August, and now September has been chock full of visits across the river. Between our long cycle rides and showing visitors around, we’ve found ourselves on the ferry almost once every week for the last five weeks or so. 

I’m always amazed and slightly in awe about how the ferry works with such monotonous precision, time after time, day after day. Over the same span of river. So mundane. But every single day presents a chance to see something a new. Our favourite ferry dog, the captain in his starched whites, basketfuls of veggies going across from one side to the other, and there’s us always looking like a set of namoonas. Dressed in Lycra, helmets strapped on, lugging our bikes across. And we’re met with an assortment of stares, ranging from mild curiosity to plain bewilderment. 

And yet. Every morning is different. The light diffused by the morning mist, veiled hints of what lies beyond on the other side, the glistening surface of water as we cut through gently making our way to new ground. 

This was the view yesterday. 

And this is how drastically different it was  24 hours later.