Lannion

I think perhaps, after admittedly only one visit, I could live in Lannion. I'd looked forward to going there, especially to the photo gallery, l'Imagerie, so much I thought I was bound to be disappointed, but I really wasn't.

We set off in our lovely new (to us) car, and when we got there,wandered about, had a bit of lunch at quite a posh, though not overpriced, restaurant, where Molly was allowed to sit under the table and scrounge from Tom, she knows better than to try it from me . He had fish and I had pig's cheek. Yes, I did say pig's cheek, sorry vegetarians. Not the kind of thing I'd have ordered at one time, but a restaurateur in St Brieuc once urged me to, and now I think I always will when I get the chance. This time it had a delicate orange sauce and prettily presented vegetables, a slice of potato gratin and some multicoloured pasta shells with it.

Then there was pud, which was white chocolate mousse with raspberry coulis, and I just had to get the camera out.

After that, Tom and Molly retired to the car, to read and doze and loaf about by the river, and I strode outwards and upwards to mount the escaliers de Brélevenez, which are intensely picturesque.

I should know better than to try to take postcard photos; most of those I took that day were dreadful: boring, wonky and featuring large items such as wheely bins which my brain had entirely edited out when framing the shot, but which no amount of software could succeed in doing the same with afterwards.

Better, as ever, to concentrate on the details.

And why scenic photos anyway? I became aware that I couldn't satisfactorily represent much of the impression of the place: the sweet and melancholy chimes of the church clock, the prettiest I can remember hearing, because I'm no musician, and couldn't even have transcribed the notes, or the scent of Mexican orange and wisteria in the breezy air around the church at the top of the staircase. I couldn't frame the blossom-filled carpark, the two ironic old men on their bench, the wiry, independent white dog going about his business, the families with their growing-up kids with their boy- and girlfriends, a little awkward and dutiful and happy. The scene was cluttered and in flux, and of course, full of cars. A street photographer might capture it, but I am no street photographer.

But this shop front intrigued me; I have looked up the quote to no avail; who or what is Tapioca, why is he, she or it likely to get wheels, and why then be called Mirza? Perhaps one of my more clued-up French speaking readers can tell me? And look, there I am in the right window...

So, I think I could live in Lannion because it's pretty and quaint, near the sea and the pink granite coast, with walks in and around the surrounding valleys and countryside that start from the centre of the town. As well as a tourist town it is a student town. (Anais is at university there, though she's not there at the moment because she's in Southampton), and as Tom is fond of telling me when I do something like stirring my tea with my knife handle or otherwise making shift, in many ways I never really grew out of being a student. Consequently there seems to be a fair amount of cultural life, shops of artists collectives, quirky bars, Tibetan flags in shop windows...

But mostly I think I'd like to live there because of l'Imagerie. I was going to tack my impressions of this wonderful gallery, and what I saw there, on to this post, but then I've found I have come away so filled with interest and taken up by it, and consequently have so much to say, that perhaps it might be best to write another one!

So more anon.