I catch up with him and realise what he means. The figures are tall gravestones. What I thought were human heads are the bulbous tops of Celtic crosses and what seemed like figures are their upright bases. A loud cackle cuts through the quiet, making the hairs on my arms stand on end. The noise comes again, followed by a guttural grunting. Tom pauses and searches the sky.

‘Cormorants,’ I say.

‘What?’

‘Big black seabirds – we saw them on the crossing yesterday.’

He looks doubtful, but then I guess he was too busy trying to keep his lunch down to pay much attention to the wildlife. Another cackle cuts through the air, this time even closer. Several fly overhead in a group, their long thin legs hanging behind them, their immense wings outspread. Black hags, the boatman called them. I know they’re meant to be an ill omen, but to me they’re magnificent: wild, otherworldly creatures. Seeing them sends a thrill of excitement through me, but when I look again they’ve gone, vanished into the mist.

We continue along the path and the empty holiday cottages loom up next to us, their dark windows like sunken eye sockets. We pass by them and then the disused schoolhouse, stopping when we come to David’s farmhouse. The quad bike and trailer are parked outside but there’s no sign of life, not even the lonely bleat of a sheep. Tom jumps over the low slate wall and knocks at the door. When no one answers, he glances at me nervously.

‘He’s probably down at the harbour,’ I say.

‘Yeah, of course.’

He smiles briefly, as if embarrassed about being worried, and then heads down the path. Even if the boatman was expecting us to stay here for longer, surely he wouldn’t have gone earlier than he said? Tom walks off in the direction of the bay, and I hurry to keep up with him. By the time we reach the top of the hill, he’s a dozen paces ahead.

The track drops sharply away beneath me and I look down, expecting to see the crescent-shaped beach, but there’s only swirling white vapour. Stepping into nothingness is unsettling, and it doesn’t help that the ground is uneven and I nearly lose my footing. Not that it seems to worry Tom, who jogs down the hill, his feet sliding on the loose gravel. I think about asking him to wait, but he’s already halfway to the bottom.

Eventually a boat comes into view, cream and black and considerably bigger than the catamaran we arrived in. Tom looks back at me and grins, his relief evident, and I smile too. Even though I’m not going with him, the idea of being abandoned here isn’t exactly pleasant.