In London, nights are accompanied by the rumble of cars and the glow of the city creeping through the curtains: reminders that life continues even when you’re asleep.
On Lundy, there’s nothing.
With the island’s generator off between midnight and six, you lie in bed in utter darkness, feeling as if you’re the only person left on Earth.
A few days into my stay on this remote granite outcrop off the coast of southwest England, I decided that if I did end up living the solitary life of my first night's storm-induced imaginings, then spending it on Lundy might not be too much of a hardship.
Although it'd take a bit of getting used to.
Lundy is just four kilometers long, half a kilometer wide and a choppy 16-kilometer boat ride from Bideford or Ilfracombe, Devon, on the mainland.
If the tides aren't right or the sea is too rough, you can't sail.
In winter, the only way to get there is by helicopter.
In summer it's the local supply ship.
I sit in the latter among crates of beer for the tavern, ice cream for the only shop and guttering for a family repairing their house.
Then we travel back in time.
Our destination has no roads, cars, cell phones, Internet or TV. It's a place where the outside world and the demands it makes are held at bay.
Here, all that’s expected is that you enjoy the scenery and sense of space.
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