When I first look at this title, I feel very comfortable. "Nothing to do", How relax! "A great place to do it", what a free enviroment! But when I see there is "no TVs, no cars, no telephones, and next to no people", a feeling of surprise and disappointment come immediately with me. Of course, if I still think so, I will not recommend you this passage. I am curious how things go on at this case. Maybe we will feel much better to get in touch with nature while no possible to be disturbed. Now look at this passage written by somebody I don’t know:

‘Lilac bin bags – you must live somewhere posh." Colin the boatman eyed the bags, courtesy of Oxford city council, that sealed my supplies for the journey across to Bardsey Island. I’d followed the pre-trip instructions to the letter, including the watertight bin bags and the ominous advice to "bring more food than is required for a week, as occasionally the weather may prevent the boat from crossing". Apparently, bad weather can mean up to a third of boat trips over the notoriously treacherous Bardsey Sound don’t run.
My crossing did take place but only because the vet and a local farmer needed to reach Bardsey – Ynys Enlli in Welsh – which lies off the far tip of the Llyn peninsula in north-west Wales. The regular service for day trippers had been cancelled. So, clutching my bottle of wine to my chest (it was my only company for the stay, and so needed to survive the journey intact), I bumped over the rough seas for the 20-minute crossing, watching the seabirds dive-bombing into the waves.
My wine and I arrived safely, and we were greeted by a proud Welsh dragon fluttering from the flagstaff at Bardsey’s tiny harbour. Emyr Roberts, Bardsey’s warden, helped unload my luggage and food supplies onto a tractor, and we bumped again along the island’s only track to my house, set beside the chapel and overlooking the ruins of the 13th-century Augustinian abbey of St Mary’s. For Bardsey is a holy island, a place of pilgrimage since Celtic times. Three journeys here, it was said, equalled one to Rome. Legend has it that 20,000 saints are buried here, so I was not to be alone after all.
As I settled into my house, Ty Capel, Emyr explained the arrangements. There is no electricity on the island, and no mains drainage, so all washing is done by hand, and the toilet is a composting one in the outhouse.
Surprisingly for such a damp, water-bound place, water is scarce, with only a few small springs to supply the houses, so all waste water is reused in the pretty, shrub-lined garden where I could also pick herbs to flavour my meals. Front doors are left unlocked, so there are no keys to lose.
Bardsey itself is tiny: two miles long, and less than a mile wide, it’s a sliver of land with one round hill, suspended between vast sea and vaster sky. It is closer to Ireland than to England, was a haven for pirates after the decline of the abbey, and has its fair share of tales of wreckers and Whisky Galore-type shenanigans. It is also a hotspot for migrant birds, with an observatory established here in 1953, and since 1979 it has been owned by the Bardsey Island Trust, which aims to manage it as a living community rather than as a nature reserve, like many of its neighbours.
Winter is the probably the most picturesque times of the year to be in Europe, as for me, especially in Switzerland. Most of its territory are snow-covered and lit brightly for the trip. It’s like living in some fancy fairy tale!




