It was a slow, boring trip.

Sailing across the Aegean to a fabled Greek isle as the last breath of summer blew sounded more romantic than it actually was: a battle for a seats amongst hundreds of roller-wheeled-luggage-trailing passengers, awful pre-processed-frappe iced coffee served by disgruntled (and slightly racist) bar tenders, cigarette-burn-stained velour upholstery (in ugly colours), general in-cabin airlessness.

On the deck outside it was slightly less dismal. There was fresh air at least, and thumping waves swelling against the ship, salt in the air. But all the slowly-rusting chairs were taken, and you had to yell to be heard above the engine, and I worried about slipping on the fine mist spray. So we stayed below, falling asleep against perspex widows that didn’t open. Rocking and swaying, our reflections dozing beside us (looking suspiciously like strangers).

The sun was setting when we eventually arrived. Hundreds scrambled to disembark, new passengers rushed on board, and within minutes the huge ferry was churning through water again, sailing to its next destination.

We looked around for an empty cab. Tourist mini-vans waited. On the roadside scooters whizzed by. And way, way in the distance, up on a hill, not even visible (but featured in on-board postcards), some rustic windmills looked out to sea.