Friday night on Owey Island and it's like we've been time-warped into the Ireland of years gone by. Smoke from burning turf fills the air as the small cluster of locals potter in and out of their well-maintained houses, sharing freshly caught fish and odd jobs. Friendly dogs roam free and chickens strut about. And as the roar of the sea and rustling of the reeds harmonise with warm, convivial chatter, it's hard to believe this lively haven lay dormant for decades.

Located off the coast of west Donegal in the Atlantic Ocean, the remote island of Owey (or Uaigh in Irish, meaning "cave") is approximately 15 minutes by boat from Cruit Island , which is joined to the mainland via a short car bridge. There is no ferry service to Owey, visitors can only access the island by kayak or private boat. There's also no electricity or running water, so only the distant lights twinkling from the mainland hint of civilisation – and modern-day pressures – further away.

Last inhabited full-time in the 1970s, the island was home to around 100 residents and about 30 families at its pinnacle. But the lure of modern conveniences on the mainland led to a dwindling population, with the last remaining islanders leaving in 1977 and the place lying abandoned for more than 25 years.

She explained: "It is hard to get to. At any of the other islands you can rock up at on a ferry and have a dander about and stay, whereas Owey it very much belongs to the community. You have to be very respectful of the fact that it's really their island and as long as you respect that, then they are welcoming." she added.

Paul Cowan, one of the first wave pioneering Owey's renaissance, spent his teenage years on Owey, having moved here with his family in the early 1970s to escape the unrest on the streets of Belfast at the height of the Troubles . "My mother's from Rutland Island, which is the next island to it," explained Cowan. "The Troubles had got really bad and my father thought the best way out was to buy a house on an island. That was it. We all moved [to Owey]."

Despite finding the island deserted, with many of the old cottages and outhouses turned to ruin after more than 25 years of neglect against the Atlantic breeze, the brothers saw the potential in the place as a peaceful escape from their busy, city lives. Along with some of their other siblings (there are 12 of them altogether) they set about fixing up the old family home and started building new houses.

Seeing fresh life breathed into the place, other descendants of the island, who like Cowan had spent time there throughout their youth, were inspired to return and fix up the old properties in an attempt to return Owey to its former glory. Resurrecting the dilapidated houses was no easy task, however, with all supplies having to be brought over by boat. But around 20 homes are now standing, with a seasonal community of 20-30 people living here during the warmer months. There is also one hostel that sleeps up to six people (and a spot for wild camping), but no shops or other facilities.

Owey's isolation is what attracts both locals and travellers. The seasonal community are passionate about keeping the island untouched by present-day conventions. Visitors are generally wanting to disconnect from the fast pace of life elsewhere or seeking adventure, with the rugged landscape attracting kayakers for the sea caves and rock climbers for the sea cliffs, as well as hill walkers.

Selkie Sailing .

The hostel was once McGinley's grandmother's home and the last house on the island to be lived in, so it has weathered the decades of neglect better than most. Still retaining much of its original furniture, the cottage has two bedrooms off the main living space, where there's a gas stove, table and chairs and an open fire for everyone to gather around in the evenings. Befitting how the islanders have always lived, amenities are limited to a compost toilet in an outhouse, just a stroll away at the back of the cottage.

One local, Frankie Gallagher, calls the island home because it's the birthplace of his father, and after growing up in Scotland, he now divides his time between Owey (weather permitting) and the Donegal mainland. "Certainly we would never be looking to get electricity into the island because we can actually do well around it," he said.

Alongside using gas and solar for heat, light and power, the islanders use tanks on the roof to collect rainwater. This allows Gallagher to have a gas shower in his home with the water pump running off solar. "But it is slightly limited because there's only so much water that you can store so you have to be conscious about how long you're in the shower," he added.

Gallagher says this simpler lifestyle means sunsets are spectacular, with no light pollution and highly visible star constellations. He said apart from the occasional roar of a quad bike, the greatest noise pollution is from a corn crake, a rare – and noisy – bird that was once native to the island and often returns in summer.

The car-free island measures just more than 300 acres in total. The southern end is grassy and fertile with a small harbour for boats to berth. Steep steps from the pier bring you to a dirt path leading to the "village centre" where all the homes are built on either side of a long, narrow, gurgling stream, backed by undulating hills as far as the eye can see.

A highlight of my trip was an adrenalin-fuelled kayaking tour of the sea caves with Selkie Sailing , a family-run business where husband and wife team, Gareth and Amanda Doherty, guide large groups across the water from Cruit Island on sit-on-top kayaks. We spent an exhilarating three hours on Saturday afternoon negotiating the waves around the rocks on the environs of the island, squeezing through soaring granite structures and meandering in and out of crevices so cinematic it was like we were extras in a movie.

To enjoy this unspoilt beauty in a more laid-back way, on Sunday afternoon, our group went in search of a clifftop lake, hidden amongst the rocks at the back of the island with a panoramic view of the sea. It's where one of the islanders told us they often go for a wash and a dip. To reach it, we climbed wild path north of the hostel, ascended a grassy hill that led to a plateaued cliffside and then carefully made our way down glistening pink and grey granite to discover the lagoon in all its glory.

Plunging into shiny, black freshwater flanked by moss-covered rocks, we swam, washed and laughed – engulfed by the surreal beauty of being in a clifftop lake overlooking the ocean. I surprised myself by how relaxed I felt around people I'd only just met and a sense of peace enveloped me. We were blissfully marooned together on island time. Our roles as mums, grannies, professionals and partners were whisked away with the Atlantic wind. There was nowhere to be and nothing to rush for.

Our last night on Owey was similar to the other evenings on the island: we prepared vegetables outside the cottage while the sun went down, cooked on the gas stove in candlelight and feasted on bean stew and wine around the campfire where the small group of locals – who we'd got to know over the course of the weekend – joined us for more revelry and a rapturous sing-song.

Sitting outside, watching the flames of the fire dance in the wind and listening to a group rendition of the Rare Auld Times , one of my campmates turned to me and said, "We're winning aren't we?". Even though I'd only met her a couple of days before, I knew exactly what she meant: the fresh air, the island's stories relayed through song, the stars so visible in the night sky… the peacefulness of Owey.