As I am hunkering down in the main cabin of our yacht, Zingara, I now know why November is called "Miz Du" in Breton. It is, without a doubt, the "black month". The capitainerie du port has secured the pontoons with extra ropes, we have removed the tent and lowered the sprayhood so they don't get blown away or shredded by the wind, forecast to reach force 10 a bit later today. Gusts cuff the hull, we roll, Zingara tugging at the many ropes that secure her, trembling with anticipation, like an over-enthusiastic dog determined to go for its walk. The slight pitter patter of drizzle on the coach roof, a gentle hopping of birds' feet, has evolved into a stampede of bisons. The riggings are clanking, tapping, whistling. The pitch increases with the wind speed.
In the 3 minutes it took Phil to check the decks, he got thoroughly soaked and brought in through the hatch a mighty blast of the southerlies that have been buffeting this coast since the beginning of the week.
I am grateful to be in a dry boat, with a heater, and only a few isolated drops dripping from portholes slashed with rain. I would have to be paid dear money to go outside, unless it is a dire emergency.
Over the last 10 years, the pontoons of the "Port du Notic", our friendly marina here in Camaret, were torn by storms twice and have been secured with new solid chains. Or so I have been told. I am not feeling completely relaxed with the repeated slaps of an irate weather, while Phil is bright-eyed and energised by it all.

Thinking of global warming, of this unprecendented weather font that covers most of the North Eastern Atlantic, how can we not see that the Earth is stronger than whatever we throw at it. It will dish it back to us, with interest. As we are witnessing.
I relish being back in France, storms notwithstanding, reacquainting myself with a more direct, and for me easier, manner of being, enjoying the slide from the formal "vous" to the informal "tu", a sign of acceptance. I smile at shops being closed between 12 and 2 for lunch, at the conversations in the cafés, at the newspaper-reading coffee-swilling small crowds on the terraces. In spite of my decision to embrace vegetarianism, (or at least pescetarianism while I am here), I had to, absolutely had to, eat a "bouchée à la reine", with "ris de veau". It had the taste of the Sunday lunches of my childhood.
Views of Quimper
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