The boatman nods. ‘Aye. I should know. No other way of getting over there, ’cept by boat. And you’re the only ones I’ve taken.’

‘It’s our honeymoon,’ Liam tells the man. He beams at me as he says it, squeezing my hand, his thumb still rubbing the smooth gold of my wedding ring.

‘Congratulations,’ the boatman says to us both, but it sounds perfunctory, like he couldn’t care less. I notice he’s wearing a wedding ring too, dull and scarred and almost welded to his gnarled hand.

‘How long have you been married for?’ I ask him.

‘Forty-three years,’ he grunts, but he doesn’t look happy about it.

I honestly believe that Liam and I will be one of the one in three couples that stays together ‘till death do us part’. Even though we didn’t get married in a church because Liam isn’t religious, we still said the traditional vows and, when I spoke that part, that was when it really sank in that we were committing to be together forever.

I turn my attention to the island, coming into clearer view now. The forest rises up like a dark, silent army, as if the island is barricading itself to visitors, and the cliffs at the far end almost do make the place seem cursed. I wonder about the history of the place – the Viking invasions that the landlord mentioned and the dark history the boatman just hinted at – and shiver again, despite the extra wool sweater of Liam’s that I’m wearing under my jacket. I’m naturally superstitious and I can’t shake the sense of foreboding which has settled over me.

As we continue to bounce over the water, edging nearer and nearer to what I can now make out is a slim jetty at the opposite end of the island to the cliffs, the shape of a house starts to materialise, white with dark wood timbers. It’s set a little way back from the shoreline. That must be the cottage we’re staying in – the old forge.