We knew we were in the right place when soon after we arrived, first a magnificent 12m (?) of 1927 (pic) and then an equally lovely cruising ketch tied up opposite. I don't know if they're in the regatta, but they are much nicer to contemplate from the cockpit than the endless mycelium of GRP that offends the eye in every other direction. We also happen to be opposite a long-established Traiteurs de la mer, speciality smoked oysters, whose counter beckons every time we visit the sanitaires.

We turned on the radio for a blast of old Blighty only to hear someone saying that the whole of British democracy was threatened because an MP had claimed a mango sorbet on expenses. The local ice cream parlour does a fearless mango sorbet so we promptly went there and put one on our CSC expenses. Every little bit helps.

Today is market day, and one could grow fat just ogling the saucissons, the shellfish, the local veg and the patisseries. But we deserve some r & r after the pleasures, the fears and the boredom, not to mention the refusal of the wind to blow in the right direction for more than a couple of hours at a time.

So unless there's anything exciting to relate this blog will take a siesta while your intrepid reporter dons a striped Breton jersey, an eye patch and a peg leg to go underground, researching the sex and sailing potboiler he failed to complete on his visit to these parts a year ago.

It will resume with the arrival of the various flotillas arriving for the regatta next weekend. A tout a l'heure.