The rain splattered windows frame the gray water of the harbor, reflecting the dull skies above. Flanked by soaring mountains of rock draped in clouds, red buildings trimmed in white line the opposite shore next to long wooden piers. A sturdy fishing boat motors past. I sit in our cosy rorbu, this one refurbished from an original fisherman’s cottage, with rough scarred log walls and a creaky uneven floor. More red buildings surround this one, capped with sod roofs, angled toward the water.

Clearly the weather pattern has changed. After 13 days of near perfect sunshine, yesterday we donned our rain jackets for the first time. We had no choice but to cycle in the rain, as we had a ferry to catch. This was no ordinary transit, it was a bike ferry!

Hidden away down a small lane, the crew members waved us over to board the small wooden fishing trawler. As they lashed our bikes to the front deck, we checked out the boat while awaiting our fellow cyclists, pleased that the rain had stopped. Once they were on board, we were off.

I never gave it a thought. It was a calm day, and only a 45 minute trip. I settled into a plastic chair on the lower deck breathing in the crisp air as we headed out to sea. That right there was the problem. This was not a sheltered trip between islands. It was a journey out and around to the next island. That became apparent as soon as we cleared the breakwater.

The lack of wind was irrelevant. Strong currents and waves coming up from the south created huge swells. The bow crawled up each one and dove down the other side. The railings rose and dipped from side to side. Gamely, I juggled my body to counteract the movement of the boat, certain I could handle it. But the waves won, and the mate gave me a sympathetic look as he brought me a bucket. Which I put to use. When we left the boat, the captain engulfed me in a big bear hug. And I hugged him back.

Despite the misery that gripped my body uncontrollably and left me weak and sweaty, I don’t regret the trip. I just hoped that the eager group of cyclists who boarded for the return trip knew what they were getting into.

We landed in Nusfjord, a fishing village with exceptionally well preserved wooden buildings lining the harbor. It was worth exploring, and walking its perimeter and gingerly climbing up a rocky outlook on the opposite side helped get me back on my feet before mounting my bike again.

Cycling under leaden skies does not invite lingering for photos or exploring. But the remainder of the day remained dry and I did my best to imagine the scenery in better light.

We had several tunnels on that stretch. But the two long ones still had the old road in tact, which made delightful bike trails right on the water’s edge.

It was the last full day of cycling on our tour. I looked forward to staying in Reine, reputed to be in one of the prettiest spots in the Lofoten Islands. Approaching the village, I spotted our rorbu in the distance, pleased with our home for the next two nights. Right on the waterfront. At the foot of a mountain. Where I now contentedly peer out the windows.