The ferry runs three times a day and the timetable is printed on a postcard, which is to say it is more of a suggestion. The island answers to no clock but the light’s.
We came for two weeks and learned to read the sky the way the locals do: grey morning means a clear afternoon, clear morning means wind by three, and when the light turns that particular silver, the fish will be biting at the north rocks.
Days were spent swimming, walking the headland, and eating whatever the boats brought in. Nights were spent in a kitchen that smelled of woodsmoke and salt, playing cards until the candles guttered.
We left with the feeling of having been somewhere that keeps its own time.