By eleven, Burano belongs to the crowds. At eight it belongs to the fishermen, the women hanging laundry between houses painted every colour you can name, and the cats.
Take the first boat from the Fondamente Nove and you’ll walk the canals almost alone. The light is soft, the walls look freshly painted, and every corner is a picture you didn’t have to queue for.
“Same island, different hour, another place entirely.”
When the day-trippers arrive, cross the wooden bridge to Mazzorbo: a vineyard, a few houses, and the quiet you came for.
