It's been a busy day for wildlife - and I write this in the morning. From my bed, I watched a beaver heading out into the bay. At breakfast, a great blue heron landed with a surprising screech in the back channel and stood stock still for so long that I forgot about him and wandered out to discuss dock plans with my builder who had arrived by boat. Sandhill cranes, with their distinctive creaking, flew overhead. And just now, sitting to write, a mink appeared amongst the cardinal flowers, scrabbling in the rocks for frogs or heron scraps.

It's Nature, writ large. Although we now have internet, it's still remote and quiet; any neighbour is a boat ride away.

After almost three weeks of company, I'll confess to feeling nervous about spending five days up here on my own. I even tried to borrow a dog. It's not the beaver or the mink or, heaven forbid, a bear that would make me peer anxiously into the shadows but rather my own imagination. I would swim before bed with anyone else up here and float on my back to admire the canopy of stars without any problem, although I wouldn't drift far. In my heart, I knew that the large snapping turtle who lives in the bay would shoot off the minute she heard a disturbance in the water, but did anything more sinister lurk below the surface?

Alone now, I don't swim at night, but it no longer fazes me to wander around after the sun has set. What changed? My attitude, I suppose, the personal growth that came from this untethered year, and my immersion into this landscape.

Last night, beyond the large window which reflected back the light from the candelabras on the table, I watched a small moon slide towards the horizon. By the time I'd blown out the candles and extinguished the propane light, the moon had set, and I headed to my cabin with a flashlight.

The darkness is like velvet, but not in a tropical sort of way with the croaking of tree frogs, the warm humidity wrapping itself around you like a soft blanket. Here, the thick blackness has an edge. Because it's really black. No moon at the moment. No ambient light. No glow over the horizon from a town. If it's calm, the stars will reflect on the water, otherwise the water, the islands, the trees and the sky blend into an impenetrable darkness. At times, the quiet makes my ears pulse, even though everyone drives their boat at night, returning home after dinner at a friend's or the younger set head out to gatherings. It's as if the darkness, after initially amplifying any sound, then swallows it all.

It's also later in August. The Americans have gone back to school, the days are shorter and the nights cool, so fewer people come up during the week. I wonder what it will be like when I return in September for a week. It's been years, decades probably, since I've been here so late in the season. The morning plunge will remain as it's such a magical way to start the day, but it will be much chillier. I will miss that when I head to Europe in mid-September but perhaps I can do some wild swimming in Portugal.

I've ended up thoroughly enjoying being on my own. I like the busy solitude, especially as the tasks here are elemental and satisfying: breaking up an old dock ramp with a hammer and drill, then using a circular saw to reduce the beautifully-dry planks to a size that will fit in the fireplace; sanding the large table and benches on our deck and then applying urethane - a process that gets repeated three times; looking at some of the warped screens and doors, wondering if I should take a woodworking course over the winter. There are also domestic tasks like sorting the muddled-up linens and sweeping the main cabin but they hold little interest for me. Since I was a child, I've preferred to do stuff outside, to get grubby and then fall in the water. It's odd to take my bathing suit off to swim but really, what's the point of getting it wet when there's no around? And if someone sees, do I really care?

I balance this solitude with the occasional social foray. I had some girlfriends over for cocktails (called docktails up here) on Sunday, which began shortly after 5 and ended at 11 pm. Dinner was the assortment of dips, cheeses, crackers, vegetables, smoked trout and olives that everyone had contributed, and the conversation spun around many diverse topics. I like small-scale socialising.

Tomorrow I head back to civilisation. I will bathe in hot water for the first time in more than three weeks. I will have to put away my moccasins and think about my clothes. I'll be able to turn on lights without a match. I love the contrast, and am happy to know that I'll be back here before the end of the month.