En France 59

 

Beads of sweat stand out, on the foreheads of the foredeck hands. As they take up the strain, on the heavy hawsers.

Whilst less brawn, and more of a watching brief, is called for in the sternsheets. With time to indulge in a cigarette.

The crew are warping a trawler along the fish quay.

Where a trailer load of ice, for her fish-holds, awaits.

The Harbour Master paces the dock, takes calls and chats amicably to watching tourists, whilst maintaining a close eye on proceedings.

Upriver, the pace relents.

Cormorants sun themselves on the banks.

And a slender grey heron slowly paces the water margin.

Pausing to investigate any hint of movement, beneath the shimmering surface.

The main street is almost devoid of traffic, thanks to the building of the bypass.

A short way along it, a queue snakes out of the Le Four a Bois bakers. Its patrons waiting patiently, in the cool of the shade, to collect their breakfast baguettes.

Across the street, a square-set church spire spears skyward. An ochre patina of lichen adorning its southern face.

The architecture of Loctudy is, hewn from granite, solid Breton.