The ferry wasn’t going all that fast - flocks of seagulls would fly on ahead, sit and watch me and Bodean float past in the dark, two heads in an endless row of port holes. Sitting up in there in ‘Le Bar’, a name which seemed to smoke of irony considering the surrounding English passengers, or maybe it was the French just being Frenchies. Then the boat pulls up in Roscoff, North Brittany. And so it goes… There’s old Del da Foster patiently waiting at Le Terminal - and shit! that bicycle of his (bought from the Swedish Patron Saint of Second-Hand Transport) is loaded right up. Big grinning between us in the late morning sunrise (damn French ain’t invented day light savings) and it looks as if there’ll be plenty of old fishing tales here for any story teller to make there way. But first Bodean always wants coffee and so the caravan shifts away in earnest and the trailers twinkle through town towards a cafe. Anyone would do. In, in! We three trip over each other and the patrons look up. It sure was clear and cold outside. The local marine biologists walk over and politely interrupt coffee, map consultations and pretty t.v. weather girls. “What a nice couple” says Del da Foster, and they pointed us in the right direction, which was West and to the beach.
