This place could be the moon. Miles and miles of rockface and sky. Oh but there wouldn't be sky on the moon would there? Idiot. There would be... what would there be? Whatever that was above planets that wasn't sky? Universe? Galaxy? I am truly shit at astronomy. There wouldn't be sheep on the moon either. Or snow.

The snow makes the rock look like more snow but I know it's there, lingering below the white powdered surface, grey and unyielding.

The Outer Hebrides are like nothing I've ever seen before – they feel like the end of the world, and the weird accents and people I've seen dotted around act like it is too. How do they survive here? They must be made of sturdy stuff because I'd been here a five days and was already starting to feel the hardening in my bones and of my skin. Or maybe that had happened before? After I caught them together?

The crappy aerial signal which drifted in and out had gotten me twenty minutes of the news and weather – news which was about some post office closing and some runaway dog. The weather had been more interesting, a warning that there could be upwards of four feet of snow and blizzards from about eight pm. I mean who came to the Outer Hebrides in late winter? No one. Literally no one.

No one except me.

Maybe that's the real reason everyone is looking at me weirdly?

The roads are full of passing places. The entire island is literally a single track road with paved sections jutting out every fifty to a hundred feet to allow other traffic to pass each other safely – a place so remote that it only needed one lane. As I approach one of the passing places I spot a figure; cloaked in a dark outdoor jacket and walking boots, and carrying what looks like camping gear. You have got to be kidding? Camping? Are these people insane?

I've never understood campers generally, people who would trade hot running water, electricity and a comfortable bed for some tarpaulin and a flimsy zip. Chris was a camper. And she was outdoorsy. He liked being outdoors too. I wonder if they ever fucked outside? In a tent? Is that what he liked about her? Stop it Frankie. Fucking stop it. He really wasn't worth it. She was even less worth it. Backstabbing bitch.

I slow down as I pass the insane hiker and glance out the driver side window at him to see if he has the look of a madman. I assume it's a him because seriously, only a man would be arrogant enough to think that in a fight against nature he'd have a chance of coming out on top. He throws a cursory glance back in the window, tipping his head in a silent hello. It is a man. A bearded one. Built for the weather; broad and strong-looking with dark brown hair around his nose hidden by a scarf.

The shop, which is more like a garage because it's made of tin and stuck onto the side of someone's house, is quiet when I pull up out front. I need milk and more eggs and just in case I get snowed in at Laura's for the foreseeable, wine too. The young guy who has been here every time I've come in is on again and as I walk through the door that dings to signal my entry he pulls his shoulders back and smiles in recognition. He looks about eighteen and has large brown eyes like a cow and the sort of face that also speaks to lots of outdoor activities – rosy cheeked and with a bright healthy complexion. He's kinda cute in fact, and clearly interested in the young woman from the lighthouse who doesn't belong around these here parts because he stares at me too long yet averts his eyes when I meet them and smile. He told me his name the other day and I think it's Drew but I'm not certain so I don't bother saying it out loud for fear of being wrong and offending him.

Insane camper aside, Drew was the closest I'd come to a friendly face since I'd arrived on the island five days ago.

"Hello again," I smile, heading straight for the fridge by the door.

"Hello again," he repeats in that odd Scottish accent that sounds absolutely nothing like my own. To me they sound welsh up here. Maybe he is Welsh.

Lifting the largest carton of milk they have, I then move to the shelf holding the eggs, inspecting them first before carrying them under my arm to the counter.

"Looks like it's going to be a wild one." I remark.

"Oh we're used to it up here." He says, lifting the egg carton to check inside despite having watched me do it a moment ago.

"Yeah I'll bet." I nod. "You guys have wine here right?"

"Yep, nothing fancy but there's some red back there and some white in the fridge. We've some boxes down on the floor there too if you want one of those." He gestures behind me. Do I look like a broken hearted alcoholic?

Following his pointed finger, I lift two bottles of each and bring them back to him. Four bottles for the next few days should be fine. Honestly if he wasn't watching me so intensely I'd probably have taken the box but for some reason it bothers me what this cute wholesome young island guy thinks of me. "Want me to help you out to the car?" he offers after I pay him with my card and he's packed the stuff neatly into two bags.

"Oh that would be so nice, thank you." I smile. "I'll get the door," I say as he lifts them up in strong outdoosy looking hands and heads for the door. As soon as I open it I'm blasted with a cold harsh wind that makes my face sting. It's already started. Outside I follow him over to where my car is parked and pop open the boot for him to sit the two bags inside. "Thank you so much. Looks like it's definitely on its way." I glance upwards towards the sky as he closes the boot.

"Yep. Drive careful back up there. It'll start before you get back." He says with an eerie certainty that makes him sound like some mystical seer who has the gift of foresight or something.

"I will. Thanks again." I tell him before climbing into the driver's seat. He waves at me as I pull away from the shop before disappearing back inside.

Turns out Drew or whatever his name does have the gift of foresight. About twenty meters away from the shop the snow starts, falling thick and fast with purpose. I slow down into a low gear and curse myself for leaving it so late. I hate driving in snow most of the time and here in this place its worse. I do know the route however. I've driven it six times back and forth and I wasn't far away now. When the blizzard starts to worsen I consider how long I'd last in my car with milk, raw eggs and four bottles of wine and I decide to speed up.

A little head in the distance I spot what looks to be the same camper from before, looking cold and battered and I'm sure if I could see his face, regretful. I feel a wave of empathy wash over me for him. I mean it's of course his own stupid fault going on a camping trip to the Outer Hebrides in February, but maybe he's from Iceland or something and this was summer to him? Is that how that worked? As I get closer, twenty feet or so behind, I slow right down afraid of skidding into him or bombing past him and kicking up a torrent of slush over him.

