Thursday 31 Aug

We’re acquiring habits! I walk Poppins every morning, usually along the beach and then up to the coastal path which meanders across beaches, over the cliffs, and at the foot of the gardens of some immense ‘maisons’ built into the rock, similar in scale to Bono’s in Killiney. Usually, I will divert off to the boulangerie in Carantec to pick up our baguettes for breakfast on which to spread our fine local rhubarb and cherry jams from the market for breakfast when I get home. Breakfast is a treat well deserved.

Today, however, I meandered around the port, taking the tiny passages and paths that lie in wait, hiding beside hedges and shuttered houses that look like they might lead me to some splendid secret cove or short cut home but instead weave and dive and leave me elsewhere altogether. So, I look around, scratch my head, and set off again, whistling to Poppins to come. It’s like walking in a beautifully constructed maze, where instead of hedges you have houses, except I always seem to get further away from home. However, I think Poppins is less impressed as she called back from rooting under bushes, and sniffing at gates where she is sure heaven lingers in the form of cats. I’m never really lost as I know I just have to head down and there the port will be.

It’s called the port, and indeed rows of pretty boats are tied up to buoys far off in the distance, but the true sport of the port is, when the tide is out, people scouring the rocks and seaweed for clams, crabs, oysters, shrimps, mussels and lobster. Poppins enjoys the scamper around and I like to study the pools for the mysteries that lie within but the crabs, lobsters and shrimps are invisible to me, and I never see those monsters that restaurants have swimming around in their aquariums.

To Poppins chagrin, today, we weren’t out too long as we had to go to our local market. It was more homely that that of St Pol de Lyon and I picked up carrots, leeks, lamb gigot chops, parsley, all the wherewithal for a pot of Irish Stew which I can cook on the one hot plate I can get to work on the infamous induction stove. I let it simmer away while in the afternoon we walked across to the Ile de Callot at low tide. There is something so exciting and romantic about walking across to an island, and having to get back before you are left stranded. The beaches are beautiful half moons of white sand and the colours of the flowers and shrubs are vibrant. About seventeen families still live on the island so it is well looked after and there is a church (Notre Dame) at the far end where I lit a candle to both our mums…though Margaret will more likely appreciate that than my mum who was never one for religion.

On our return we stopped at the foot of our lane at the café for an melange of Strawberry and Vanilla Italian ice cream before returning home to the gorgeous smell of Irish stew. After a little read (it seems I have brought library books I have already read ), I togged out and went swimming, sitting on the beach afterwards to listen and try to assemble the story of the English/French family in front of me. Grandpa’s wife was a stylish older French local woman (white trousers, pale blue blouse – on a beach!). She lay head resting on his tummy or jumped up to ‘present’ him to passing older walking women. Grandpa’s Daughter, who wore and swam in leggings and a flowery top, seemed to take up a lot of space, playing ball on the beach, swimming in the sea. Everywhere she went, she talked in loud English to her two toddler children. She then left her tiny daughter alone in the shallows after trying to get her to show grandpa her swimming skills which were non existent; the child kept sinking. Then the Daughter went off into the sea with her her three year old son on her shoulders and shrugged him off so he would swim. He also sank. We were swimming in Croatia, she said, by way of explanation. Grandpa stayed close to hand, saying nothing, but trying to get the little girl out of the water and warm with a towel. Dad, why aren’t you swimming, exclaimed the woman Daughter. The classily dressed French wife said nothing. I think everyone spoke French, even the children, but Daughter insisted on speaking English. It was a very strange family dynamic.

The beach is the perfect place for story development because I just know that the French woman is the third wife of ‘dad’ who doesn’t speak English and cannot bear her husband’s Daughter because she is so demanding and spoilt and as for the grandchildren…well, she wants little to do with them. I believe Daughter has married a rich English man who doesn’t like his in laws or France where they live, and so she has come to visit for two days alone to show off her children and pretends everything is ok.

The irish stew was delicious and there is loads left for Poppins.

Wed 6 August

The last few days have been passed in a haze of sun, sea, beach, rock pools, walks, and chatter with my old friend, Lesley who arrived on the boat last Sunday. Oh, and did I mention food…lots of melon, bread, cheese, tomatoes, crepes and sea food. Yesterday we went to market at St Pol again and my haul was truly engaging…a fab, open toed pair of sandals (its been lovely and hot), the perfect little blue back pack to carry water, phone, book if out meandering the coast, and a nice blue down striped knee length sun dress. Not to mention the peppers, courgettes, sweet potato (douce potato here), aubergine for the roast vegs last night with lentils. Tout va bien!

As well as walking and eating, we explored Roscoff. First, we did a petit tour outside as I wanted to give Poppins a proper walk. We turned off by the red bus (truly – the 106 to Streatham High St), and found ourselves  foraging (in the car) along tiny little lanes through fields of artichokes and cabbage. Lovely, but we decided to go to the end of the peninsula instead as, according to the map, there seemed to be a green area there before three or four beaches. It was beautiful. The hidden beaches were white and deserted. The sea lapped gently at the shore. There was a long strand which stretched achingly into the far distance or charming half moon coves, with rocks for shelter and tall pine trees touching the pale blue sky. There were dusty paths to follow every which way. There was also a huge, low build cancer rehabilitation hospital spreading across the peninsula which somehow added to the sense of awe. It was beautiful. We meandered around and soon felt in need of coffee so decided to go into Roscoff itself. The old town is charming, old grey stone houses, narrow streets, lots of pretty hotels. The shops sold stripy Brittany jumpers, wind sheeters, gilets, though I didn’t see many of those Brittany bowls with the blue edging and the names. We managed to find a café table in the shade and had a delicious cream cheese and seaweed sandwich. Highly recommended.

On her last night Lesley took us out to eat in Cabestan, our local restaurant. It’s on the port front, overlooking the sea and is a cheap and cheerful looking sort of fish and chip place…however, the fish in Jerry’s fish and chips was delicious, not battered but served with a gorgeous creamy sauce. Lesley’s moules frites were black, huge, and shining and inside were the plumpest golden mussels I have ever seen. I had cod with langoustine (big prawns) served beautifully in a circle with two roasted potatoes, six round fleshy mushrooms, and three sprigs of broccoli. Superb. I started with a very good fish soup too. I needed the amble around the port afterwards. At 9 o’clock, people were finishing their evening picnics on the beach, or their last dip in the gentle lapping sea. There was a buzz of French chatter on the softest of Brittany (sorry, Bermuda) breezes. Another perfect day.

By the way, the weather has been so good…this could be Bermuda. And I’m still having photo issues…so no photos except on Insta and Facebook.