Imagine it. Late October on a Scottish island with a phalanx of children and a brace of toddlers. Their shepherds are 14 adults from a far away metropolis, cosmopolitan, spoilt by choice, hungry for another new experience.

Departure day starts in the blackness of a freezing dawn and a bleary-eyed drive to Stansted. Wimbledon to Iona is a journey with many staging posts and the potential for timetable mayhem if a pilot or a coach driver or a ferry captain deviates from the plan. But none does so thanking God and the organisation of Roy Webber, we arrive many hours later, tired, exhilarated and ready to start our Vino-thon.

Courtesy of the forward drinking (sic) [no pun intended] of Richard Williams, there are three score bottles of Wine Society produce stacked up in the hallway of the Scottish Episcopal retreat centre when we arrive. Outside, it mentions something about a place of quiet and rest. Inside, the only thing in for a break this week is the conspicuous stair lift.

A cacophony of shrieks, laughter, shouts, whoops and sometimes singing and music engulfs the centre for the next seven days. And then there's the noise from the children.

Next day, any wariness about the weather is dispelled in the bright, sparking sunshine and the awesome views which will become such a beloved backdrop for the next week.

From the dining room, we look out across the choppy bay at Mull, vast, hilly and sporting great cliffs and subtle waterfalls. In another direction is the small island of Staffa, home of Fingal's Cave, the giant of Irish mythology and the destination for a boat trip on the Monday. For many this remains the high point of the week.

On Iona, the island's long and chequered history seeps in to us as the week moves on. We see its raw beauty, understand its significance, feel its solitude and learn about its pain. A place so holy and key to early Christianity is also stained by blood and the recorded memory of Viking atrocities and the persecution of the church in later times.

Yet now, in secular Britain, this is a place of vibrant Christianity, of creativity, dynamism and social awareness. It has become a place of pilgrimage, renewal and prayer-in diverse and original forms.

For pilgrims, the Abbey is the island's obvious focal point. Its services are an unconventional casserole of spirituality, entertainment and social commentary. It's as if fringe theatre is the new Communion Service. For all that, it remains a refreshing break from the predictable or the pomposity one might encounter in other grand churches.

Within our retreat centre is a chapel, an oasis of quiet amid the SW19 hubbub. The soft red glow of the chapel's alter lights signify its stillness -an inner sanctum within a sanctuary. The nightly compline service provides a hint of the peace which prayer in a prayerful place can give.

Next door in the dining room is where the din of dinner time, breakfast or lunch plays out its energy as if on a loop. But it's also a great chance for conversation and to enjoy the little kindnesses of some of the older children as they talk and entertain the tiny ones. Also, to our universal delight, the food consistently surprises and surpasses our expectations. Real porridge, delicious pies, wholesome soups- it's hearty fare heaven.

And whoever said that life on a remote island could be dull? During our brief sojourn, our group creates each night its own wine society bonhomie, has a crack at Scottish dancing, wins the island's pub quiz, lets off fireworks and marvels at the truly cosmic show known as the Northern Lights.

On one day, we brave Mull's bus system to make an alternative pilgrimage to the canary yellows, pillar box reds, lilacs and pea greens of Tobermory. As the setting to children's TV programme, Balamory, it's sort of the equivalent to adults visiting the set of Coronation Street or Eastenders-but without the merchandising.The look of glee and delighted excitement on the faces of the smaller ones as the bus rounds the corner in to the riot of bright pastels makes the whole trip worthwhile.

On other days, the hardier swimmers brave the slate grey ocean while everywhere and every day, there is the rustle of Berghaus and the squelch of Karriemore boots on sodden bog and moss. Walking in this place is uplifting. At every raised hillock we meet the sight of furious Atlantic rollers washing in from the Outer Hebrides, the crash of surf on ancient rocks; and we glimpse the rest of the archipelago with its Celto-Norse heritage. History, geography, religion, nature, ancient languages- all are covered in Iona's curriculum.

It is the children who make this trip special, different, enchanting. Seeing them running free, happy and safe in this kind of island setting is a rare treat. But it allows one to believe that a successful, contented community can be constructed anywhere so long as its members share common core values. Each of us asks ourselves and one another many times whether we could live somewhere like this. There is never a right answer. But we realise that contentment is a complex animal. It seems also, luckily, that for all of us it involves other people and not just a fine view.