Boondock Puffins

There’s something timelessly brilliant about waking up on a boat to watch the sun rise over the Mediterranean. It was early – too early by any sensible measure – but worth it. The sea was calm, the sky turned a soft apricot-pink colour, and for a few quiet moments, it felt like we were adrift in some romantic painting from the 1800s, minus the scurvy.

The ferry trundled along nicely, making a midday pit stop at Porto Torres in Sardinia. We stood at the rail and watched as an extraordinary number of cars and lorries performed the logistical ballet of unloading and reloading. It was oddly satisfying watching articulated lorries reverse onto a ship, as if they’re doing a three-point turn into a shoebox.

Then came the long haul to mainland Italy. The sun dipped, the breeze cooled, and spirits rose as we neared Civitavecchia. But whatever serenity we had banked was entirely spent in the final hour. Disembarkation was, for lack of better words, absolute carnage.

Down in the bowels of the ferry, a cavernous steel furnace filled with bikes, cars, fumes, and a deeply unsettling amount of engine revving, we waited. Engines came to life all at once, engulfing the space in a noxious cocktail of smog and impatience. It was like being trapped inside a petrol-scented hairdryer.

Somehow, during this sweaty chaos, there was a chap managed to turn the entire scenario into a one-man bike show. He had an immaculate old motorcycle – something vintage, with pipes that gleamed like chrome snakes – and he knew exactly how cool he looked. He stood beside it with a kind of serene detachment, letting the rest of us stew in our own carbon monoxide while admiring him. Fair play, really.

Eventually, the ship opened, and we rode off into the Italian night, winding through Civitavecchia’s backstreets with half the signage, twice the traffic, and none of the clarity. But soon, the lights dimmed, the roads opened up, and we found our way to Tarquinia, where a kind elderly couple waited up to show us our spot for the night. They were the very picture of Italian hospitality, and their warmth more than made up for the chaotic end to the crossing.

Now, ready for bed and exhaust fumes finally out of our lungs, we’re settling in for a good night’s sleep, with dreams of Tuscany and the promise of another day on the road.