Black clouds boil in a purple sky ; which is suffused by an ethereal brightness, just short of sunshine. Above the Pointe de Toulinguet.
Grey flecked granite, mingles with dark shales and ochre sandstone, in the kaleidoscope cliffs of the Crozon peninsula.
I have walked out from Camaret. Stretching legs last used, in earnest, on the shoreside path, between the Itchenor ferry causeway and Bosham.
Golden gorse fills the salty air with its heady, sweet, scent.
Rock arches buttress the cliff base.
The path follows the sweep of Porz-Naye bay. A scenic anchorage, in settled south westerly conditions. Its waters the vivid blue of a china clay pool.
I begin a strategic retreat, at the sight of the advancing rain front, arrived earlier than forecast. Seeking a spot to shelter, among the tors and boulders.
Finding it, as stair rod rain rattles down, in the unlikely setting of a Nazi gun emplacement. A solemn reminder of the consequences, that an avaricious adventurist with a disregard for human life, can inflict across Europe, upon a whim. (Who can fathom the reasoning of a Hitler. Or a Putin?)
The soaring trills, of a pipit, perched upon a snow white boulder, announce the passing of the thunder shower. As a warming sun breaks through.
Below, a boat lies to her anchor, off a cleft in the cliffs. At peace.
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