Out in the river, an oilskin clad figure stands thigh deep. Tending to the oyster harvest. Carefully turning the weed draped sacks, in which the bivalves grow. Beating off unwanted barnacles, with a truncheon.
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Sailing and oyster farming live side by side, on the Riviere de Crac'h. Each has carved out its own space. The yachts: the deep water pool, off La Trinite and its channel to the sea.
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The oyster beds: the rest. Or, at least, all other space, below the half tide mark. Staking their claim with slender withies. Lest boats should inadvertently stray, come high water.
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On a grey and squally day, the oyster farmers pore over their enterprise. Upon which their hopes and plans for the future rest.
Much as France pores over the results, of Emmanuel Macron's snap elections. Marine Le Pen's right, so strong at the first ballot, has been routed. By a quickly assembled coalition of the left, the Nouveau Front Populaire.
Whose marches filled the streets of La Rochelle, during the Fetes Maritimes. A church so broad that, those I have spoken to, wonder whether its factions can live side by side. For long enough to realise the hopes, and improve the fortunes, of their voters. Meanwhile, Macron, still President for three years, is sandwiched between left and right. Which way will he turn next?
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