Notes from slow trips on small roads.
June 2026
The plan looked tidy on paper: three short crossings, each timed to meet the next, with an hour of riding between them. Ferry timetables, it turns out, are written by optimists.
The first boat left on time. The second left four minutes early, which I watched from the end of the jetty. The next one was in two hours, so I rode the length of an island I had not meant to visit and found a café, a lighthouse and a dog that walked me to the harbour.
The third crossing was the shortest and the roughest. Everyone else stayed inside. I stood at the rail and got soaked, which by then hardly mattered.
Lesson kept: never plan a connection tighter than the length of a coffee.