The ferry arrives once a day, a little before noon, and leaves an hour later. Everything on the island seems to be organised around that hour: the bakery opens before it, the café fills after it, the harbour empties again by two.
An island without a car
There is one road and it stops at the beach. Everything else is a white lane too narrow for anything wider than a donkey or a delivery tricycle. After a day you stop missing the car. After three you stop checking the time.
Mornings are for walking to the far end of the island before the heat. Afternoons are for doing nothing in particular, which turns out to need some practice.
Eating with the timetable
The fish arrives with the boat, so lunch is late and dinner is later. Nobody books. You sit down, someone brings bread, and the menu is whatever came in that morning.
What you take home
Not much, if you are lucky. A habit of walking after dinner, maybe. A suspicion that most plans are optional. And the memory of a pink tree over a white lane, which no photograph quite gets right.
