My next extended trip was at the end of May, when spring was busy transforming itself into summer in riots of green and exploding colours. The breezes were warm and playful and a deep urge inside me demanded I break out of my isolation and find an adventure. I decided to go to Scotland, and to as many of the islands off the west coast as possible. I am myself half-Scottish, but at that time had never visited north of the border. On my trip I determined to visit the area in which my father was born, and get an idea of the environment in which he had lived as a child.

With my trusty map dotted with sacred spaces found from my researches, I visited wells, stone circles, hill tops, churches and lakes on the way. Any advice I received from my lifts, or leads from talking with local people, I followed up if at all possible and I made many unexpected and rewarding discoveries. I travelled slowly through the beautiful region of Galloway and up through Ayrshire, close to where my father was born. I could feel the power and wildness of the land here, where rocky landscapes are buffeted by the Atlantic winds.

To be found were also beautiful sheltered and nurturing spaces hidden from the elemental fierceness, filled with swaying flowers and tinkling streams. I started to get an inkling of his background and remembered his rare wistful words describing the beauty of his birth place. I felt his hidden sadness about leaving the country of his birth and settling in the south of England. I think he had lost something of his spirit and left it roaming this wild heathery countryside while he worked and raised a family so far away. In words that hadn't formed yet I felt I had discovered an important part of my father's personality, and it explained many things I hadn't understood as a child. May you find that lost part of you, and be at peace with the world again, dear father!

I had good lifts northward, and about fifty miles past Glasgow I felt another gateway open. There a cool wildness became evident, and I realised that I already knew this land intimately from ancient lives and vague subconscious longings. I whispered hello, and asked the spirit of this unknown yet familiar country to help me discover the ancestral home I had never known. I was then bathed in a cloak of gentle purple, silence, and misty secrets hidden in the distance. Mystery, and a special promise lurked here; I realised that a new hidden side of me was awakening, and I gave thanks.

Soon I was on the ferry to the Isle of Arran, and arrived in showery weather at Brodick. I walked towards Goat Fell, the highest peak on the island, and visited some large standing stones at its base. The area was filled with a sad, strange atmosphere. On closer inspection I saw that the largest stone had been used for foul purposes: a dead goat lay at its foot and bloodstains were daubed over the immediate vicinity. I planted a crystal with a prayer that people would soon realise that blood sacrifice is no longer needed: it is the feelings of the heart that matters now, in this day and age.

Still, it is fatal to deny or dismiss any experience. What a gift. A sacrificed goat on Goat Fell! Whatever had happened, I had been given a strong omen. It was another confirmation that I was on the right track, and I was determined not to let the surface reality of the experience get me down.

I spent a snug night inside a beach hut, listening to the heavy rain patter down on the roof. A family of mice squeaked indignantly at my unwelcome invasion into their home, but soon calmed down when they realised I was harmless. They scuttled and rustled around me, and I grew quite fond of their tiny scampering shadows in the light of the single candle. I fell asleep to the sounds of little furry animals and the waves crashing on the shore.

Next morning I started to walk. The whole island is dotted with megalithic remains and I planned to circumnavigate it first southwards and then up the west coast to the stone complex at Machrie Moor. And walk I certainly did! Apart from a short lift from an old lady in a Morris Minor, I walked the whole distance. I spent the first night in a cave by some standing stones on the southeast of the island, and by mid afternoon of the next day had arrived at what is described as a burial chamber on the edge of Machrie Moor.

The weather was sublime. Dark clouds cruised high above me, sending shafts of golden sunlight stabbing across the moors. The contrast of light and shade was breathtaking. One moment I was basking in the warmth, the next being caressed by cool breezes. I sat amongst the vibrant stones dwarfed by endless golden-brown moor, took out my didgeridoo and started to play. Soon I was lost in wild primal vibrations emanating and echoing all around me, and I could feel the earth moving beneath my feet. I could sense a deep connection from the burial chamber in which I found myself with the horizons and far beyond. Do you hear me, dear spirits of the land? I don't know what I do, yet I do it in the hope that you may hear, enjoy, and know that I am trying to make contact with you. What can I do to help? How can I awaken? How can I commune with you, learn from you, dance with you as our ancestors did naturally not all that long ago?

