THERE’S a field on our croft called Creag a’ Mhannaich (the rock of the monk). The story goes that there is a pulpit-style rock in the field and that a monk preached there back in the time of Columba. Where the story comes from originally – and how true it is – is up for debate.

The geography supports the story; there is a rock that fits the description. It sits above what could be seen as a small amphitheatre-type space – and it is the only outcrop in the entire field which sprouts ferns. I choose to believe that the story is true because I once googled ferns and spirituality and discovered that ferns were apparently sacred trees to the druids.

Druids, monks, why fret over the facts? And anyway, a few years ago I met Ben ­Fogle and got to point at the Creag wistfully as the adventuring TV presenter pondered his Celtic soul for the second series in a row.

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If there is something we are good at in Argyll, it’s shouting about our Celtic ­heritage. And by Celtic heritage, I mean Columba. We don’t need to go beyond that into the details. After all, we are led to believe that there isn’t an island on the West Coast where St Columba didn’t variously arrive, stay, pray, bless or ­otherwise grace the place with his presence – and that’s enough for most leaflets.

Iona is the most well-known ­pilgrimage site, but we’ve all got a St Columba or monk story to share with the tourists. ­Tiree, we are told, was either a ­penitentiary for naughty monks, or the place where grain was grown to feed monks elsewhere (“the breadbasket of the isles”), or both.

These days, however, stories about ­exiled monks, Celtic cross merchandise and postcards of Iona Abbey are not enough. Unlocking the highest level of tourism monetisation requires a coastal trail along which the hordes can be funnelled – and a Celtic trail is sadly lacking.

Fear not, something is on the horizon. The “Wellbeing Coast” – an initiative from the Argyll and Isles Tourism ­Cooperative – promises to rejuvenate the region by ­tapping into our fascination with ancient Celtic traditions and adding a healthy dose of wellness with a wee sprinkle of Gaelic on top. It’s a heady mix.

Reports suggest that the proposal ­includes developing outdoor activities and promoting eco-friendly tourism to boost local economies and the well-being of residents and visitors. There’s nothing wrong with that. Argyll is indeed an ­incredible location and introducing more people to the outdoors can only be a good thing. Enjoy it!

Our existing natural environment is not enough, though. The Wellbeing Coast, we’re told, will be imbued with Gaelic heritage and hark back to the Kingdom of Dalriada. It’s quite the distance.

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Dalriada (or Dál Riata) was a ­Gaelic kingdom that existed from ­roughly the fifth to the ninth centuries. It ­encompassed the regions that are now Argyll and Bute in Scotland and County Antrim in Northern Ireland.

Dalriada played a key role in the spread of Christianity in Scotland. St Columba established the monastery in Iona around 563 AD, which became a major centre for Christian missionary activity ­contributing to the Christianisation of the Picts and other regions.

So where, you might ask, do monks overlap with modern-day wellness?

It is generally accepted that the ancient Celts had a deep respect for nature and a belief in its healing properties – as have many people since. The idea of ­wandering the forests with Celtic mysticism hanging heavy in the air is appealing for many.

Our world is increasingly fast-paced and unforgiving. Stories of ­ancient monks in monasteries communing with nature are appealing. We ­imagine peace and ­silence. The world bursting with nature and ­having the spare time to mindfully ­illustrate manuscripts.

The reality is ­probably that it was freezing and they were hungry ­because Tiree and its grain was a long way away. Bad monks were ­apparently heavily punished – ­Tiree would have been a walk in the park ­compared to a beehive in the Garvellachs.

The worse our current reality gets, the stronger the pull of romanticised ­heritage. Stepping back into the past is entirely ­logical. The search for meaning is ­something that we, the generations before us and the ones after us will all have in common – assuming that the generations after us don’t burn to a crisp before discovering the delights of a Celtic cleanse.

At the Island Future conference in Orkney this weekend, Professor Donna Heddle (below) described tourist destinations as not just physical locations, but often ­temporal ones. People visiting places where the lingering sense of the past is strongest are seeking something.

Whether what they seek is real or imagined ­becomes irrelevant as long as they leave feeling that they found it.

One concept that we hear again and again in the modern understanding of Celtic spirituality is the idea of a “thin place”. A “thin place” is commonly used to describe locations where the boundary between the spiritual and the physical world feels particularly thin or permeable.

These “thin places” are believed to evoke a sense of wonder, ­presence, and ­connection to the divine or the ­transcendent. They have become a ­popular concept in contemporary ­spirituality, tourism, and literature.

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Tourists often seek out places deemed “thin” because of their reputation or the experiences of others, which simply ­creates a feedback loop where the expectation of encountering a thin place shapes the experience itself. They are entirely subjective. What one person perceives as a “thin place”, ­another might not.

Iona is one where people swear on it – but would they, if someone else hadn’t said it?

The side benefit, of course, is that if enough people seek out the same place you can open a visitor centre and a café. After all, today’s pilgrims need a WiFi ­connection.

This type of cultural tourism is a ­double-edged sword. It brings footfall and encourages spending – ­supporting our economies. Our locally based ­tourist ­businesses stand to gain. On the other hand, it begins to create a new set of myths and truths that are increasingly ­divorced from reality. Perceived culture is hijacked in the name of commercialism – and that’s before we start digging into the role of Gaelic.

Frankly, our recent Gaelic heritage is no more connected to the monks of Iona than I am connected to Cindy Crawford, but its current state and the desire to fix that lends a modern saviour narrative to the Celtic experience.

Sprinkling Gaelic on top of these ­Celtic-adjacent experiences helps bridge the chasm between the Book Of Kells and our need to sell keyrings to pay the rent. Money is why these experiences are created and if you are going to successfully connect Dalriada and a juice cleanse, then a wee bit of Gaelic is just the ticket.

Does it matter? If we are conflating our modern understanding of Celtic ­spirituality, the growing wellness ­industry and a skewed understanding of Gaelic heritage but people enjoy it, what harm does it do? None. And lots.

What we are doing is perpetuating the myth of our rural places as experiences and sites of pilgrimage rather than places which are living and breathing in the now. There is an endless parade of programmes about pilgrimages of various sorts.

Whether it is sacred islands, or celebrities stomping up the Western Isles, our places are a destination for the curious and the searching.

The problem is that they are encouraged to look through the depth and richness of what is left now to the history beyond. It’s not the places that are thin – it’s the ­understanding of those looking at them.

Have your trails and wellness concepts. Enjoy the outdoors, and use heritage and distant history to provide context. Just be honest about what’s happening; we’re commodifying an ancient culture we don’t fully understand and using our existing culture as no more than a vehicle for commercialism.

Which is wearing extremely thin.