Isn’t it ironic that, as soon as the sun comes out here in England, we don’t go out and do nice things like having picnics or lazing on the beach? No, we work like Trojans mowing the grass and digging the garden (lest the winter returns and we don’t have any other opportunity to get everything nice outside). Today we had our second warm sunny day of the year and Chris and I spent all of it spring-cleaning the house from top to bottom; we’ve only just finished and we’re worn out and aching; I, for one, now have blisters and raw skin where yesterday it was only red and painful (which goes to show that housework is harder than gardening!). But something nice happened today not very far from here, in fact it happened in the air, just above the sea, and quite close to our sea wall under reconstruction… Chris told me about it – I was downstairs hoovering at the time and missed it.

The unusual event took place just as lucky Chris was cleaning the picture frames in the guest bedroom on the third floor (the one with the best elevation for views of the sea). Suddenly he heard a helicopter, close and loud, so he went to the bay window to observe. Apparently, it was an army helicopter – a Lynx (if that means anything to you – it doesn’t to me) – and it was hovering (not hoovering, like me) very low and near to the sea, and it did a little dance, like a half victory roll, for the hundred or so workers still hard at work restoring our devastated sea wall. Another Lynx helicopter joined the first one and did the same dance in the air. And after their impromptu performances the pair flew off in the direction of Torquay.

Chris said it was very sweet. I wish I had seen it too; nevertheless, thanks to Chris I can imagine the Railtrack workers, all dressed in their unmistakable bright orange uniforms, being amused, and perhaps feeling appreciated, by the nice helicopter pilots who came to see them at Dawlish.

When Chris said the words, “You do desperate better than me!”, I knew he was right and I accepted the phone from his outstretched hand; I may not have as many hormones as I used to but I still have enough to cause the floodgates to open when necessary. And yet, as I held the phone and dialled the number for Dave the plumber, I felt more mad than desperate, after all, only yesterday we had forked out £250 for a boiler part and two hours work – Dave the plumber charges £48 per hour and adds as much as he wants onto the price of parts, however, he is more experienced at boiler problems than Sam the plumber (our first choice at £15 per hour plus parts at cost, and not to be confused with Speedboat Sam the plumber and diver who deprived us of £200 of our hard earned money for forty minutes work, after which the boiler was in worse condition than before he started).

Honest-faced Dave had promised us that he wasn’t a flash-in-the-pan plumber, nor a deep sea diver; he was back, living in Dawlish, and trying to make a name for himself; the part wouldn’t cost much and he would work as quickly as possible. Admittedly he had worked longer than Speedboat Sam but the outcome was not dissimilar – only worse still – every turn of the hot tap caused an explosion, and the sound like a foghorn went on for even longer than previously.

“I’ll come back and fix that as soon as I can,” Dave said as he was leaving, “It won’t cost much.”

So, understandably, this morning I was pretty mad when Dave informed Chris that the new part would cost £230 (plus his time at £48 per hour).

“Well done!” said Chris after I had put down the phone, “I knew from the moment you opened your mouth that you could make him bring the job in under one hundred pounds.”

“Oh? What did I say?”

“Well, you didn’t let him speak. You went straight in for the jugular…”

“Really? Go on, tell me – I can’t remember.”

“You asked, ‘Is that Dave?’ and he must have said ‘Yes’, then you said, ‘I’m very upset!'”

As much as I would like to say that I didn’t see his point, I can’t lie – I could see exactly what he meant. Dave has recently had a divorce. I suspect he’s had quite enough of women getting “very upset”.

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.

Whatever the weather, whatever the time of day, one of the greatest pleasures in going for a walk around Le Conquet (the “Land’s End” of Brittany) is meeting the inhabitants; the chances are that you’ll stand and admire a beautiful house on the seafront only to find that the owner is a good friend of Glyn, my brother-in-law, and the next minute you are invited in to have a glass of wine and some bread and pate. Or Glyn might whisk you up to the door of his artist friend, who has visitors already, and you feel it may be an imposition to go in but Phillipe, standing in his doorway, looks disappointed when you turn to leave and implores you to join the party. And even though you don’t catch a third of what they say, you understand them nevertheless because they express themselves quite adequately with kisses and laughter.

The pictures speak for themselves.

The rain stopped during breakfast and the sun beckoned us to go to market at the neighbouring town of Saint Renan this morning.

“Do you like seafood such as crabs?” asked Glyn. (Glyn is Chris’s brother with whom we are spending the weekend.)

“Certainment! (Of course we do)” we answered.

“Good,” said Glyn.

And we followed Glyn and his Portugese ami, Gee (perhaps not the correct spelling), as they made their way through the market. We came across many purveyors of seafood, and at each one I expected us to stop and buy; however, we passed by each of them until our return, and even then we stopped at only one special one. The stall belonged to a lady I recognised – she was Glyn’s new neighbour, the one who intends to extend her house along the other side of Glyn’s garden wall. Chris, who was doing the buying, asked for three crabs. The rich fisherman’s wife sold us three live crabs and four whole plaice for fourteen euros.

“They were worth between thirty and forty euros,” said Glyn with a knowing smile.

No, not sausage dogs on a hot day! Sorry about my Franglais, but well, when in France with only a bit of schoolgirl-French… Here are the dogs of my day.

A walk after lunch. Not the sunniest of days but still beautiful…

All last week I was working on a painting of Exeter Canal, but that is not the painting I have just finished; the new painting depicts the sun going down over a Brittany beach and a little French boy running with his pail to the water’s edge. This painting is a birthday present for my brother-in-law, with whom Chris and I will be staying very soon. The beach is one we know quite well as it is around the corner from Glyn’s house in Le Conquet. I hope the birthday boy will like the painting – it is rather a big one to hide away from view if he doesn’t…

It came as a bit of a shock to arrive at Cockwood Harbour and find that it wasn’t there, even though for the last year or more we had witnessed the slow decline, and maybe the demise, of a small boat. The boat always used to remind me of a gondola; long, slim and dark, but without the high curved ends at the back and front. Perhaps it had begun its life as a rowing boat – the long vessel looked as though it would slice through the water at great speed, not latterly, of course. For ages the boat held water, increasing amounts; at length we marvelled that the boat was filled to the brim with water and yet still managed to keep afloat. At last, perhaps only a week ago, Chris and I noticed that the boat no longer floated when the tide was in; nevertheless, when the tide was out, the boat resting on the mud still brought a touch of elegance and glamour to the harbour.

Now the boat has disappeared and has been usurped by a newer, more serviceable but less attractive replacement. I wonder if the graceful gondola will ever reappear. Perhaps at this very moment she is being loving restored in the owner’s carport or a boat repair yard. I hope so. We shall miss her.