After an eternity it was over and the last vibrations faded. Yet something was different, and I smiled. I looked about me. It was now late afternoon, and somewhere over these moors lay the temple I was seeking. There was only an hour or so of light left, and it is no joke to be lost on a boggy Scottish moor at night, in iffy weather. The clouds seemed to be getting lower, my map didn't tell me exactly where the stones were, and there was a mighty big hunk of wilderness out there.

I relaxed. Of course. There was no question, really. I had an appointment to fulfil, and my journey was primarily one of trust and stepping out into the Unknown. I resisted the urge to bewail my fate, repacked my rucksack, and started to walk. There was no pathway, so, using my ability to smell out stones, I made my way towards a small ridge to my left, below the mountains.

Scottish moors are horrible to traverse if one is not on an established trail. Large clumps of coarse grass growing on humps act like stepping stones across the inevitable wet marshy landscape. It is very tiring progress, stepping from one hump to another like a drunken Bedouin staggering along a line of bad-tempered, bobbing camels. And there was the very real risk of slipping and twisting an ankle, or worse.

After an estimated three miles I reached the ridge. The light was fading fast and I controlled a small attack of errant panic. Then, in a dip below me, I saw a white broken circle in the purple carpet. I had found it! Almost on cue the clouds broke over the horizon, and a deep red and purple fiery glow bathed the landscape around me. I found a track, and followed it towards a derelict farmhouse which stood between my position and the stones.

Stones seemed to sprout up everywhere! Soft and ghostly in the after-sunset shadow realms, they seemed to whisper welcome. I wandered around for a short while saying hello, but soon my fatigue got the better of me and forced my attention towards warmth and rest. In the gloom I saw a wooden hut between two of the larger stone circles. I tried the door (if you don't try things, you never have any fun or lucky surprises) and it was unlocked! This neat little dwelling became my base and sleeping place for the duration. In the cupboards were all the ingredients for a cup of tea, and soon water was bubbling on a gas stove, generously provided for a weary, thirsty traveller. A packet of biscuits materialised from another drawer, and I was in heaven. Some times you just know that you are expected, and are made to feel welcome!

I spent a warm and snug night in the hut, the wondrous gift of a temporarily benign universe. That first night I dreamt of a large group of people in fancy dress who were celebrating around the stones among blazing fires, feasting, dancing and chanting. Long flowing dresses and robes spun and caught the firelight, animal masks and naked, painted bodies peered curiously at me from flickering shadows. Ecstatic dancers were enacting a wild, mythical drama on the enchanted moors and I felt a deep, vital longing to throw away and forget my usual self. I was beckoned and invited to join in. Stones and bones seemed to come alive and dance with those present as I stepped forward, became part of the drama, and united with the magic of those animated moors.

I spent the whole of the next day with the stones. Some huge megaliths stood at the centre of the complex. Around them five stone circles spun golden, purple weavings in the heather, playing tricks with the eyes. To my horror, one of them had been fully excavated by archaeologists, and some of the stones removed! I trusted they would be returned to their original positions, but I knew that something would be irretrievably lost. How these same archaeologists would be outraged if a team of curious aliens were to appear and start disinterring their dead loved ones from a local graveyard in order to discover our human burial customs! No wonder our ancestors have turned their backs on most of us. I left my little crystals wherever was appropriate, and wondered what the intrepid grave robbers would make of them if found. Some strange ancient fetish, no doubt.

Still, they had inadvertently given me a warm dry bed for the night, and had provided me with much welcome nourishment. I had to forgive them – they know not what they do – and hoped someday they may learn to behave a little more sensitivity to the sacred in life. I have also learnt something else on my travels: if you don't accept life as it is, and then work with what you have, you have a very hard time of it indeed.

So, crystals came out and went in, flashing and happy. I gave myself a day off in order to relax in such a wonderful place, lazing in the sunshine and playing the dijereedoo amongst the stones. I took this opportunity to make prayers and explore the outrageous silence that hung there over the plain. It is funny how life is. In the so-called normal world, if you do things you are a success. If you dream, and do nothing, you are a failure. In the world of stones and the Silence, it's the opposite way around: Dreaming rules! Such is life.

