Last night's thunder and lightening show has cleansed the humidity from the air. It is a day to be out and to be active.
But not a day, alas, to go sailing. For those, out for the weekend, who must head home today, motoring is the only option.
Stargazer and I are spared that ignominy. With no deadlines to meet, we are free to become harbour birds for a day.
I take to the winding cliff path.
Clamber out among the crags.
Peer up at the semaphore station, its Tricolore barely astir.
Wander down through the cool shade of the woods.
Drink in the vista, to the north. Where Paimpol lies. Lost to sight, behind the gnarled fingers of jutting headlands and a jumble of islets, which bejewel a powder blue sea.
Tomorrow we are forecast twelve knots of westerly breeze - to carry us into Paimpol, under sail. As the goelettes (fishing schooners) of old, entered the port. An extra metre of rise, on the evening tide, will help to float us in.
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