# The Island Where Walls Disappear July 22, 2026 ![Iona Abby in Western Scotland](/sites/g/files/omnuum7126/files/2026-07/260530Iona16_0.jpg) *Iona Abby on the Isle of Iona, off the western coast of Scotland. Photo by Anna Burnham, Student Programs Manager, the Memorial Church.* *By Charlotte Stokes '27* *Harvard College* ![Charlotte Stokes '27](/sites/g/files/omnuum7126/files/styles/hwp_1_1__100x100_scale/public/2026-07/2025%20CS.jpg?itok=6l1PR7Le) The journey took several days. A flight to Dublin, then a flight to Glasgow. The rickety bus from Glasgow to Oban had “Driver In Training” written on the side, which might have worried me on the slick, snake-like roads if I wasn’t totally unconscious after a red-eye. When we opened the van doors in Oban, on Scotland’s West Coast, our carsick, bleary eyes were blasted by freezing wind, which pushed our luggage uphill and fought us up the stairs to our small hotel. The next morning’s ferry wasn’t too bad: we stood on the deck and watched houses and streets recede into the mist, unsure whether the white shapes on the Isle of Mull were sheep, lighthouses, or ancient ruins. I slept through the drive across Mull, occasionally woken by the bus running through puddles that doused both double-decker-level windows, or by switching into reverse to let another car through on the narrow, winding single-lane road. On the final ferry to Iona, we caught sight of the abbey, our home for the next week. We would be staying in the building that had housed generations of silent and devout monks, in the very rooms where they slept, worked, and prayed. Medieval pilgrims probably had a more harrowing experience than we did on their way to Iona, the cradle of Christianity in Scotland and the birthplace of the famous “Book of Kells.” They navigated the treacherous waters of the Inner Hebrides in rickety wooden boats; we, on the other hand, arrived by ferry, where gummy bears and mediocre coffee were sold. The relative ease of our journey began the disconnect I sensed between my own experience and what I assumed I was “supposed” to feel. I was told many times that Iona is “the edge of the world,” but the entire three-mile island had pretty solid cell coverage. In Celtic Christianity, a “thin place” is one where the “veil between the worlds” is thin, with little barrier between Heaven/the spiritual world and our everyday life. Iona is one of the world’s most famous thin places. I applied for this pilgrimage with Memorial Church with the intention of sitting in Iona’s thinness, using that spiritual power to learn more about myself, my relationship to Christianity, and my capacity for rest. I wanted to maximize my alone time. I didn’t want to be a stereotypical American tourist, loud and obnoxious in this holy place. My plan was foiled almost immediately. Even in Oban, Scotland, I realized that my companions on my “solitary” journey had already become friends by accident. We were the youngest people staying at the abbey by decades (the other guests were a group of 19 German pastors, five Dutch retiree girlfriends, and various European stragglers), and we were loud and obnoxious, laughing in the common room where monks had inked their books, yelling in the refectory where 15th-century pilgrims had taken silent meals, and barging into each other’s dorms where, thousands of years ago, the most devout Scots had awaited Viking raids in fearful prayer. On Iona, the sun didn’t set until 10 p.m., and we had community breakfast and service in the early morning. My friends and I hiked at night and woke up early to run, energized by the desire to seize every sliver of the reclusive Scottish sun, and fueled by a strictly vegetarian diet (which we supplemented with deli meats from the island convenience store). I was busy scrambling up rocky cliffs, climbing into caves, and getting to know the abbey’s eclectic cast of characters. I didn’t have time for quiet reflection! About halfway through the week, I realized I was missing something. The island’s scenery was beautiful, my friends were lovely, and the food was delicious (if lacking protein). But I hadn’t experienced anything I’d call thinness. I felt the familiar excitement of travel, but no “spirit world.” It didn’t help that the services were conducted in very modern language—during one service we blessed “web designers and crossword compilers”—and the oldest hymns were written in the late 20th century. Far from “the edge of the world,” Iona had been invaded not by Vikings but by 21st-century globalization. We were forgetting the monks! We were having too much fun! Thus my friends and I began a search for thinness. We hiked the central hill at sunset, hoping to stumble upon a portal or a spirit of some kind. We sat in intentional silence for longer and longer periods—five, 15, 40 minutes. We went in pairs to pray in the sanctuary in the middle of the night, listening for the footsteps of ancient monks echoing under the high ceiling, with thunder and wind underscoring our straining, closed eyes. We attempted to pry open the veil between Earth and heaven with our grubby American fingers. But when we shuffled into the Chapter House for our closing community meeting, I still didn’t feel like I had found the enlightenment I was looking for. Over the course of the trip, I had incredibly meaningful conversations with people I otherwise never would have met, and I gained a new appreciation for just how green “green pastures” can be. But I was hopeful that there would be a final, unambiguous key unlocking thinness and divine experience, and I could return to my corporate summer job spiritually fulfilled. Maybe one of the pastors could tell me the secret I had been missing. In their final reflections, my fellow abbey guests talked about the joy they felt at our group cèilidh, how much they had enjoyed singing hymns together, and the significance of their new intergenerational and international friendships. They got teary reminiscing about when we Americans were being too loud in the common room, or when we made fun of each other when we were supposed to keep the peace. I had wanted to embark on my pilgrimage alone, but, like Vikings, community invaded anyway. I sat in the groove of the wall where monks had sat and thought about how fleeting this group was, about how we all shared a week of experience and would never all be together again. Anneke, one of the German pastors, tapped my shoulder and whispered: “Maybe it’s the walls between people that become thin.” [Return to main page.](https://memorialchurch.harvard.edu/news/2026/07/green-shores-quiet-souls-students-pilgrimage) See also:- [ News ](/news-topics/news) Share on:- [ Facebook ](#) - [ Twitter ](#) - [ Linkedin ](#)