The next day was spent walking up the west coast of Arran, celebrating the good weather, the clean air and the wildness of the landscape. The sea brooded blue-black to my left and sang me on my way. More crystals entered the peaty earth at other sacred sites up the coast. Finally, my work done, a farmer stopped and gave me a lift on the trailer behind his tractor and I lay on my back in the hay, watching the world go by and content with my lot. I caught the evening ferry from Lochranza to the mainland, and spent the night in a derelict house on the road to Oban.

In Strathclyde I walked miles along little country roads to the megalithic remains near Kilmartin. I wandered through a farmyard and soon came upon the field marked on the map. A large rock was poking out of it, reputedly engraved in both spirals and tongue and groove markings which had been painstakingly fashioned in the dawn of the human era. An iron fence surrounded the rock and I was glad to see it protected.

To my dismay I realised that the field was harbouring a massive brown and white bull, and I have a great instinctual fear of large, aggressive, potentially lethal animals. In the spirit of all initiations, I knew that there was only one possible way to reach my goal: face my fear, and proceed. With an uncomfortably hammering heart I crossed the grass, and was relieved to see the bull casting me a cursory, dismissive glance before getting on with his consuming life's work – serving his herd of cows.

I entered the enclosure and sat on the rock. An atmosphere of agelessness filled the space as I watched the archetypal joining of male and female in front of me in the field. The bull and his cows enacted a drama that has been celebrated since the beginning of time, well before the worship of the sun. The divine forces of nature, self-regulated, follow cyclic instinctual creative urges to ensure a continuing future of life on earth. No failure is tolerated. The survival of Life on Earth is at stake. No once-a-week worship here! No endless recitals of meaningless words to an audience that doesn't really understand and couldn't care less! No pomp, no ceremony, only life enacting itself in its raw, uncompromising, primally beautiful way. Real.

After a while I inspected the rock patterns and, although they were well weathered, the patterns gouged into the stone so many thousands of years before were plain to see. So simple, yet for modern man totally unintelligable. I gazed at the sigils, so bursting with hidden meaning. I tried to imagine the people who had created these spirals, and accessed such a deep, primitive, instinctual feeling that I got a bit scared I had to withdraw. Gathering myself together, I proceeded cautiously. No thought, no choice. Only the command of feelings, too powerful to question or resist. Flow, life, death. My feelings merged with those I had recently explored with the help and example of the bull and cows, and left me aware of contacting a new, vitally important spiritual realm. I remember you dimly, dear ancient Ancestors, and hope that, as I get older and more experienced, I can reach deeper, further back, closer to you.

After a while I left, feeling that I had touched depths in myself I had previously only suspected, and it took me a while to readjust. It was good to move again. I walked across the moors, and down onto a small flat area overlooking the sea. Some huge standing stones, poised in a perfectly straight line, reigned supreme here on a spot suggesting the edge of the world. On a small peninsula reaching out into the sea, their far-seeing gaze took in the Atlantic, misty, mystic islands, and views that faded into the distance where the sky meets the sea.

What a wonderful place! Only a few of the sacred places in these lands gave me this feeling of infinity. The central axis of the stones sucked everything in sight towards itself like a giant whirlpool. Where the energy went to, I didn't know, yet I knew the primal energies of the spiral carved rock had something to do with it. What an experience, what an honour, to be able to visit these special places, leaving rainbow gifts, and experiencing the healing, and power, that they generate!

And onwards, ever onwards. I found that I rarely lingered at these sacred places on my crystal planting journeys. Wherever I visited, more often than not the circumstances arranged themselves into a series of extraordinary events which were complete in themselves. As a rule, as soon as I was finished, I had a strong and definitive feeling to go.

Although my brain wanted to stay and luxuriate in the high energy there, my body knew without a shadow of a doubt that it had better respond to the instructions it had been given, or else. You don't mess with sacred space. I mused on the string of outrageous experiences that seemed to follow the crystals and myself, Crystal Bearer, around on our journey together. I wondered if the crystal network actually needed a different reality, or heightened state of awareness, as a condition of being planted successfully.

