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We are awake and getting up when the 06:00 alarms go off and by 07:00 we have had coffee and checked in.
Loading goes smoothly and Armorique sails on time at 08:00. We find a sunny spot on deck and have coffee and croissants as Plymouth fades behind us. The number of passengers on board suggests that events in Nice have failed to deter people from living their lives in freedom and defiance of these mindless acts.
The crossing is fantastic; a smooth, deep blue sea stretches out under a blue sky. As the sun climbs, dazzling spangles tumble down the gentle bow wave like a fleet of miniature, torch bearing surfers. We spot a few jelly fish and a real treat of two dolphins. Approaching Roscoff the sea is speckled with rafts of floating weed.
Leaving the ship we are waved from a long queue for customs into a lane with only a van towing a boat. Great, we think, this should be quick. No such luck! The driver is transporting a hunting rifle which has to be checked over by Douane, recorded, permits issued etc, etc. All fine and necessary but we watch about forty vehicles pass by in 'our' first lane before we move.
A two mile drive brings us to the familier aire at Roscoff, it's quite busy but we find space and prepare to go into town. The Frenchman in the adjacent van comes out to chat and immediately we find our French comes back and stumbles off the tongue. We manage to have a good conversation and he is fascinatedby how much we do, frequently saying 'formidable' and 'tres courage'.
Our route into Roscoff is different from before and we find a beach and backstreets we've never seen in any previous visit. Compared with our day here in March it is much warmer and there are many more flowers in bloom. One house is surrounded by blue agapanthas, others have rich red hydrangea bushes. The traditional Breton-blue windows are surrounded by scarlet geraniums.
All of the bar terraces are full in town and we have to wait a bit to sit and have a beer.
The hum of Celtic pipes and the whistle of a flute drawse our attention to a group of Druids slowly dancing along the road with huge metal structures spinning slowly on their heads. As big as a bicycle they appear to be celestial symbols, or silver planetaria.
After this little parade we amble around the harbour and warm, stone streets for an hour, browsing the menu boards before ending up at an old favourite; the Marie Stuart, where we enjoy a plate of pasta with some red wine.
The sea is still sparkly blue as we return to the aire with the remainder of our bottle of wine.
Once we get through another chat with monsieur, we open up the van, it is 32C inside but the cooler evening breeze soon has it freshened through.
Monsieur's TV is tuned to Tarzan or Planet of the Apes or similar and we wonder if all the 'Raahhrr!' and 'RRRoarrr!' soundtrack needs subtitles.
What a fabulous start to our trip.
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