As he hears the engine he turns to look over his shoulder at me and waves. I'm not entirely sure what sort of wave it is, whether it's a hello again wave, or a oh another human wave, but when he turns fully around and waves both hands in front of himself and steps out onto the road a little I know it's a wave of help. I press down on the brake as gently as possible but the car still skids slightly and gripping the steering wheel tight I fearfully guide the car into the middle of the road to avoid hitting him.

As soon as the car stops I begin to have a different kind of fear. Fear of being raped or murdered by a complete stranger in the middle of nowhere. What am I doing stopping for him? Am I insane? I'm about to press the accelerator and drive off when he's suddenly at the passenger side window knocking it quietly. I hesitate and consider the probabilities sensibly. Okay what are the chances of him being a murderer? Probably minimal. Why would a murderer stalk women around a remote island in February? Surely they'd go to a more densely populated place. Surely leaving it to chance that you will bump into another human out here in the wilderness is the weakest sort of hunting ground for a murderer. All he is is a man who's come here for a hike and now finds himself trapped in the middle of a snow storm.

As I'm mulling all of this over he taps the window again, the snow whirling and battering the outside of my Beetle. Hesitantly I hit the switch on my door to lower the window to a four inch murderer-proof crack. He has a red scarf wrapped around his nose and his mouth but his eyes look distinctly un-murderer like. In fact they look kind and warm, and vaguely familiar.

"Are you lost?" I ask him. He brings a gloved hand up to his face and yanks down the scarf and I have to stifle a gasp. It can't be. Okay it is. Or maybe it's just someone who looks like him. Okay a LOT like him. I mean all bearded men with brown hair look kind of similar in the snow... don't they? Yes that's it. It has to be that.

"I'm fucking insane is what I am," He chuckles. It's a deep warm rumbling sound from beneath the layer of wool wrapped around his head. I know that voice though, and that laugh. I know that crooked smile too. Oh fuck sake it's bloody him. This can't be happening. Okay it's happening. Breathe Frankie. "Is there a B&B or a hotel or something with a roof on it within walking distance?" He asks me.

"Umm, nothing on this island is within walking distance. Not for normal people anyway." I smile.

"Yeah, I'd noticed," He smiles back. "You don't sound like a native?"

"I'm not native. I'm on a writers retreat," I lie. I'm on a Valentine's Day break to get out of the city while my boyfriend moves his stuff into his new girlfriends house. My ex-friends house "I only know where the boat comes in, where they sell wine, and the place I'm staying." I'm rambling now. I always knew I'd ramble if I met him.

He knows I know too. At least I think he does. There's something knowing in his eyes. But then, he always has that look in his eyes — I'd lost myself in them often enough. He nods slowly, his gaze holding mine. I feel my cheeks heat in response.

"You're a writer?" he sounds interested. Bless him.

I shrug, "Kind of. I'm trying." I'm failing.

"And this retreat of yours isn't in a B&B or a hotel you could take me to?" He asks, a hopeful note to his voice.

I shake my head. "No. I'm staying at a friends house. Well, her lighthouse actually."

"That one up there?" He turns his head to look about a half a mile up the hill where the white structure still manages to stand out proudly against the heavy white sky.

"Yes, that one."

"Right, Okay well, thanks," he ducks his head in a gesture of thanks - exactly like he would do. It's still utterly surreal but I feel calmer than I did a moment ago.

"I'll just keep walking. Should come upon something eventually. Thanks for stopping anyway, yeah?" He nods again, giving me another of his famous crooked smiles before pulling his scarf back up over his mouth.

When he steps back from the car I find that I can't press my foot down on the accelerator. Christ I can't leave him out here in the bloody wilderness. What on earth is he even doing out here in the wilderness? The desolate roads of Harris weren't for the faint-hearted. If he is him well then he certainly isn't a murderer. But then, if he is him then I know he isn't faint-hearted either.

I also know that he isn't going to stumble onto anything this side of the island.

There were four campsites on this southern part and if he reaches them tonight then he'll have to pitch a tent in the snow. There were three hotels down here and all of them were closed for the season. Laura had told me that specifically. No one came here in winter - it cost hotels more money to stay open than they made from tourists in winter she said. Christ he'll freeze to death and die.

"And what if you don't find anything?!" I shout, leaning my head back down to look out the window crack. He stops, walks back and lowers his head to the gap again. "You could die out here," I add.

"Then, I really will have suffered for my fucking art then." I think he says. His voice is muffled by the scarf so I'm not totally sure. His eyes are smiling, that familiar green gaze framed by delicious laughter lines.

I nod. "So, then you are who I think you are?"

He pulls the scarf down again to expose his full mouth and gives me a wry smile. "Depends on who it is you think I am, I suppose." His face gives absolutely nothing away, but there's a defined twinkle in his eye.

I bite my lip feeling shy all of a sudden. "Um, I'm Francesca. My friends call me Frankie." I tell him.

If it's not him then I can be on my way and home in ten minutes and he'll be just a lunatic hiker who picked the wrong month to go explore the great outdoors. Then he'll freeze and die and I'll have a strangers death on my conscience and not the death of an A-list actor I've had a crush on for ten years.

"Nice to meet you Frankie," he says. "I'm Tom. But my friends call me Tommy. I'd shake your hand but I reckon I might lose it you know? It's probably halfway gone already." He flexes his fingers as though to check the life in them.

And I'm no longer calm.

Ok. So this was happening. I'd been stopped by a hitchhiking Tom Hardy on a remote desolate island in the middle of a snowstorm. You just never knew the bloody minute did you?