Hum.

I sat on the quay at Oban watching the seagulls wheeling and crying overhead. Others were brawling noisily over offal thrown overboard by the fishermen. The harbour was busy and jostled with activity. Fish were being unloaded in boxes filled with dirty looking ice, boats were being cleaned, portable generators throbbed out of synch, and people shouted at one another over the din. What a delightful cacophony! It gave me great pleasure to sit in the sunlight and observe all the actors on this real life stage as the drama unfolded in front of me.

The journey up through the Highlands had been wonderful, and it was a treat to hitch through some of the most beautiful scenery I had ever experienced. There were deep inky-black lochs filling the bottom of long purple valleys, clumps of majestic, lonely pine, and miles of heathery plain with brooding mountains on the skyline. My heart had been touched in a deep, primal way and, as if accessing ancient memories, recognised the landscape as its own. There is still so much raw, natural power here in this northern land, inhabited by only the most hardy of humans.

The ferry arrived and I boarded with the knowledge that I would soon be on the shores of a particularly special place for me, the island of Iona. For a long time I had dreamt of visiting this blessed isle, and it had become a strong symbol and example for me of everything sacred. I was fascinated by the fact that Iona had been both a centre of the old religion, and also of the new. The Druid, and the Christian. There was allegedly a long history of mutual respect between both these traditions, and I very much wanted to find out a practical way of attracting harmony between what seemed polar opposites into my everyday life. I have always been aware of at least two very different and seemingly mutually exclusive ways of experiencing and perceiving the world. They seem on the surface to be contradictions. How is it possible to integrate the two opposites, the great paradox?

I am very unhappy about the way in which most religious groups and, indeed, most groups, have a built-in taboo against any other belief system ("Ours is the only true God!") with the ensuing separation, tyranny, persecution and conflict. The word religion actually means 'reconnecting', and this implies the overcoming of differences, and acceptance of others. Why doesn't this happen in real life?

There must be a way to reconcile this separation, as common sense and love don't seem to be an integral part of most dogmatic beliefs. We need to find a way, and I wanted to start with my own life. I hoped that I would be able to find some answers on Iona.

A stiff breeze was blowing as we sailed over the dark water and I welcomed it onto my exposed skin and dancing hair. A small group of dolphins skipped from wave to wave as if welcoming me in joy to the blessed isles. Too soon we docked, disembarked, and got onto the coach to take us across Mull to the Iona ferry. We moved off in upholstered comfort while black clouds poured out of the exhaust behind us. Wild moor and mountainscapes flashed past the coach window, deep lochs and steepsided glens appeared and disappeared in a twinkling. Another day, Mull, I promise to get to know you properly. My focus was riveted on Iona and on this visit there wasn't much space or time left for anything else.

The coach stopped by the end of the steep concrete slope leading to the sea. There she was, Iona, the Blessed Isle, lying squat and solid a few hundred yards away across the water. The small ferry was waiting for us. I walked down the slope and with unconcealed excitement stepped aboard. I was fascinated by the boatman who stood large, stocky and silent as he operated the ramp. Again my internal focus changed and I saw him as the archetypal ferryman, Charon, as he transported souls across the threshold of death into the underworld.

He had the certainty and timelessness of the grey weather-worn rugged rocks at each end of the ferries' run and I loved his complete beingness. Sure and spontaneous in his repetitive work, he exuded strength and a sort of silent support throughout the passage towards our destination. I felt very small and humble in comparison to his strength. I wanted to speak with him, but had no confidence and held my peace.

With a sudden lurch and a loud grating sound we arrived. When in doubt, have a cuppa! Very aware that I was walking upon hallowed ground, I made my way quickly to the cafe, sat down, and ordered a cup of tea. Out came my Ordnance Survey map and I looked for a likely place to look for shelter overnight. I saw a cave marked on the western side of the island, and I reckoned that if I started soon I could make it there before dark. No time to lose. I finished my tea, left the cafe, and started down the island's only road. It was a single-tracked lane really, and it led me gently away from houses, people and inhabited places. I walked slowly through the sparse countryside towards the unending western ocean.

