It was the best of times, it was the worst of times – it was some time but what time? We could not be sure.

The alarm had been set for five in order for us to be away before six and boarding the “Armorique” at Roscoff ferry port by seven-thirty in the morning. It was pitch black, inside and outside, when Chris’s alarm went off; it was still dark when we arrived at Roscoff, which was eerily bereft of any other cars or people – not even the port officials were in evidence; the ship had not yet arrived and all the barriers were down and unmanned.

“That’s funny,” began Chris, “I wonder if the night-crossing was cancelled due to high winds and rough seas, or could we be an hour early?”

In the darkness I squinted at my mobile phone and made out the time as five twenty-five, but as to whether it was French time, English time or Australian time, for that matter (well, it has been only a few weeks since my return), I could not gauge because the English clocks had gone forward an hour recently, and I rarely ever use my English mobile as a phone, and I was still half asleep anyway.

Thinking it pointless to wait in the deserted ferry port we agreed to drive a little farther along and go into the centre of Roscoff village.

Likewise, the village was in darkness, apart from the soft glow of a few street lamps dotted around and the hard yellow of a neon light coming from a small bistro. We parked the car and walked back to the only establishment with any sign of life; with my face pressed against the glass door I could see a woman sweeping the floor at the far end of the shop, and I tried the handle – it was locked and she didn’t see me. I thought better of knocking and perhaps alarming the lady.

Instead, we decided to walk the short distance to the harbour and watch the sun rise up from the sea; some fishing boats had come in and were unloading their bounty as the sky turned from grey to mauve, yellow and orange; at the same time our ferry, the “Armorique”, could be seen behind the the fishing port, passing by in the deeper channel that led to the ferry dock.

At length, when the sky had paled into the grey of a showery morning, we joined one of the queues for the car ferry and watched the commercial vehicles disembark first, then the cars. And everyone waited; and while we waited some people in camper-vans took their little dogs for walkies; and others went to the rest rooms, which had opened during our absence; and officials chose our queue of cars for the random search for contraband, but it was all done nicely – I didn’t even have to get out of the car (I guess I looked as if I had got up an hour earlier than necessary).

On-board a little while later, Chris and I were feeling tired and irritable (to the point that I had gathered my things together and very nearly walked off in a huff) but I’m not as hot-headed as I used to be, and I stayed. After a nap I became less irascible still when Chris suggested that we do some shopping.

In the Duty-Free Shop , the young woman who was gift-wrapping my presents looked at me and said in her French accent:

“I sink I have seen you before somewhere – non?”

“We’ve been staying in Le Conquet since Friday,” I answered.

“Zat’s it!” she said delighted, “I sink I saw you in se boulangerie – the bakery – in the main street, you know se one?”

We each marvelled and agreed that it is a small world and we all felt good because of the special connection – being linked by place and time – and because it’s always nice to be remembered, or to realise that you are the one with an excellent memory.

Back in the lounge area with comfortable chairs for sleeping, Chris went off on a scouting expedition whilst I rested my eyes again. I was awoken by the sound of two teenage girls singing; they had left a small group of friends (already only a part of a larger party of French schoolchildren) in order to practise their singing. Sat on the window sill, and with the song-sheets in their hands, they sang the song, “Happy” (by Pharrell Williams). They sang very softly, perhaps because they thought I was asleep.

“That was very pretty,” I said smiling at the end of their rendition.

“Sank you,” they answered, surprised.

I closed my eyes again and the girls sang the song again, this time a little louder.

The rain had stopped somewhere in the Channel during our crossing and the sun reappeared. As we entered the harbour at Plymouth the sun highlighted the red and white lighthouse and the elegant terraced buildings on and around Sir Francis Drake’s famous Hoe. The sky was blue and the clouds, white and puffy; and the sunshine and pretty skyscape was with us all the way home, making it not so bad to be home – after all, it is printemps – springtime.