“Iona my heart, Iona my love,
Instead of monks’ voices

there shall be lowing of cattle:
But before the world comes to an end,
Iona shall be as it was.”

Such were the dying words of Columba, an Irish saint exiled to Iona a millennium and a half ago, there to win as many souls to Christ as he had caused to perish on a battlefield in Donegal.

Today, there are few monks on the legendary isle, but lots of gorgeous Highland Coos. It was, for a year, my home: a tiny, sparsely populated island in the Inner Hebrides off Scotland’s west coast.

In the tourist season, 100,000 visitors descend on the island, which has a year-round population of just 100.

Most people visit Iona as part of an organized trip from Glasgow or Edinburgh, and it can be done in a day: just hop on the train, the ferry, the bus, the other ferry, and there you are. When the second ferry dumps you out at the pier (from the island, it looks a little like a scene from Saving Private Ryan), you arrive immediately on the street that is the village.

It is dotted with a dozen or so stone buildings, and the abbey – the focal point of most short visits – is an easy ten-minute walk through the ruins of a nunnery.

Often, this walk is accompanied by some of the sheep that roam all over the island. You will notice they are often spray-painted bright colours; this is not a legacy of punk rock, but a means of telling which sheep belongs to whom.

The abbey stands on the grounds of Columba’s original monastery, from where he introduced Christianity to much of Scotland and northern England. Nothing remains from those heady days, but some of the standing Celtic crosses date back to the seventh century, and the splendid stone abbey, rebuilt in the 1930s, does not disappoint. The little hill in the yard of the abbey is said to be where Columba lived.

The graveyard, called the Reilig Odhráin,was for centuries the most highly revered burial ground for the kings or Europe. Its most notable inhabitant is Macbeth, the unmentionable king of the Scots.

From here, most visitors return to the village and have a decadent lunch, often comprising the darling lambs that bounce about the island’s fields in the spring, or Angus beef from one of the coos.

Iona really deserves at least one night though. There is a hostel on the north of the island, but if you have a little money to spare, I highly recommend the Argyll Hotel, my one-time employer. The owners, Dan and Clare, will make sure your stay is memorable.

So then, now that all the day-trippers have been herded back on the boat (you are allowed to get a little snooty about day-trippers if you stay at least one night), head for the beach on the north.

The walk, which can include a trip up Dun I, the highest point on the island, is too pretty for pictures. A sunset over the Atlantic here will never be forgotten.

They say Iona is a “thin place,” where people find themselves unexpectedly close to God; a walk to the south of the island through the early morning mist is a good place to test that out for yourself.

After getting lost for a bit (the island is only 1.6 km wide by 5.6 km long, so dinnae fret about that), you will find the rocks of the Bay at the Back of the Ocean, where Columba landed. This is a great spot for a picnic and a bit of sun (or a picnic and a bit of cave, if by some chance it happens to be raining).

On the wander back, if you have a decent map, you can find the ruins of old houses dotting the fields, and an abandoned marble mine, with machinery intact.

And as you sail away from the island, you might just find Columba’s prayer on your lips.