Head Space Daily Words...

We got back from our now regular camping trip to South Brittany, on pitch 185, just over a week ago, with nothing but the memories to hold on to - apart from fourteen bottles of red wine, two dozen crepes and our leaking tent. It is an area of the world, which must have the highest proportion of street names and places beginning with the letter ‘K’. There was the gangster looking Dutch guy, prowling the site like a poor man’s Dolph Lundgren. The far out tide was slowly dragged in by a creamy, low hung, full moon, so that by the end of our stay, the mid afternoon sea was right up the beach. My smattering of French got us by, with the annual promise to myself that I would learn the language again, with future visions of coherent conversations taking place over glasses of vin rouge. Camels loitered lazily around the grass verges of the supermarket, waiting for that evening's circus performance. The brittle sound of doom, like auto sickness, rattled in the car bonnet, as a snapped fanbelt and other illness was diagnosed in our 10-year plus Ford Focus. The relative cost of an arm and a leg later and it was back in action, although it will surely experience no more French adventures. The vicar in a Wolves shirt and his family were again our near neighbours. We see them every year and it is always nice to catch up for the crossover of our holidays, with reminiscence over Steve Bull and Peter Withe. They told us of the couple without a tent, just an estate car, who stayed on our pitch before we arrived and got changed behind their car doors to maintain a modicum of decency. L’Igloo, the ice cream shop in Carnac, with its 160 flavours, including curry, goats cheese and ketchup was visited three times. On a clear night, the sky is amazing, with the moon, Saturn and Mars aligned on one occasion, captured on my star gazing app. I celebrate my birthday each summer, with a view of the sun setting over the bay as we indulge in a seafood platter at the restaurant. The greatest display was watching the sun disappear over a distant town, light reflecting on the ocean. Cricket on the beach is an essential pastime, Howzat!! Bombing down the water slide is a must for the kids and partaking in an Anglo German evening football match, until it is too dark to continue, with our other regular next-door neighbours, has become a tradition. Brittany is apparently, (according to Wikipedia,) one of the six Celtic nations, which must be the case, as they love a good blast on the bagpipes. Book reading is a vital holiday ingredient and this year I got through The Tour De France – To The Bitter End by William Fotheringham and a book of short stories by Haruki Murakami. I may not read another book until next summer. Witnessing a real life glowworm burrowed in the bottom of a tree trunk, a bright green illumination, whilst the bats swooped overhead, was a unique sight to behold. Sea swimming, as I did on three occasions, with its sense of freedom, is forever an invigorating experience. Finally, packing up the tent in a monsoon style downpour, as we were caught by the tail end of hurricane Bertha, unleashing August’s entire rainfall in one day, was another first and one that I am not keen on repeating. The long drive to Calais, through the tunnel and home, is always made easier by the thought of sleeping in your own bed. As Rinse FM's Josie Rebelle might say (Sunday mornings 10 -1) – “Good times in life.” Until the next time, pitch 185…