more and more days
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…







