Armed with friends with a car and a roadmap, that sense of unfinished business that we had felt of our departure from St Valery quickly began to fade as we scampered through its lanes and up its hilly bits and through its historical quarters and along the esplanade. We intent on showing Jürgen and Ele all our favourite bits in just one morning. That sense disappeared entirely over lunch and yet another monster bowl of Mussels all round.
Less energetic folk than we might have sensibly called it a day at that point, but no, “let’s go to Tréport” they said, and so we did. It turns out that this pretty little town is a curious mirror image of Dover, where one can walk in the gravel that passes for a beach, toss pebbles into the sea, eat ice creams and be dumped upon by giant seagulls to one’s hearts’ content.
This is the part where were this a fairy tale we would arrive home tired but happy, as indeed we did, albeit in the fairy tales as far as we are aware, no-one arrives in shirts inordinately starched white and smelling vaguely of fish, nor with white spiky hair.
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