A silver tongued creek meanders inland, between wooded banks. To the accompaniment of birdsong and sighing boughs.
A stone mole wades out to the deepest water. Where gulls may swim, instead of paddle.
A string of rough hewn cottages links hands. Poised, on the beach, to dip their toes in the tide.
Below the hamlet, an oyster fishery.
At the still head of the creek, the village of La Foret-Fouesnant. Nestled amid the trees, which prompted its naming.
Roger (whom we met last year, on the Gironde. He from Chatham. Katy-Dee berthed on the Vilaine) texts from the head of another creek, just twenty five miles to the east (overland).
There, sheltering from, what is forecast to be, a week of gales. In scenic splendour, beside Gauguin's "Watermill in Pont Aven." Able to dry out, upon Katy-Dee's bilge keels, beside its famous (sic) old quay.
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