The last ferry of the season
The island empties, the café closes, and one boat a day becomes one boat a week. A love letter to the shoulder season.
There is a specific melancholy to the last ferry before the timetable thins for winter. The summer people are gone. The café has a hand-written note in the window. The island is handed back to the forty souls who actually live there, and to whoever was foolish or lucky enough to still be visiting.
That is my favourite week of the year to travel. Everything is closing, and everything is finally quiet.
