Even though there’s no one here, I have the sense that someone is aware of our presence. I scan the ground, worried I might see a swirl of shadow, but there’s nothing. No horrible smell either, just the briny scent of the sea. The back of my neck prickles and I glance at the farmhouse, half-expecting to see a figure looking at us, but there’s no one.

Tom frowns. ‘Bit of a lonely place to live, isn’t it?’

A sheep bleats in the distance and I’m reminded that there won’t even be any farm animals when David takes them across tomorrow. Surely they can survive here just as well as on the mainland? And then I remember that the animals aren’t the problem, it’s finding someone to stay and look after them. I still don’t understand how an island can supposedly tolerate company in summer but not winter. I thought farmers were practical people, but they must be as superstitious as everyone else here.

‘So are all of these houses empty?’ I ask David.

He climbs onto the seat of the quad bike. ‘Aye. Like I said, the families who live on the island have already cleared out for winter. They won’t be back until spring.’

I look down the hill towards the bay and over the windswept fields with their smattering of isolated farmhouses. The boatman follows my gaze and sighs. ‘The holiday cottages are shut up now and the old flint schoolhouse was closed in the fifties. It’s the same with a lot of islands. The population dwindles and before you know it, a whole community’s lost.’ He clears his throat and I realise he’s waiting for us. ‘Best get moving while there’s still light. It’s not the most comfortable ride, but the lighthouse isn’t far.’

Tom’s face falls but he dutifully climbs into the trailer and then rearranges the bags so we have something to lean against. There’s barely any space and he has to bend his knees to fit his legs inside. I find a small gap and tuck myself into it, doing my best not to look smug.

David turns in his seat. ‘You kids comfortable back there?’

I nod and Tom elbows me. ‘Yeah, apart from Shorty here taking up all the room.’

It doesn’t seem too bad, until David starts the engine and the trailer begins rattling along the stone-rutted track. My stomach lurches with each bump and jolt and I feel guilty for putting Tom through the boat crossing and now this. Even so, I will us to go faster. I’ve waited so long to meet my mum that I don’t want to wait a moment longer.

We pass a big white house and a stone chapel, then more cottages and a much older structure.

‘What’s that?’ shouts Tom.

David glances to his right. ‘What’s left of the old abbey – a medieval monastery from the fifth century.’

The crumbling stone ruin overlooks a plot of gravestones, which stick up from the long grass at odd angles. Several are Celtic in design, as tall as men with a round circle enclosing an even-sided cross on top. I think of the twenty thousand saints who are buried here and how the earth must be jam-packed with bodies. It feels wrong for the dead to outnumber the living. If they were to rise up, there would be an army of them.