Creating an Iona Rosary: The Story and Symbolism Behind Our Design
- Fiach OBroin-Molloy
- 2 hours ago
- 10 min read
On sale from Summer 2026 - this blog explores the design story of our Iona rosary
Some designs arrive quickly. Others gather themselves slowly, over years, through family, memory, craft and place. Our Iona rosary belongs to the second kind.
This rosary has grown out of more than one strand of inspiration. It comes from visits to Iona itself, from a lifelong love of Celtic Christian art, and from a family inheritance of making by hand. It also comes from a conviction that Iona still matters — not only as a place in Scottish history, but as one of the great spiritual touchstones of the Celtic Christian imagination.
Iona’s monastery, founded by St Columba in 563, became one of the most important centres of Gaelic monastic life and a place from which Christianity spread more widely through Scotland and beyond.
For us, this is not simply a design about an island. It is about what Iona has come to mean: prayer shaped by pilgrimage, beauty shaped by discipline, and faith carried across sea, stone and silence.
A family inheritance of carving, pattern and sacred art
Part of the story behind this rosary begins much closer to home.
My father is a carpenter and an artist, and some of my earliest memories are of sitting on the workbench while he carved sacred motifs by hand. As a child, I watched wood become pattern, and pattern become something almost prayerful. He carved elements inspired by the great Insular manuscript tradition for churches and homes, and those forms lodged themselves deeply in my imagination: interlace, spirals, letterforms, sacred geometry, and the sense that Christian truth could be expressed not only in words, but in ornament.
That matters now because the world of Iona was also a world where stone carving, metalwork and manuscript illumination belonged together. Historic Environment Scotland notes that the carved high crosses of Iona repeat patterns and biblical scenes that also flourished in manuscript illumination and metalworking there.
When we speak about illuminated manuscripts in relation to this design, we are not using the phrase loosely. We are thinking of that entire visual language of early Celtic Christianity — a language of sacred pattern, rhythm and symbolic detail. The Book of Kells is closely associated with the Columban world, and has long been linked with Iona, though scholars remain cautious about the exact place of production. The safest thing to say is that it belongs to the Columban artistic tradition closely bound up with Iona’s legacy.
So one part of this rosary’s design process has been an attempt to honour that inheritance: not merely to decorate a piece, but to let pattern carry meaning.
Rathlin, curraghs and the memory of the sea
Another part of this story comes from family roots in Rathlin.
During the summer months as I grew up, members of my family took part in the recreation of the old sea journeys in traditional skin boats — Curragh. That matters because the sea in Celtic Christianity is never just scenery. It is crossing, exile, mission, vulnerability and trust. The early saints travelled by small craft into uncertain waters, and the boat became a symbol of pilgrimage in the deepest sense: not tourism, but entrusting oneself to God without controlling the outcome.
That spirit belongs naturally to Columba. Adomnán’s Life of Columba is full of journeys, crossings and sea-roads, and Iona itself can hardly be imagined apart from voyage. Scholars note that the text is shaped by repeated maritime movement, with sea travel woven through Columba’s story.
That is why the curragh matters on this rosary. It speaks not only of a historical mode of travel, but of a spiritual condition. The Christian life is often a crossing. We set out without certainty, but not without direction.
Why Iona still matters
Iona has become, for many people, shorthand for “Celtic spirituality.” That phrase can sometimes be used vaguely, but there is a real reason Iona continues to speak so powerfully.
Iona represents a Christianity that is rooted, disciplined and sacramental, yet also deeply attentive to the created world. It is a place where prayer, work, learning, craft and pilgrimage met. It is a place where beauty was not incidental to faith, but one of the ways faith was taught and carried. The high crosses, the manuscripts, the carved stones and the monastic rhythms all suggest a Christianity that understood material things — wood, vellum, stone, metal, sea and light — as capable of bearing spiritual meaning. The high crosses of Iona were not merely markers; they were visual theology, using art to communicate the central messages of the faith to monks and pilgrims alike.
That is one reason we wanted this rosary to be richly symbolic. We wanted it to feel not flat or generic, but inhabited by the spiritual vocabulary of Iona.
Symbolism on the front of the rosary medal
The front of the medal gathers together a number of motifs, each of them chosen for a reason.
The dove
The dove is not only a traditional Christian symbol of peace and the Holy Spirit; it also belongs directly to St Columba himself. His name, Columba, means “dove,” while Colum Cille is often rendered “dove of the church.” In that sense, the dove is more than a decorative emblem here. It is a visual echo of the saint’s very identity: gentle, prayerful, Spirit-led, and woven into the Columban tradition from the beginning.