Almost devoid of trees, this desolate island rises in the main only a few feet out of the sea, and is scoured by the constant winds and spray of the Atlantic. Some rather anaesthetised-looking sheep, cows and horses looked at me in a bored sort of way from fenced fields on either side of the single-track road. This soon petered out. I opened a rusty gate and walked over sandy, closely cropped grass towards the sea. Wild, ageless, real. I found myself on a wide, crescent shaped beach shining very brightly in the late afternoon light. Looking closer, I saw it consisted of tiny fragments of shells which had been driven onto the beach by the constant Atlantic swell. Consulting my map I turned south towards the hills that dropped steeply onto the beach and started to climb.

Reading a map in the safe confines of a cafe with a cup of tea in one's hand is very different from trying to decipher one's path while climbing through labyrinthine rocky passages suddenly blocked by cliff faces and bottomless abysses! It was a long search, sometimes having to retrace my steps from dead ends, recognising places I had already traversed, and needing many prayers sprinkled colourfully with the occasional swearword. I finally found the cave, high up the cliff on a narrow ledge overlooking the western ocean. I was ecstatic. I had found my first home base! It was not really a cave by my definition, more an overhang which might or might not keep me sheltered if rainy or stormy. Definitely not if the west wind was blowing strongly! Still, it promised to be a dry night so I settled in.

Below among the rocks there was a noisy but friendly spirit called the Blowing Hole. Whenever a large wave charged into the cliffs, it would travel though a long natural rock tunnel and then be forced under huge pressure through a smallish vertical hole at the end. A jet of high-pressure sea water would spurt heavenwards accompanied by a dull thud and a whoosh and then tower momentarily up the cliff face . It would hover there as if wondering what it was doing so high above the waves, and then would fade away on the wings of the ocean winds.

The view was sublime and I felt as if I were on the last bit of land jutting out into thousands and thousands of miles of endless uncharted ocean. Just over the horizon would be Tir Na Nog, the land of eternal youth which was so close, yet so far away. Magic and mystery filled the air and I felt myself in a blessed, sacred place. Relaxing after my long travels I said a heartfelt hello to the spirit of Iona, and prayed that our relationship would be deep and healing.

Somewhere on this blessed island was the 'Spring of Eternal Youth'. I was determined to find it, and partake of the Sun's energies again; this time, with balance in my Centre. After a very welcome supper of bread, cheese and an apple, I tucked myself into my sleeping bag and prepared for sleep. The whispering wind and crashing surf a hundred feet below was both my lullaby and my introduction to Iona.

I was excited to be on Iona for a variety of reasons. Firstly, I dearly wanted to make contact with the spirit of this extraordinary island. Since the start of the Crystal Journey I had intended to spend time with the major sacred spaces in these lands and I hoped they would open their hearts to me. I myself felt ready to work with them in meaningful ways. Individual parts of a land express different qualities of its total Being, and I instinctively knew that Iona held an important key to the understanding of the whole.

It was only in the Himalayas, sitting with the crystals, that I had realised that I knew almost nothing about the Spirit of Britain, her energy workings or her sacred spaces. In the past I had dismissed my birth country as uninteresting and unimportant compared to the glamorous contours of dream lands such as India or the Sinai. Now I knew that this attitude was stupid and downright dangerous.

One is in a symbiotic relationship with the land upon which one is living, whether one knows it or not. The quality of that relationship depends directly on the depth and type of interaction which one has with the spirit of that land. If one intends to live a full, natural and rewarding life, then there needs to be an awareness of the ways in which the land works, a harmonising with it, and then a working together. It is the difference between battling through an uncharted land with difficulty and continual setbacks, compared to journeying with a friend and guide on a wonderful adventure. There is a saying: You make your own luck. I know by my own experiences that by making an ally of the spirit of a place, or of the land as a whole, 'luck' simply manifests.

