North Brittany Cruising Companion - That Magic Hour

Book Extract

That Magic Hour

We were, without doubt, back in Brittany. There’s really nowhere quite like it for the subtle merging of river and sea. That quintessential estuary character was all around us, incomparable, perfectly Breton, just as it should be. The ebb was running away fast, giving us a restless sheer and rumbling the anchor chain. You could almost see the level dropping against the landing slip opposite, where a small, brightly painted fishing boat was moored alongside. A battered Renault van was parked on the slip.

Two fishermen, sorting through boxes and tossing entrails over the side, were conversing volubly about life in general. Their salty accents drifted across the tide as arguments rose and fell, back and forth.

‘Ah oui . . , Ah non, mais . .’

‘Ah non, non . . , mais oui!’

The solid family villas above the landing could only be Breton, with their pitched slate roofs, ancient shutters and a timeless sense of long summer holidays. Rambling gardens led down to the river edge, where dinghies were pulled up under the alders. It was almost midday and a promising clatter of plates came from an open window.

A little way inland, a church clock struck twelve. Somehow the river felt even quieter than before. The fishing boat, mysteriously, was back on her moorings. The van had vanished and nothing moved on the quay. It was the magic hour – time, across the whole of France, for lunch.