Dourduff-en-Mer, ramshackle, workaday, sea-girt and estuarine, limewashed and salty, where a living is made from oysters and scallops, and quiet tourists in white villas. These Brittany fishing villages lack the picture postcard prettiness of their Cornish cousins, but are none the worse for that.
In the Cafe du Port, somewhat art deco, wooden chairs with curved backs like old kitchen chairs, darkened wood tables with only paper menus for mats, nylon deckchair fabric between us and the noisy stairway, we shared a plate of winkles - open their little doors, spiral them out with a pin, don't look at them too hard - of brown shrimps, a pickled sardine, a mound of mackeral rillettes. I took the two oysters, swopping them with Tom for extra shrimps and rillettes, and in my haste to get them over with, forget the shallot sauce. I never know if I really like them, or if it's morbid fascination and bravado that drives me to eat them.
The oystercatcher birds have no such doubts, I'm sure.
Off to Morbihan for the weekend, a trip booked some while ago for our wedding anniversary. Looks like books and fleecies will be in order this time.