I left the windswept beach and returned to my car, struggling to open the door in the strong March wind. I drove slowly along the road to Ploermec, reviving the memories of the summer of 1977 when I first came to this part of Brittany, wondering why I hadn’t come back before. I liked Brittany, liked it a lot. I love everywhere I have been in France, but Brittany is special.
When I came to the squat whitewashed cottage that seemed to emerge from the sea mist as if from a recess of my mind. I stopped and turned off the engine. I shut my eyes and thought of Fabienne.
It was Fabienne who gave me my first cigarette. I was fifteen but I was old enough to drink wine with my lunch, old enough for coffee in the garden, old enough to sit beneath the apple trees with the adults and listen to their conversation, greedily absorbing the words and phrases that I repeated in my head all afternoon, until I could go back to my room and record them in my notebook.
There were plenty of adults about, my hosts had a rambling farmhouse with outbuildings that had been converted into living accommodation, lots of visitors, friends, family, Fabienne, Fabienne who came with her husband, and four children, Fabienne who, one day over coffee in the orchard, took out a cigarette from her packet put it to her mouth before realising that I was there and offering me one.
So I smoked, feeling adult, spoke to Fabienne, feeing even more adult. I saw her every day, I went to the beach with the family, I was treated as a friend, even as family member. My…
