The Light in the Rock: A Journey to Erraid
Written by Andrew Powell, Director of Education
The tide was low when I first set foot upon the shore, the sea retreating just enough to reveal the golden causeway—gilded with wreaths of seaweed, rich with the energy of abundance, a gift from the depths laid bare for all who would see. It was as if the land itself had sighed in welcome, exhaling the secrets of the deep onto the sands.
Crossing the narrows from the Isle of Mull to Erraid.
The beach, the land, and the rocks wove together as kindred elements, forming a vessel that cradled the timeless dance of earth, water, air, and fire—the ancient, living forces that whisper through the bones of creation. This place was not inert; it was breathing, pulsing, shifting, revealing itself in endless transformation, as it had done since time immemorial.
Standing in the middle of the narrows with Mull to the left and Erraid to the right. Each visitor to Erraid crosses this strip of sand in between the islands.
The spirit of the sea was held between two distinctive beachheads, calling forth the eternal rhythm of the tides. Moved by the unseen hand of its lunar sister, the water swelled and receded in a ceaseless, mystical dance—an age-old waltz of longing and return. Up through the narrows it surged, enfolding the rock we call Erraid in its embrace, as it has done for aeons beyond counting.
The eternal dance of the waves as the tide is coming in and going out in the narrows.
Erraid stood before me, wrapped in mist, the air thick with salt and mystery. It felt as though the island had been waiting. Not with urgency, but with a patient, steady whisper—an ancient presence beckoning from beyond the veil of time. Its call wove effortlessly through the mind’s chatter, through the tangled thoughts and worries carried from the world beyond these shores. It wound into my gut, awakening something deep within my bones, something older than memory itself.
I had come from Iona, that sacred heart of peace just across the sea from Erraid, where light moves through stone and sea, where the veils between worlds grow thin. There, I had lived and worked for a while, walking the well-worn paths of seekers before me. Iona had spoken in the language of wind and water, of silence and knowing. It had prepared me, softened me, unraveled me. And when the time was right, it had whispered of another crossing, another threshold waiting to be stepped over.
Iona Abbey has been a place of spiritual pilgrimage for centuries. Iona is so close to Erraid that you can see the Abbey from across the sea when you step outside our lighthouse keeper’s cottages on Erraid.
As I stepped onto Erraid, the land met me. It was alive, charged with a rawness I had not known before. The air held a quiet tension, not of hostility, but of power—primal, elemental, unrelenting. The rocks stood ancient and unpretentious, their presence a silent testament to the lives and spirits that had moved through this place before me. There was no gentle initiation here; Erraid demanded presence, truth, and surrender. The elemental beings of this land are joyfully unforgiving in their majesty, calling forth only what is real, only what is ready to be seen.
Looking upon the Erraid gardens on a misty day. The ironwork on the fence has been the Erraid logo for a long time now.
I walked through the small street of stone cottages, their granite bones weathered but strong. Within them, echoes of those who had come seeking—seeking community, connection, a return to something deeper than the fleeting grasp of modern life. The Findhorn Foundation had long been a sanctuary for those who listened—to the land, to the spirit in all things, to the quiet knowing that moves through all of creation. I knew this was why I had come. Not merely to visit, but to merge, to offer, to integrate. To walk the path of service, not from duty, but as a love that wells up from within, as natural as breath.
Erraid’s lighthouse keeper’s cottages were built in the 1850-70s.
Erraid’s energy was unlike any I had known elsewhere. It moved like the tides—gentle and nurturing in one moment, ferocious and unrelenting in the next. It was a place of truth, where no illusions could remain hidden for long. Here, the land mirrored the soul. The storms outside echoed the storms within, and only through surrender to both could peace be found.
An aerial view of the lighthouse keeper’s cottages, walled gardens and the Erraid pier with the Isle of Mull in the background.
I wandered, led by the island’s gentle persistence, and found myself nestled among moss-laden rocks, listening as the wind wove its stories through the trees. Beings of the old ways moved at the edges of my awareness, their presence neither foreign nor separate, but interwoven into the fabric of the land. The island sang—not in words, but in the hush of dawn, in the lull of waves against stone, in the flicker of firelight in the dark.
“I found myself nestled among moss-laden rocks, listening as the wind wove its stories through the trees.”
Held within this sacred space, I allowed myself to be still. The weight of the world lifted, the demands of work a distant murmur, as I surrendered to the song of trees and rock, moss and sea. There, in the liminal hush, the fairy folk stirred, glimpsed in the periphery, shy and knowing. This was their place too. So much of the old magic still lingered here—the deep and wild enchantment last fully known by the druids, by those who lived in harmony with the unseen. And now, in this quiet communion, I felt the call to cultivate that magic once more. The fungi and mushrooms would come to hold the space, the ferns and mosses would whisper their secrets, the honeysuckle would sing, and the trees would beckon us back to the ways of spirit. In this simple, sacred alchemy, I knew joy. And for that, I was grateful.
As the days passed, the community unfolded around me—not in grand gestures, but in the simple acts of living. Tending the land, gathering in meditation, sharing in silence by the fire. It felt ancient and familiar, as though something deep within me was waking to its rightful place of belonging. Yet, Erraid was no place for complacency. It called forth transformation, held up a mirror to all that was unresolved within me. It asked me to walk the path of service, not as a burden, but as the most natural expression of love.
Meditation in Erraid’s sanctuary on the hill.
I often thought of those who had walked these shores before—the lighthouse keepers who once tended the beacons, guiding sailors home through the wild Atlantic nights. Their task had been one of devotion, of steadfast care for the flame that kept others safe. I understood now that the Light of Erraid was alive and calling still—not only for those who would come after us, but for ourselves, for the world, for the great unfolding of love that beckons us all into being.
The Erraid cottages and gardens were once home to lighthouse keepers and their families.
Erraid is not merely a place; it is a teacher, a living presence that whispers of the old ways and the paths yet to be walked. Here, I am no longer merely a seeker. Here, I am invited to step fully into the great dance of life, into the magic that pulses through every leaf, every stone, every breath.
In the stillness of the island, in the weight of its history and the boundlessness of its spirit, I have heard the call—to love more deeply, to serve more fully, to embody the truth that has always been waiting within me.
And so, I stayed …
And I listened …
The light of the rock had called me home.
