A stream, of sightseers, flows along the broad top of the sea wall. On a pilgrimage to view church, tower and moribund trawlers. Lowry stick figures, from my vantage point.
Beside the highest cottage in town. Following the Crozon cliff path.
Which winds its way amongst the pinks. With views to the opposite shore, of the outer Rade.
Both sides steep to, with their plunging cliffs.
A tanker steams in from the open Atlantic (top middle of picture), holding to the north. Bound for Brest, via the deep water channel, through the Goulet narrows.
All around the sun glints off wave riven rock. Sculpted into stacks and arches.
Incised into bays. By waves rolling in untrammelled from St John’s, Newfoundland, two thousand two hundred miles to the west.
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