I had requested the Spirit of Britain to help me on my journey, and I felt that we already had a healthy, growing relationship. And now I had arrived on Iona. It was time. There was a second reason that I was happy to be here: I had arranged to meet my friends from the Ashdown Forest, Winnie the Pooh country, in a couple of days. They were arriving en masse and I looked forward to enjoying myself with them in this very special environment.

The next morning I left my friendly cave and walked for hours, exploring whatever I happened upon. Crystals at the ready, I discovered springs, waterfalls, hidden natural Goddess shrines, huge spires of rock and vibrant exposed land. Huge boulder beings, tiny nature spirits and all sorts of characters in between abounded and bounded amongst the heathery wilderness. So much on such a small island! I had brought a few meaningful gifts with me in addition to the crystals. When my friends heard I was going to visit Iona, I was given all sorts of strange objects to leave there. They all found homes amidst flute music, song, and the wide eyed innocent dancing of a magical child.

The next day I walked across the island from west to east, spurning the only road which led towards the abbey. Although it is physically a short journey, I got lost and felt that I was being horribly tricked. The sky was thickly overcast and I wasn't able to orientate myself by the sun. The landscape was like a convoluted three-dimensional labyrinth, and although I knew that there was only a couple of miles to my destination, it seemed that I had been walking for hours. Whatever I did, it seemed as if I was struggling deeper and deeper into a sticky spider's web and for a while I was close to panic.

Finally I simply sat down where I was, forced myself to relax and started to enjoy the wildness around me. My flute sang its praise to the spaces between the sky and the earth, rebounding off the naked rock and the hills, and I gave thanks for simply being allowed to be there. Soon I was climbing down the steep sides of a rocky hill when the abbey suddenly came into sight.

It now became obvious why I had had to come this strange way. In a hollow below me, invisible from the road and hidden to anyone even a few yards away, was a stone circle. It wasn't marked on the map, and from the many accounts I had heard or read about Iona, had never been mentioned. It was beautiful, compact, and gave a feeling of safety and intimacy.

It would probably not be described by archeologists as a stone circle, yet it was a circle of beautiful standing stones surrounding a grassy, sheep-dropping strewn mound which radiated the sacred atmosphere and energy I knew so well.

I greeted it, and snuggled into a little sheep-dug hollow on the mound. I lay there for what seemed ages, and watched white fluffy clouds emerge over the lip of the rock cliff above my head. I celebrated the manifestation of balance which I had hoped I would find on Iona, realised here. Within a few yards of one another were two man-made temples of very different persuasions, an abbey and a stone circle, yet both were built with incredible love and devotion. It seemed that they both respected each other's space, and had done so for hundreds of years.

A crystal found its home among the stones. After a while I left with joy in my heart and made towards the abbey. A huge structure to find on such a small island, it radiated sanctity and an unusual friendliness. I entered and felt welcome. Moving towards its east end, the ceiling hidden in the dark void above my head, I honoured the sacred building built with so much effort over so long a time by so many unnamed devout people, so long ago. I praised the Christ spirit, shining so brightly on this small island in the Atlantic, and prayed for the end of separation and conflict on the planet.

May I, and indeed all of humanity, find the peace and joy we know is our birthright. May we learn to receive Spirit into our hearts at all times, and realise that home and love is wherever we find ourselves, in whatever situation. May all Beings experience this realisation, for we are all lonely and want others to play with, smile with, and love with on our journeys through life. May we find our way home, dear God/Goddess, and may we share our love and discoveries with each other.

Crystals found homes at the abbey, and the next afternoon my friends arrived. What joy it was to meet, to laugh, to play and explore again together! We trekked en masse to the western side of the island and pitched camp in a sheltered area on the large white beach. A large fire was soon flaming and flaring, tents were erected and a lively community of eight or so adults and a few bouncy children filled the space with somewhat chaotic celebration. The conservative atmosphere of the island was rocked by the influx of our bounciness and exuberance, but we reckoned that a little injection of joy and earthiness wouldn't do anyone any harm.

The weather was perfect, hot sunny and calm, and there was much splashing about in the clear water which gurgled over the white shell beaches. Communal meals were served under the wings of noisy, curious seagulls. Numerous cups of tea appeared and were summarily dealt with as the sun and northern stars flashed in turns above us, and were reflected off the sea. A little wild, perhaps, for your average Iona pilgrim, but we enjoyed ourselves and were left relatively undisturbed by humanity.

