On dort à la plage

The Breton language is very far away from French. It transports me to a strange land that otherwise landscape- and weather-wise feels like Cornwall or south Devon.

The weather started a bit grizzly so we undertook a coastal road trip, stopping off at île Callot just off the town of Carantec for a picnic of tomato sandwiches and almond cakes. The coast is rugged and interesting because of the volume of rocky islands, changing vistas, locals and tourists furtling in rock pools and the long well-trodden history.

Towns on the map with names such as Ploubezre, Locquénolé and Botsorhel fascinate me. Smaller settlements tend to be very shuttered up and it seems that either a) French people take August very slowly (which rings true if you've ever tried to work with UNESCO over the summer), or b) lots of Parisians and others from elsewhere own second homes in Brittany. Peering into estate agent windows here indicates property is generally much cheaper than in the UK so there may not be much preventing those with means from acquiring more. All settlements look neat and ordered, mostly strangely devoid of the personal effects - gnomes, basketball hoops, Buddhist chimes, broken toys, dog bowls - that characterise British gardens. The presence of merde de chien in great quantities is definitely the most incongruous thing in French urban life.

The weather became glorious so we visited one of Berry and Helen's favourite haunts, la Plage des Sables Blancs in Locquirec. After dodging dog turds on the way to the sand, I fell asleep on the beach and woke feeling perfectly relaxed.