A slow road to the sea

Last summer, John and Sarah decided to holiday in a small walled town on the coast, far from the crush of the capital. Their journey began badly: a goods train had derailed near the junction, and every train in the region was rerouted. They were left stranded for hours at a godforsaken station with nothing but a drinking fountain.

When they finally arrived, the town was alive with music, and the narrow streets were lined with stalls. Their guest house stood in the old quarter, beneath the spire of a medieval church. Each morning they went for a ramble along the coast and came back by the wharf to watch the trawlers come in. One evening, a boatman offered to take them across the bay in his boat.

Halfway across, the engine began to chug and then stopped altogether. For an hour they drifted, while the boatman muttered about his old propeller. Not until a fishing boat towed them back to the landing stage did Sarah dare to laugh about it. A crowd of onlookers had gathered on the quay to watch. John, who had wanted a secluded retreat, admits that the trip was anything but relaxing. Still, they have already booked the same guest house for next year.