So, on our first night in Brittany, I coped with an induction stove, and pans that don’t work on induction stoves. We were shown around by the host’s father who obviously looks after the flat and doesn’t know much about cooking on induction stoves (that is not a criticism, nor do I!)The flat was smaller than we envisaged but this evening (the third), I have discovered (due to the sun coming out) that our living room window faces west, over the sea and islands, and I have the beauty of a setting sun taking place at this very minute. We have settled in very nicely and made it home. The apartment is near the port, and there are fabulous coastal walks, views and beaches. Tonight, the tide is in, so the water is in its full glory as opposed to its marshy, seaweeded, rocky surface which allows me and Poppins in the mornings to explore the shore-line. This evening, I have enjoyed a glass or two of wine bought from our local Casino and the reblochon, and the Tomme cheeses bought from the St Pol de Leon Market yesterday for our dinner.

After the first night of frustrated stove use when it kept flashing F at me when I put the pan of fresh tuna on the ring to cook, I have kept supper to salads or used the confusion to go out to eat. Last night we ate in Ty Pol (a restaurant) in the village. I had raw sea bream and then the best filet de boeuf I have ever eaten. Tomorrow, having now discovered the reason for the flashing F thanks to google, I will try the stove again and I’m sure I will keep you abreast of the cooking developments. I must remember to tell the host not to supply pans that do not work with an induction stove.

Back to where we are. The Baie de Morlaix  where Carantec is situated is beautiful in a very French way. The coves, beaches, the accessible islands, rocky, beautiful, and the well maintained coastal walks with gorgeous views are wonderful to wander through. The architecture of Carantec is fascinating. Classic French, three storey, ‘maisons’ with pretty shutters, stand next to tall, magnificent houses with ‘fairy tale’ towers, and modern glass structures of all shapes and angles. All the gardens are ship shape, full of flowering bushes (lovely pink fuchsia and a rather startling scarlet hydrangea) and well cut lawns. Even the weeds on the street are lovely daisies or Allyssum. Every house has a gate and a neat parking space. The picture windows have magnificent views of the bay.

The local sandy beaches fill up with local people at 5pm and everyone chatters, swims or walks up and down in the sea (I think this promenading in the shallows is a new fashion), and digs complicated chateaux with their children. Families swim out to the diving board and show off their jumping and diving skills. So, likewise, these last two evening, I walked up to the beach in togs with a box of strawberries, crisps, and my book which I don’t read. I plonk myself down in the grainy yellow sand and gaze into the horizon, listening to beach life. I swim in a gentile manner in the cold, gently shifting green sea out to the diving board and swim back without performing any dazzling somersaults, thinking as I swim, how I would have loved to try such a dive back in the day, and remembering the excitement and fear. By the time I clamber out of the sea, I haven’t decided whether the relief of being 64 (which means I don’t have to try a sky dive into the ocean) compensates for the sadness and disappointment that I didn’t.

There was no disappointment though in the market in St Pol de Jean yesterday. It weaved its way around the beautifully appointed, ancient and spotless streets of the old town. You would swear that they were swept every hour. Eggs, aubergine, tomatoes, beans, artichokes spilt out into the cobblestones alongside breads, jams, cheeses, bongo drums, napkins, raincoats, Brittany bowls and whatever else you might possibly want to buy. English, French and German voices ordered ricard, beers, verres du vin and expresso in strategically placed cafes and everyone looked content with baskets stuffed full of produce leaning at precarious angles around their seats. We will check out the Carantac market tomorrow, and Morlaix on Saturday. Does such perfection exist for every market? IndeedIs there a name for the deliberate pursuit of French markets, I wonder. Maybe I can start a new trend.

Finally, to finish this first blog, I can’t believe that all this ‘Frenchness’ is so close to home…a boat ride away from Cork. In fact, a very civilised boat ride with comfy berths that I was allowed to share with Poppins, comfy deck chairs, good food, a swimming pool, a bar with a white piano being played as we had a drink before bed. I tell you, I’m never going landbridge again…sorry England, this might be a fond farewell.