After a few delightful days the Ashdown contingent left, leaving Mark and myself. Our plan was to spend our last night on Dun-i, the tallest hill on Iona which overlooks the abbey, leave the island in the morning, then walk across Mull. After a few days' adventures, we would catch the boat back to Oban.

Mark was a special friend, a similar magical child with whom I had shared a lot of my 'growing up' in the Ashdown Forest. I felt a deep, ages-old resonance with him, and we got on very well in a zen sort of way. There was only one problem: whenever we were together, I found myself tongue-tied and shy. I hoped that our friendship would endure until the day I could be completely natural in his presence, and we could relax into spontaneity together. I looked forward to spending this prime time together with him, and hoped it would go well.

We spent a wonderful night on the top of the sacred hill with much music, singing, didgeridoo and prayer. The stars danced with us, the breeze sang with us and the earth took us on an enchanted journey over the twinkling wonderland of Iona like a magic carpet.

The next morning we sat on the grass by the abbey, basking in the sunshine while waiting for the ferry . I played the flute and was surprised when a woman came over to us and introduced herself as part of a team organising the evening service in the abbey. It was a service dedicated to peace on Earth, and would I like to play? Horrified, I said no. She left, I could tell, somewhat disappointed. I couldn't imagine playing the flute in front of so many people and the mere thought made me feel quite panicky.

Slowly, a calm entered my swirling emotions and I realised that, if I could pull myself together, it would be a wonderful way to make a contribution to further one of my most important dreams: Peace on Earth. I had only recently prayed for this in the abbey itself!

I asked Mark if he minded staying another night on Iona and he said it was fine with him. Feeling somewhat sheepish I approached the woman and apologised. I said that I would love to play. She looked very happy and told me what she would like to happen, and when.

That afternoon my moods fluctuated between ecstasy and agony. There was no placating me: on one hand I wondered what I had let myself in for, on the other I felt blessed and honoured. At last the time came, and Mark wished me good luck. He took his place in the abbey for the service, and I hid myself from view in the music chamber off to one side of the main altar. I felt closed off from nature and claustrophobic, but I noticed a small window in the wall and opened it to let in some fresh air. By leaning against a stone pillar I could look out over the water and was able to see the sunset paint the cliffs of Mull in soothing, cheerful colours.

The service started, dedicated to peace on Earth. There was an introduction and a hymn. Then a woman from Argentina related a deeply moving account of her experiences under a cruel and repressive regime, culminating in the disappearance of her husband. Her life was thrown into pain, anger and loneliness, and a complete uncertainty whether she would ever see her husband again. When she had finished, the abbey was silent and highly charged. There was to be two or three minutes' silence and I was to break it with the flute. Those three minutes were, for me, hell on earth. When it felt appropriate I relaxed, and, losing myself in the magical sunset, placed my flute to my lips and played for my life. The flute took wings and soared through the resonant space. My terror was still with me but in spite of it, maybe even because of it, the flute came alive in a very special way and became my personal prayer for peace.

The rest of the service was a blur for me and I didn't regain any sense of composure until a few hours afterwards. Sitting on Dun-i with Mark I came back to some sort of balance and wondered at what had happened. Probably the strongest impression I had gained from the experience was the simple fact that, on this blessed Isle, there really was a deep intent for peace or reconciling of opposites for this planet.

I identify very strongly at times with Pan or Cernunnos, the male fertilising, nourishing and destroying deity of the earth. I call him often, and he responds by deepening my relationship with nature and helping my flute playing to come alive in a spontaneous and exciting way. By inviting me to play, the spirit of Iona had invited Pan and the forces of Nature to take part in a ceremony together with the Christ Spirit in one of its most sacred places of worship. I felt deeply honoured to be chosen as the agent for this to happen. The congregation was multi-faith, and their energy was focussed with mine in promoting harmony on the planet.

