Travelling, as we are, in a linear progression down the spine of Central America, it’s startling how small these countries are.  Drive from Edinburgh to Inverness by way of Stirling and you have covered the length of El Salvador.  Four nights, and suddenly we’re considering our options over the next ‘bit’.

Honduras lies in our way, and unfortunately doesn’t come with a good reputation.  Many travellers are avoiding the country entirely or are travelling across in a single day, most by bus.  However, I have one of those snatches of information with an attached image that dates from the dark age of paper book.  Of a touring cyclist standing on a shore, contemplating the prospects of one bicycle, several panniers, a wide stretch of water and a small rowing boat.

This being the over-connective age, the app-map shows the intriguing suggestion: ‘ferry?’, and as that question mark is not overly assertive, we resort to a search.  There is a website that gives a degree of reassurance as to the possible existence of a waterborne crossing.  However, the only available date would appear to be six weeks hence.  It doesn’t take a sleuth to work out that all the turismo minibuses that have been passing us with their thirteen designated clients have booked out all the available space.  Still, we have one piece of intelligence that might help.  The staff at a certain beach resort forty kilometres from the port have been known to give assistance.  We head in that direction.  If that doesn’t work out we can always go to the bus station.

This is Latin America; there’s always another simple solution.

Down a rough sandy track, through a shanty of shacks leaking questionable odours, to a local beachfront eatery.  It’s a happy Latin Sunday: noisy-busy-happening.  Our room comes with a pool, restaurant, ocean front, jungle shade, even hammocks behind bug screens.  It also has the novel inclusion of a sweeping brush for the ever-present sand.  We want to stay a few days, we need the break.  However, that initial enquiry about a ‘ferry’ that was met with vague disinterest, has, two hours later transformed into a full booking… without our consent.  A booking for early tomorrow morning.  So much for the break, but there’s no way we’re giving up the opportunity, for the suggestion is that it’s the only chance in the foreseeable future.

The rowing boat does exist, but it comes with one outboard motor and tows, disconcertingly or reassuringly, depending on your state of angst, a safety pirogue behind.

Seven passengers, ten panniers, five large rucsacs, two bicycles and a motorbike.  Master and mate sit by the outboard motor and are therefore unable to see where we’re going; fortunately we don’t run down any of the three nations’ gunboats as we pass through their territorial waters.  The engine only shudders and dies once, so with two hours sailing time we arrive at that same shore front that’s been lurking in my memory.

Through the surf, up the beach and into immigration, whose solitary officer will process just seven people today, our row-boatload of seven people.  He fully intends justifying his existence; prolonging the process by spending more time on the ‘phone than the one finger ‘hunt and peck’ keyboard entry.  Individually handwritten receipts, fees collected, but only in dollars, no coins please, no change given.

However, we’re now in Nicaragua.