They landed first, we are told, on the island of Oronsay, but on climbing a hill to look out over the waste of waters, Columba caught sight of the far faint coast of Ireland lying like a blue cloud on the horizon. It was more than he could bear, and the mariners put out to sea again, sailing northwards till they reached the little island of Hy or Iona, off the coast of Mull. (Hy or Hii means "the island"; Iona "the blessed island.") The bay where they landed still bears the name of Port'a Curraigh or "the Bay of the Wicker Boat." No trace of the hills of Erin was to be seen from the low-lying rocks of Iona, nothing but the blue mountains and the dark crags of the Hebrides and the white-capped waves of the sea. Here, therefore, the ambassadors of Christ resolved to build their little monastery and to make their home. It was a happy choice. No better quarters could have been found for a missionary station. Iona, separated only by a narrow channel from the island of Mull, lay exactly opposite to the friendly kingdom of Dalriada, and the missionaries had only to sail up the chain of lochs, now united by artificial means and called the Caledonian Canal, to find themselves in the heathen country of the Picts. The weird and austere beauty of the Hebrides with their wild rocks and foaming seas did not at first appeal to the Gaels of Ireland, fresh from the green hills and smiling landscapes of their native land. The bare crags and the dark mountains, the grey skies and the hollow waves that beat perpetually on those bleak shores, and bring The eternal note of sadness in, the wailing of the wind through the caves and the narrow channels fretted into weird shapes by the ocean tide, made a music which was alien to their ears, and strangely melancholy to their warm Irish hearts. Again and again the passionate note of longing for the dear mother-country breaks out in the writings of Columba. 'Twere sweet to sail the white waves that break on the shores of Erin, 'Twere sweet to land 'mid the white foam that laps on the shores of Erin, My boat would fly were its prow once tumed to the dear land of Erin, And the sad heart cease to bleed. There's a grey eye that ever turns with longing look to Erin, No more in life again to see the men and maids of Erin. There's a mist of tears in the melting eye that sadly turns to Erin, Where the birds' songs are so sweet. Hy, he calls the "land of ravens"; it was only after many years that he was to sing of the place of his exile as Hy of my love, Hy of my heart, dear then as the land of his labours and of his apostolate for Christ, and very close in his affections to the country of his birth.