The first ferry of the day leaves before the sun is fully up. There are a handful of passengers: a few commuters with coffee, a van driver asleep in his cab, and someone like me, who came for the crossing rather than the island.

The harbour lights are still on as we pull away. Gulls follow the wake for a while and then give up. The water is grey, then silver, then briefly gold as the sun clears the hills behind us.

A ferry is the most honest kind of travel. You cannot hurry it, and there is nothing to do but stand at the rail and watch the land you left get smaller and the land ahead get larger. Forty minutes is exactly long enough to finish a coffee and feel that you have been somewhere.

If you live near a crossing, take the first one at least once. Then take the next one back.