The broad, cherry blossom garlanded, boulevards, threaded with busy cycle ways, put me in mind of Den Haag.
An impression reinforced by the trams. Gliding through canyons of rectilinear concrete. Silent save for the chime of their bells, which announce their stops and starts.
Le Havre is a thoroughly modern city. Rebuilt from the ruins of war, to a grand design conceived by Auguste Perret.
It is certainly European, in appearance. If not quintessentially French, to this tourist's eye.
Today, billows of sea fog stray in from the docks. Roaming through the streets, like lost sailors on a shore run. Milling about St Joseph's high cross, one moment.
Replaced by bright pools of sunshine, the next.
Off the pier head, the ever active Oppies gather. Waiting until the coast is clear.
As a world-girdling container ship, decks stacked high with boxes, steams sedately by. To be quickly swallowed by the haze, beyond the sea wall.
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