It also softens the composition. Beside the staff, the abbey and the boat, the dove reminds us that holiness is not merely heroic or dramatic. It is attentive, pure and receptive.
The bachall of St Columba
The staff held by Columba is best described as a bachall — the old Gaelic word for a pastoral staff — and more generally as a crozier. The curved crook of the staff speaks of spiritual authority, but of a specifically pastoral kind: guidance rather than domination, guardianship rather than display. In early Insular Christian culture, the saint’s staff could become a potent emblem of office, memory and continuity.
We wanted the bachall in this design because it helps place Columba not simply as a traveller or legend, but as abbot, founder and spiritual shepherd.
The beast banished by Columba
The sea beast refers to one of the most famous miracle stories associated with Columba: the encounter with the water beast in Adomnán’s Life of Columba. Strictly speaking, the best-known text places this miracle in the River Ness rather than in the waters around Iona, but the story became one of the enduring signs of Columba’s authority over fear, danger and chaos.
In symbolic terms, the beast matters because every age has its monsters. Sometimes they are outer dangers; sometimes inner ones. The image points to the power of sanctity to face what threatens us and to command it not with violence, but with authority grounded in God.
Iona Abbey
Iona Abbey stands at the centre of the island’s enduring spiritual identity. Although the visible abbey buildings are later than Columba, the site preserves and proclaims the memory of the monastic settlement he founded. Iona became one of the oldest and most influential Christian centres in western Europe, and that is why the abbey belongs naturally in the design.
The abbey motif anchors the medal. It gives form to place. Prayer is not abstract; it is lived somewhere.
The curragh
The curragh is one of the most personal elements in the composition. It joins family memory to sacred history. It recalls the sea journeys of the saints, the fragility of pilgrimage, and the willingness to launch out in faith. In practical terms it is a small boat. Symbolically, it is vocation.
The western sea
Older writing connected with Iona and the Columban world often speaks in broad geographical language of the western sea or western ocean, rather than using modern local labels. That older phrasing feels fitting here.
For us, the western sea represents more than geography. It means exposure, weather, edge and threshold. It is the place where certainty gives way to dependence. It is the sea one crosses to answer a call.
The illuminated manuscript
The illuminated manuscript motif honours the world of sacred learning and sacred making associated with Iona. It stands for the Gospel carried in beauty, the patient labour of the scriptorium, and the conviction that truth deserves splendour. On Iona, biblical scenes carved in stone echoed the same visual imagination found in manuscripts and metalwork.
This symbol is especially close to us because it bridges public history and private memory: the wider story of Iona, and our own family story of carving and inherited craft.
Our Paisley Honey bee
Our signature bee is, of course, a personal reference to Paisley Honey, but it also carries a deeper spiritual symbolism. In the Bible, honey is a sign of blessing, abundance and sweetness, while the word of God itself is described as sweeter than honey. In the Church’s Easter liturgy, the Paschal candle is even praised as “the work of bees and of your servants’ hands,” linking the bee with light, offering and praise. During a recent visit to Rome, we were struck by how often bees appeared carved into important papal buildings and monuments — especially those associated with Pope Urban VIII and the Barberini family, whose heraldic emblem was the bee. For us, the bee therefore works on several levels at once: it is our own maker’s mark, but also a symbol of faithful labour, sacred sweetness and beauty gathered patiently by small and diligent work.
Symbolism on the back of the medal
If the front gathers the narrative world of Columba and Iona, the reverse turns more toward land, belonging and inheritance.
The map of Scotland and the place of Iona
The map of Scotland locates Iona not as an isolated curiosity, but as part of the spiritual and cultural body of the nation. Iona is small, but its influence has been immense. To mark the island on the map is to acknowledge that spiritual centres are not always the largest places. Sometimes the margins become the source.
The sea around the island
Around the map, the surrounding sea matters again. Whether one calls it the Atlantic, the western ocean or simply the sea-road, water is essential to the meaning of Iona. The island is set apart by water, approached by water, and imagined through water. The sea makes pilgrimage real. It imposes effort, distance and intention.
Celtic thistles
The traditional Celtic thistles on the reverse bring together Scottish identity and the language of interlace. The thistle is both beautiful and defensive, delicate and resilient. That combination makes it a fitting emblem not only of Scotland, but of Christian endurance itself. Woven into a Celtic style, the thistle becomes more than a national sign. It becomes an image of rootedness and continuity.
