Not much to report from these days. It was a game of paddle, eat, sleep, repeat, survive the cold. Sure enough, getting out of the warm cocoon of my sleeping bag and putting on my wet, sandy kit was as grim as anticipated. It takes some willpower to strip off your warm dry clothes and feel the elements whip away your body heat, only to climb into gritty, frigid neoprene. A couple of minutes later and I’m warm again and wondering why I made such a fuss about it. Still, the most hedonistic pleasure I had for the next few days was peeing myself, shuddering with delight as the warmth ran down my legs and into my boots.

I got away before eight o’clock and it was another day of headwinds. I wasn’t confident I’d reach Venice by the time mum and Isobel arrived on Friday, but I couldn’t have them drive all the way out to Italy only to greet me at some grotty town all closed up for winter with nothing going on. No, Venice was far more fitting and I was this close now, I just had to get there. So I paddled all day, over seventy kilometers in the ten hours I was on the water, until I reached Marina di Ravenna where I went and sat in a co-op supermarket to warm up.