The MacCormaig Isles

Under a clear blue sky, with only the lightest breeze coming off the sea, I’m standing amid the mown grass of an old chapel enclosure and gazing at a carved stone.

I’ve enthused about a lot of carved stones in the past, but none has been in a setting quite like this one. Eilean Mòr (‘big island’) in the MacCormaig Isles is tiny, despite its name, measuring just over half a mile in length;  it’s also uninhabited, rocky and boggy in equal part, windswept and open to gales from every direction.  It lies right out in the Sound of Jura off the coast of Knapdale, and to get there you have to go by charter boat (or take your own, if you have one.)

I’ve been dreaming about going to the MacCormaig Isles ever since I saw them from the road down to Kilmory Knap, many years ago.  Silhouetted as slender black streaks in a silver sea, they looked unattainable, like places set adrift from time.  Then I learned that (according to tradition) one of these islands was the chosen retreat of an early Christian missionary-saint, and that it still had the remains of a chapel and a cross.  I wondered which one it was, and painstakingly tried to enlarge my photos to see if I could see anything, to no avail.

Now, finally, here I am on this saint’s island, with geese calling from the shore a few hundred yards away, and wrens hopping in and out of the crevices in the rocks. I’m standing by the stone that’s said to mark his grave – a magnificent wheel-headed cross, now reduced to a broken shaft with just a few fragments of symbols and knotwork to hint at its former glory.  I can’t help smiling at the sight of this stone and the chapel, its chancel still complete with turf roof.  How ridiculously beautiful this place is.

The man most likely to be associated with these islands is Abbán moccu Cormaig, an Irish missionary-saint in the era of St Columba, around the 6th or 7th century AD.  His name is also thought to be connected with Keills Chapel, not far away on the mainland. We visited Keills a few years ago, and marvelled at its collection of grave slabs and 8th century cross.

Historic Environment Scotland believes there was an ‘eremitic community’ on Eilean Mòr in the 7th century, suggesting a small monastic settlement similar, I would imagine, to that established by St Brendan in the Garvellachs. If there was a chapel built at that time, it has long since disappeared or been replaced by the present building, which dates from the 13th century. However, traces of an oval enclosure can apparently be made out on the ground around it, which is a strong clue for an early Christian church.

I stepped inside the chapel via the south-facing doorway which leads into the roofless nave. It seemed as if the building had been modified at least once in the past, with a large archway to the right having been built upon and incorporated into a higher wall, and the signs of what looked like a fireplace in the opposite gable wall.

Turning to the right, I entered the roofed part, which is the chancel.  Immediate gloom and damp – the stone floor held puddles of water – and a reclining effigy dimly visible, lying over a tomb in the south wall. Above, a barrel vaulted ceiling gave a hint of grandeur, albeit on a small scale. I later learned that this feature was added by John, 1st Lord of the Isles, who repaired the chapel in the 14th century. Not entirely happy with the effigy over an open tomb in such a confined space, I probably didn’t give John MacDonald’s ceiling the attention it deserved, and was quite glad to get back outside.

And the fireplace? Apparently, in the late 1600s or early 1700s, the building became a dwelling, possibly for a tacksman. Perhaps a second floor was added at that point, and there are apparently traces of agricultural buildings in the immediate vicinity. By the late 18th century, however, Eilean Mòr was abandoned and used only for grazing (the chapel made a convenient byre).

I walked right round the outside of the chapel, wading at one stage through standing water, examining the huge old stones and lime mortar that made up the walls, and the narrow windows. How lovely to see the roof with its thatch of turf – a feature I’ve not seen before on any of the chapels I’ve visited. Although I guess there must have been plenty of burials here, no other grave stones were visible in the graveyard; an interesting dished stone lies outside the east-facing wall.

Back through the gate and along on the footpath that leads southwards through the rough grass, casting lingering glances back at the diminutive chapel against the vast panorama of sea and sky. On the highest point of the island is another cross, deliberately placed to be visible from afar. If you can drag your eyes away from the spectacular views, this one has an interesting history as well. According to Historic Environment Scotland, it was commissioned by Mariota de Ros, wife of Donald, 2nd Lord of the Isles, and John, “the island’s priest and hermit”. Interesting that the tradition of a resident hermit, begun in the 7th century, was being upheld 700 years later. The cross is very much in the tradition of that time, reminding me of similar crosses I’d seen in Ardchattan Priory (the MacDougall Cross) and Kilmory Knap (the MacMillan Cross). This one is, in fact, a replica – the original is in the National Museum of Scotland.

