One of my Tribe does not enjoy good health, and it worries and frustrates me but, as I keep reminding myself, it is up to her to look after herself, no point me trying to drag her to the pool/beach/lake/forest.
But I do try to persuade her to come out with me to play at least once a fortnight, once a week in summer, and yesterday she agreed to come to Le Yaudet, by the easier route, none of those steep hills and sharp bends in my little car, thank you very much.
Perhaps I should explain that my father, in his wisdom, taught me to drive in the Lake District and so my first experiences of a hill start involved me clutching the steering wheel and screraming in terror as his old Fiat rolled backwards down a 1:4 slope towards a flock of curious sheep.
Hence my lifelong fear of steep hills.
Especially in a car with a 1.2 engine and two passengers.
So, I collected her at midday and we set off to the coast via Lannion.
And so engrossed in chatting were we, and so accustomed to driving to Trégastel am I, that we took the wrong turning and found ourselves taking the 'scenic route' through the quieter streets which are, I noticed, quite worth exploring on foot at a later date.
Finding the river, we drove along and again took a wrong turn up the wrong hill. This time we turned round and retraced our route because Le Yaudet is tricky to find even when I am on the right road, on the wrong road, well, we could have ended up in St Malo.
See: I have no sense of direction.
Back up the right hill we then got hopelessly lost and took another scenic route which involved some steep hills and some white-knuckles on my part, and then we were approaching the village and breathing sighs of relief.
"It's always an adventure with you Julia!" my friend commented.
I just smiled and tried to unclench my jaws.
We drove to the car park where, on the last visit, I had left my new camera on the roof of the car and merrily driven almost all the way home before wondering at the metallic clunking sound it made as it fell off and into a ditch, never to be seen again.
The car park was full. Of camper vans (very popular here) and motorbikes and families parked up and picknicking in that typical French way, as in, seated at a table with a cloth on it and laid as if for lunch with royalty. They take eating seriously in France. Even al fresco.
We found a spot in the shade of two camper vans and set off to find lunch.
Past this, my favourite house in the village and one which I promise myself I will try to buy when I win the lottery...
Over the narrow bridge where, minutes before, a camper van going one way had encountered an SUV going the other and neither party had seemed keen to reverse.
The view is spectacular, over the river estuary which river, incidentally, has its source near my village and one of its streams runs through my friend's little wooded valley.
And to the restaurant.
Where I ordered a Kir for myself and the owner brought a carafe of water for Tashi.
His life is so much larger here. Back in the UK there would be thrice daily walks round the green and down to the church, sometimes a longer outing, most often he would be at home while I was stuck in the office. Even at weekends. The company was very mean with their salaries and weekend working was a necessity to pay the high rent and property taxes that are part of life in the UK.
Now he has a wonderful life.
and he deserves every day of it.
Bah! Enough of That Time...
My friend's galette, salmon and seasonal vegetables in a cream sauce.
Mine was the usual with Breton sausage, potatoes and red onions.
While we were eating I thought I spied Terry Pratchett approaching.
But no, as he drew near I could see it was not.
Still, I smiled at him as he passed by.
"Are you going to have a crèpe?" my friend asked me.
Well, I did not drive all round Lannion and up several wrong hills not to indulge. Besides which, as with the kouign amann at Trégastel, I only ever eat indulgent deserts at Le Yaudet. So of course I was going to have one.
With a salted caramel sauce, caramelised apples, a crunch topping and salted caramel ice cream.
And a Breton flag.
I forgot to slip that in my bag.
I was too overcome with the deliciousness.
The restaurant has B&B rooms.
I think my next weekend away may be to Le Yaudet...
We drank coffee and sat contentedly watching the swifts dipping and diving overhead.
And then we set off back towards the church. Pausing to admire this garden belonging to a house on the other side of the bridge. Quite a view from those little terraces where, in summer, the lady who owns it sits and sips her coffee and I try not to gawp as I walk past.
Past the pretty stone houses...
Heading for the church.
Where I introduced my friend to the Sleeping Madonna who slumbers peacefully over the altar, tucked up in bed with a baby Jesus...
And, Le Yaudet being a port, to the ships that sail in the air above the worhsippers.
The Bretons love their sea...
And they love their ships...
And often hang them from the beams in the church...
Tashi is a Tibetan and quite given to meditative moments...
And he likes churches. Especially cool churches on hot Sundays.
My friend lit a candle.
I did my own spiritual thing.
When we left we spotted two baby blue tits on the path outside the church, One was dead, the other was alive and in distress. I convinced my friend to walk away a little to see if the mother was nearby, often if left to themselves the parents will sort out the youngster.
It was soon apparent that she couldn't.
We returned and inspected the church wall near the dead baby bird, There was a hole and it looked like a nest inside it. Well, that path was soon going to be busy when the other visitors to the church left, and that baby bird was not going anywhere safe so I scooped it up and, standing on tiptoes because I am quite tiny, I managed to get it close enough to the nest for it to hop back in.
There was nothing else we could have done. Fingers crossed it was the right decision.