Dandelion 89

 

The sounds of Sunday petanque signal a return to more summery conditions: The soft thud of landing. The clink of contact. A modest chuckle, from the victor. A rueful comment, from the vanquished.

I walk on, along the crescent of beach.(Earlier picture. Today, beachwear is sweaters, rather than swimsuits.)

Toward the twin bridges of the Elorn.

Both, it turns out are road bridges. The, single carriageway, arch bridge now the preserve of joggers, cyclists and sightseers.

The suspension bridge carries four lanes of swishing, high-speed, traffic. How (or whether) the railway crosses the river, is a mystery.

Silence reigns, below the bridge decks. A leafy park gives onto. . . .

. . . .a low tide walk along a foreshore, so flat and stoney, that it could be paved.

Up river, anchored boats lie snug, off sandy beaches, beneath wooded shores. With moorings in the bay, before the village of Camfrout.

In the other direction, away across the Rade de Brest, the Goulet gives onto the sea.