As we finally left on the ferry, I was very aware that although I hadn't found the Spring of Eternal Youth, I had received other treasures. I knew I would be back, and would eventually be guided to the Source when the time was right. It was many years later that I was to find it under extraordinary conditions and was invited to immerse myself in its transformative waters, but that is another story......

All too soon we had left Iona and were making our introductions to Mull. For the next few days we wandered over Mull visiting special places, singing and making music. Mark was armed with a huge black plastic bag whose destiny should have been fulfilled by wrapping up a massive ball of silage somewhere in Sussex. In damp or dubious weather we used it as a gigantic bivvy-bag. Sleeping out without a tent was a delight, falling asleep together under the stars or in some derelict, hospitable dwelling.

Sharing the crystal journey with a companion so tuned in to the importance and total nonsense of it all was wonderful. I realised that I had been lonely during the times 'in the field' while carrying out my long adventure. I knew really that this adventure was meant to be solitary in the main, yet I dreamed of a time when I was part of a group of like-minded souls embarking on a long sacred adventure together. I wondered when I would learn to play with others.

Perhaps the climax of our walk across Mull was the lovely stone circle complex at Loch Buie. We had spent the day walking down a deep, narrow glen through the mountains on our way southwards. Lochs filled the valley bottoms at different levels, a bit like like a series of canal locks, and were connected by burbling streams. The mountains suddenly fell behind us and we emerged through a gap in some cliffs into an open, hidden, protected area. It was ablaze with colour: purple rhododendrons were growing in clumps all over the place. Many trees grew here, and it seemed to have a separate climate to the rest of the region. Among the trees we found a delightful stone circle with associated avenues and standing stones. It was beautiful and gave off a deep sense of harmony in its integral relationship with the land and nature. There we rested and stayed the night. What a lovely hidden, peaceful place!

Many megalithic remains are hidden in Scottish moorland, and we visited a fair quantity of them on Mull. And from that time we spent together another dream was born: to walk from the source of the main river, originating deep in the aboriginal territory of Kakadu in Australia, to the sea.

We said our goodbyes to one another at Oban, sad to part yet very happy for the time we had spent together. Mark was headed south; out came my thumb and I started hitching north. The next day I was watching the black storm-beaten cliffs of Skye drawing near from the deck of another ferry. It seemed a dark forbidding island kingdom, and reminded me of scenery from The Lord of the Rings. Most of the time I was there it rained, making hitching and walking somewhat soggy, yet my spirits were high and I was able to leave crystals in some very special places.

It was awe-inspiring and very humbling to travel over Skye. I couldn't stay there long. Even with all the houses and vegetation on the surface, I saw them as a very transient phenomena. I sensed Skye as a huge black sentient rock-being emerging from dark stormy seas which at any time could shrug off its temporary human and vegetative skin. Nevertheless I met some very good people there and always had shelter for the night, or whenever it rained too hard for comfort.

There are so many derelict buildings or empty structures in the north of Scotland and on the islands that a traveller never need lack for shelter. I didn't carry a tent for many reasons: a tent is heavy and bulky, first of all. And then I cannot bear to be outside on the land, not able to see what is happening around me. I feel helpless and trapped.

On my journeys in the north I have never had to sleep out in the open if it was rainy, and more often than not had a cheerful fire with which to warm myself and cook upon. Nobody ever gave me a hard time over it either.

Two days later I took the ferry from Uig in the north of Skye to Stornoway in the Outer Hebrides. I am not a good sailor at the best of times and was worried by reports of rough seas, but to my relief the crossing was relatively smooth.

I arrived in the evening and found accommodation in a derelict brick building by the docks. Sweeping a dry area on the floor free of glass and general detritus I laid out my sleeping bag and was soon curled up inside. There was a lot of squeaking and scurrying about as my eyelids drooped. No sweet little mice this time! Yet the tiredness after my long journey wrapped me in a cocoon of warmth and protection. Happy and content, I slept long and well.

The next morning was sunny and fine. After a couple of lifts over a wind-blasted and elemental landscape I was walking in a place that I recognised from my dreams although I had never actually been physically there. Callanish. I walked along the road leading to the main stone circle, which beckoned from a hill overlooking a sparkling sea loch to my left.

It was my birthday.