Nineteen months since my last trip to France and it’s like the good old days; queuing to get off the ferry, a stamp in your passport and questions about booze and cigarettes from bored French douaniers. But it’s good to be away; and a pain in the nose before coming home.
I’ve never been here before – Plage des Dames, Noirmoutier-en-l’Ile, another stop on my continuing exploration of the islands of the French Atlantic coast. The day before I wondered how I was going to deal with the distracting background to the faded glory of the beach huts, presumably originally provided for the Victorian era ladies from the big houses set in the surrounding woods.
Anyway, 0700 the following morning – just me, a man with a metal detector and an old lady swimming from her open hut – and the sea mist obliged.