Feeling a little better, I close the visor and glance out of the window. At first there are just fields, and then a sign for Aberdaron appears. The village only has a few dozen houses and we pass through it almost as soon as we arrive. Realising I can’t put it off much longer, I text my foster parents. I tell them that a girl from work has broken up with her boyfriend and wants me to stay for a few days. I don’t like deceiving them, but I can’t face a big conversation, or worse, them coming out here. As expected, I get a text back within minutes, telling me to take care and keep in touch. Apart from going to my martial arts group, I never meet up with anyone outside of school or work. If there’s one thing they’re always encouraging me to do – aside from talking about my feelings – it’s to make friends.

After a mile or so the road begins to climb steeply and I check the directions again. ‘There. We’re meant to turn there.’ I point at the turning and Tom swerves just in time, taking us onto a rough dirt track. On the right is a line of skeletal black trees and on the left is a drop to a water-filled ditch. Looking out, I see that the wheels of the car are dangerously close to the edge. We slow to a crawl and I press my thighs into the seat as we bump across deep ruts and potholes. The track twists downwards and gets even narrower. I flinch as branches scrape along the side of the car, twigs snapping like broken bones. Tom bites his lip, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, and I feel bad about his car getting even more damaged.

Eventually the road widens and becomes flatter. We take a sharp corner and without warning the sea appears: huge grey waves surging between jagged black rocks, spray hissing and spitting high into the air. Bardsey Island sits in the distance and looks exactly like it did in the photos. Even though it’s misty, there’s no mistaking its outline. With a rounded mountain on one side and flat land on the other, it looks like a giant humpback whale skulking off the coast.

Excited, I sit up in my seat and search for a ferry. The only vessel is a yellow catamaran, thirty or forty feet long, positioned at the bottom of the long concrete slope before us. Two men wearing overalls and work boots are loading barrels into the back of it. A couple of dirty Land Rovers and a small orange tractor are parked nearby. This has to be it.

Tom pulls up and puts on his jacket. He gets out and goes to my side of the car, then squats down. I’m used to him opening doors for me, but this is a new one. I lower the window a crack and cold air whistles inside, assaulting my nostrils with the smell of the sea.