The Abbey is a very special place and it felt strange yet welcoming, almost if I had come home. My great, great-grandfather’s family were Scottish—one of the Great McDonald Clan—maybe that is why? I must go back and do more sketches tomorrow in the early light. Have been told the sunrise here is spectacular.
June 15th, 1953
Up early. The sky is still dark, but I want to set up my easel in the little chapel grounds so I can start to capture the first rays of light against the Abbey, and get a feel for the colors and the peace at that time of day.
The rest of the diary entries ended there. But towards the back of the book the scribbling started once again, not in any particular date order, but just what seemed like a collection of thoughts.
I’m not sure what happened at the Chapel? I seemed to have passed out in the cemetery. I had found an ideal spot for my sketches amongst the ancient burial places, and the last thing I remember was finding a strange looking carved stone in the grass. After that, it all becomes a little bit dreamlike and it can’t have been too long after that I must have fainted or something. I can’t remember feeling ill. When I came to, which must have been only seconds later, I was seized with an awful pain within my stomach and had a bitter taste in my mouth. I was crying and wretched and was violently sick and that seemed to make things a little better, but I felt weak and tired. Maybe it was something I ate for breakfast? Perhaps the kippers don’t agree with me, after all? I have these strange images in my head—hallucinations or dreams—and the people I see are so vivid. I feel disoriented as if I have been snatched out of a deep sleep. I don't seem to have any physical injuries except a cut to my right ankle. The strange stone was still in my hand. I am very tired and feel a sense of deep loss.
My dreams are bright, and I can see HIM clearly, Alexhander McDonald, in my head. It is the same name carved into the headstone in front of me as I sat sketching, and although it is scarcely legible, it must be the same. The date reads 1644.
There was a sketch of a man’s head, a rugged and yet handsome face with long, flowing, wavy hair.
The following pages were free of writing, but there were countless doodles of swords and shields, women and men in medieval dress, some tartan clad. There was a sketch of the small stone and numerous other images that seemed from a time gone by. The words “My dreams?” were scrawled underneath.
The next entry was June 22nd, 1956.
I think I am losing my mind. Slowly parts of my dreams are returning and they feel so real. I constantly think about this man, Alexhander McDonald, and I feel almost bereft, as if I have lost somebody close to me. I don’t know what really happened to me that day at the chapel, but my emotions are really mixed up for some reason. Maybe I am ill?
On July 30th there was one last entry:
Continuing to paint but not feeling myself. Felt odd since that morning at the chapel and the dreams continue to disturb me. Perhaps I will see Doctor Smith when I return home. Just a few more weeks left on the Island.
There were no more entries. If Andrea hadn't known any better, she would have thought the writer’s life had ended there. Yet she was living proof that it hadn't. As she flicked through the final pages, a small, square, black-and-white photograph fell from the diary and onto the plastic table of the train. It was a picture of Betty around her own age. She had forgotten how much she resembled her Gran. Apart from the clothing and the haircut, it could have been a photograph of her. Those magnificent eyes stared back into her own. If only she was still alive and had told her this story before. There were a million questions she wanted to ask, but now she would never know the answers.
Andrea closed her eyes and started to doze. She felt part of something, inexplicable though it might be. It almost seemed to be her destiny, riding on the train on this bright October day. She began to drift off into a light sleep, the rhythm of wheels on the track softly lulling her eyes closed. Grandma Betty appeared in her dreams and she was smiling and content. A small boy wearing a brown fur wrapping was in her arms. Her hands reached out, holding the child towards Andrea, but as she tried to take the boy, a mist gathered around her until the two figures were lost to her.
"Oban, Miss."
The gentle lilting accent permeated her dreaming, and she slowly opened one eye and then the other.
"We've reached the final destination, Miss. We're in Oban."