St Martin’s Cross and why it matters to this design
No reflection on Iona’s visual language would be complete without St Martin’s Cross.
St Martin’s Cross, which stands beside the abbey, dates to around the late eighth century and has remained on its site for roughly 1,200 years. Historic Environment Scotland describes it as a dramatic early monument, carved from a single piece of stone, and part of the wider high-cross tradition that shaped pilgrimage on Iona.
What makes the cross especially important is that it shows how theology, symbolism and craftsmanship were fused into one object. It was not simply a monument to be admired. It was meant to be read.
Reading the cross sun-wise
Historic Environment Scotland explains that St Martin’s Cross was intended to be read sun-wise. In the morning, the east face would catch the light; later in the day, attention would move to the west face. The cross was therefore not static in its meaning. Light itself became part of the act of reading and devotion.
That idea is deeply moving: a carved stone cross whose meaning unfolds with the movement of the day.
The east face: biblical scenes and divine protection
On the east face, the cross presents a sequence of biblical scenes. Historic Environment Scotland identifies Daniel in the lions’ den at the top of the shaft, Abraham preparing to sacrifice Isaac below, King David playing his harp beneath that, and the youthful David triumphing over Goliath lower down. At the centre are the Virgin and Child, flanked by angels. HES notes that the carvings centre on the theme that God protects the faithful, and that the Virgin and Child image is among the oldest of its kind in Europe.
That sequence is profound. Daniel represents steadfastness under threat. Abraham and Isaac represent obedience, testing and trust. David with the harp joins kingship to sacred song, while David and Goliath show victory arriving through faith rather than worldly strength. At the centre, the Virgin and Child draw all these threads toward Incarnation: God not distant, but with us, held in human arms.
For a designer, this matters because it shows how a sacred object can hold multiple layers at once. Narrative, doctrine, consolation and beauty are all present together.
The west face: bosses, serpents and resurrection
On the west face, the shaft is dominated by what Historic Environment Scotland describes as a snake-and-boss motif. The five large bosses on the cross-head correspond to the five wounds of Christ. Around them weave serpents, which in Christian art can represent evil and the fall, but here also carry a more complex meaning: wisdom, transformation and, because snakes shed their skin, a metaphor for resurrection.
This is one of the most striking things about early Celtic Christian art. It is not afraid of complexity. A serpent can warn, but it can also signify renewal. Ornament is not empty filling. It is thought made visible.
The ring, the form and the wholeness of the cross
Like other great ring-headed crosses, St Martin’s Cross unites structure and symbol. The ring helps support the arms of the cross physically, but it also gives the monument its extraordinary sense of completeness and radiance. In later imagination, that circle has often been read as a sign of eternity, fullness and divine wholeness. Even when one stays cautious about symbolic overstatement, the visual effect is unmistakable: the cross does not end in fracture, but in gathered harmony.
That has influenced our own design thinking. Celtic Christian art so often achieves richness not by clutter, but by integration. Everything belongs.
Why this symbolism still matters now
It would be easy to treat all this as heritage alone: beautiful, interesting, old. But that would miss the point.
The symbols of Iona still matter because the human questions they answer have not gone away. We still need places of prayer. We still cross difficult waters. We still face beasts of one kind or another. We still long for wisdom, belonging, courage and peace. We still need beauty that is not trivial, and craft that can carry meaning rather than merely surface.
That is what we have tried to honour in this rosary.
The dove speaks of the Spirit.The bachall speaks of guidance.The beast speaks of fear confronted in faith.The abbey speaks of place and prayer.The curragh speaks of pilgrimage.The western sea speaks of exposure and calling.The illuminated manuscript speaks of sacred beauty and learning.The bee speaks of faithful labour and sweetness gathered slowly.The map and thistles speak of Scotland, inheritance and rootedness.And St Martin’s Cross reminds us that the old masters of Iona knew how to preach in stone.
A rosary shaped by place, memory and prayer
In the end, this Iona rosary is not only about St Columba, or even only about Iona itself. It is about the meeting of faith and making.
It is about a family memory of carved sacred forms. It is about sea-roads and curraghs. It is about the visual language of the Columban world. It is about the way a place can continue to instruct the imagination long after one has left it. And it is about the hope that even now, in metal shaped by modern hands, something of that older radiance can still be carried forward.
This is the story and symbolism behind our design: not a collection of random Celtic motifs, but a prayer in metal, shaped by sea, stone, Scripture and memory.
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