David doesn’t respond, seemingly too busy staring out of the window and counting non-existent witches. I leave the cabin and take a few steps when he calls out. ‘Ah, there she is – Bardsey Island, or to the Welsh that live here, Ynys Enlli.’

Grabbing the rail, I spin around and gasp. Ominous cliffs appear out of the mist, towering over me. I crane my neck upwards. Hundreds of seabirds are nesting on the jagged black crags, the rocks beneath streaked white by feathers and mess. Dozens more fly in dizzying circles high above me, tiny specks of white whirling like snowflakes. The air is alive with their cries. Somehow it feels like a warning.

8

We approach the island from behind the mountain, moving parallel to the cliffs and keeping our distance from the rocks that protrude from the sea like broken teeth. Forced through narrow inlets, the water explodes in great towering arcs of sea spray, shooting and spurting in cascading showers. My heart thuds with each boom and crash of the waves, the noise so loud I can feel it in my body.

The sea is choppier now, the water heaving and rolling, and the boat feels tiny and insignificant as it pitches up and down. Tom clings on to the rail and what’s left of his stomach contents and I feel bad for leaving him. I take a few lurching steps towards him, then we round the headland and I get my first proper view of Bardsey.

The sight stops my breath. The rounded mountain that dominates one side of the island gives way to land that is almost completely flat. About a dozen stone houses sit at the base of the mountain, leading in a line towards the cliffs. Beyond are fields with a scattering of farmhouses, stretching a mile or so to where the lighthouse stands. Even from this distance the red-and-white striped tower looks imposing.

I wipe my eyes, my face sore from the wind, and scan the smaller buildings that surround the base of the tower. I can’t make out the details from here, but one of them has to be the lighthouse cottage where my mother lives. It’s strange to think of her living in such a desolate place, so cut off from the rest of the world. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be here alone with only the crash of waves and wildlife for company.

As the boat motors towards a distant bay, I gaze ahead at the view, wanting to absorb every detail. Clouds race across the windswept sky, creating a shifting patchwork of shadow on the fields below and spotlighting the lighthouse in a shaft of silvery sunlight. The scene is so familiar it makes my chest ache. I feel as if I’ve been here before, even though I know it’s impossible for me to have a memory of the island. My mother abandoned me when I was a tiny baby; I was too young to remember living here, or anything else. And yet I know this place. The strength of my conviction makes my skin prickle. I don’t feel like smiling but a grin spreads across my face anyway.