I was quite excited to see the cave, and only slightly daunted by the steep bank that you have to navigate to get to it. Wellies aren’t the best at gripping the ground, so I slithered rather than climbed, while clinging on to handy protruding rocks. (By this time, it has to be said, Colin had roamed over almost all of the island’s surface area, and was overjoyed with sightings of snipe and otters. He met me on the way down, still excited about them).

The path by this time was almost at shore level, and led round to the left, opening out into another grassy enclosure that was backed by some low cliffs. Somewhere in those cliffs, I realised, was the cave… and in between, wedged into a natural gap in the rocky outcrop, were the remains of a tiny stone building that you obviously had to pass through first. This, according to the information sign, is thought to have been a kind of shrine, perhaps to control the number of pilgrims who visited the cave in later centuries.

At one time, the cave was approached via a short tunnel leading out behind the shrine, but this has long since collapsed. One of the flat stones tipped up as I stepped on it, and I was suddenly reminded of Indiana Jones approaching the temple where the Holy Grail was guarded by the last Knight of the Crusades.

The cave itself turned out to be more of a pit, and a gloomy one at that. A natural cavern, I imagine, created by cooling basalt columns, its floor lies about eight feet below the opening, and can’t be much more than nine or ten feet at its widest. To one side of this chamber, I could see a very narrow vertical slit in the rock face with the suggestion of a further cave beyond, possibly only accessible by a thin hermit.

It certainly wasn’t the cosiest looking hide-out I’ve ever seen, and although I could have jumped down there fairly easily I had no wish to do so. In fact, I felt repelled by the place. Interestingly, the Statistical Account of the Parish of South Knapdale (1797) claims that the cave “possesses the wonderful power of causing sterility in every person who dares to enter it.”  That’s one way of deterring unwanted visitors!

The same record also describes the grave, reputed to be that of Abbán moccu Cormaig, in the chapel graveyard.  It states that this tomb was covered, at one time, by an oblong building “elevated three feet above the ground” and warns that “the saint is said to resent, with the most summary vengeance, the least indignity offered to his monument.”   I’ve racked my brains but I don’t think I even stepped on it.

I did, however, return to the cave. I’d read on the information board that there were two early Christian crosses carved on one of the walls, and I wanted to see them. I was still adamant that neither of us should go in, so Colin helped me dangle over the side with my camera set on flash.  I don’t know what the saintly occupant would have made of this, but I did apologise at the time.

One cross is just visible top left, seen at an acute angle

Two hours had melted away. We clambered up the steep bank, stopping again to admire the cross and drink in the views; past the chapel and then down to the small jetty, where Farsain was waiting. Her owner, Duncan Phillips, who had taken us down from Craobh Haven, had spent a while exploring the island as well, and was waiting for us on board.

I couldn’t believe that the island has its own Visitor Centre – a recently renovated bothy, containing maps, reading material, information boards and small exhibits, as well as a lovely window display of items found on the beaches. You can add to the display if you like, and just bolt the door again when you leave.

What a gorgeous, timeless place, dreaming away out there in the Sound of Jura with only otters and geese for company. It was with huge reluctance that we watched the MacCormaig Isles dwindle and then merge into the sunlight above the foaming wake of Farsain. I shall go there again often, in my imagination at least.

Duncan was a wonderful guide, pointing out places of interest and geological features on the coast. On the way back he piloted us through the Dorus Mor, a tide race associated with the Corryvreckan.

Footnote

I’m obliged to Gilbert Markus, Researcher in Celtic and Gaelic at the University of Glasgow, for the following comment via Facebook on 30th Nov, 2025:

Sources and further reading:

• Historic Environment Scotland
• Historic Environment Scotland:  Eilean Mor – Statement of Significance (via above link)
• Canmore:  St Cormac’s Chapel, St Cormac’s Cross and St Cormac’s Cave
• Saints in Scottish Place-names
• Catholic Online
• ‘Ecclesiological Notes on some of the Islands of Scotland’ by Thomas Scott Muir
• ‘In Search of the Knights Templar – A Guide to the Sites of Britain‘ by Simon Brighton
• ‘The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail’ by Michael Baigent, Richard Leigh and Henry Lincoln
• BBC Legacies:  The Knights Templar in Scotland

Photos copyright © Jo & Colin Woolf