The same but different

I’ve left a cable at home. Only a very short cable of little consequence, but it’s not with me, and I feel a little lost without it. It’s the cable that lets me download photos from my camera to a computer, so that I can put them on here or put them on Facebook. It makes me feel a little dislocated that I can’t do that, but it also forces me to be a little more balanced and to remember the important stuff of life. But being the vacuous, self-absorbed person that I am, I can’t let a holiday go by without mouthing off in some way about it to anyone who will listen, and so, after a breakfast on the beach of boulangerie brioche, unctuous salty Breton butter, raspberry and black cherry jam, I sit here typing, in the hope that my words can conjure up the pictures I wanted to show you.

In any case, so far the photos I’ve taken are nearly identical to the ones I took this time last year, so here by some internet magic are a few glimpses. Some things have though changed. We thought we’d never be able to come back here after the old man died last year, but one of the daughters has taken on the mantle and is busying herself with letting the house out and slowly renovating it. Some new furniture has arrived, and some fripperies: new light fittings, a clock, coat hooks and some splashes of bold modern art to replace the fading prints of dark floral still lives, semi-religious portraits and holographic landscapes. The art would work, would fit in perfectly, except that it clashes terribly with the wallpaper that hasn’t gone yet.

Worryingly our perfect house, this house of my dreams where I hope to spend every summer for eternity, this secret house that I’ve always told people about without giving away too many details, in case they book it when I want it, is now on Airbnb. This makes me feel a little sullied; don’t they know it’s my house? I don’t want to read what other people have thought of my house. I don’t really want to believe that anyone else has ever stayed here. I remember once years ago feeling indignant at the sight of a German hair gel tube in the bathroom bin.

But apart from this, life goes on. This time it's only for a week as we're being devils and trying something new next week, adding a sense of urgency to our love of this place. The sea comes up and goes down; my early morning swim revives me and when it’s too hot, or I'm frustrated with stubborn children, a dip makes me feel calmer. I wander alone through the water, hermit crabs and unknown creatures racing out of the way, leaving a trail of sand-disturbed cloud in the water; I float on my back looking up at the cloudless sky. We have the mornings to ourselves, the beach a magical secret, and then French people of all ages come along after their lunch, from 3 o’clock onwards, to leave at 7 o’clock when their dinner beckons. The beach is a great equalizer: all in swimwear, no bulges disguised, all of us unable to walk elegantly over the narrow shelly section on the way to the sea where we wince and hobble. We spend all day outside, the salt drying on us, making a lick of the lips after a juicy peach all the more surprising. I have a simple lunch of bread and cheese then realise that I've got seven different sorts of cheese on my plate. The langoustines are still great and the cakes still more buttery, sweet and salty than the cakes anywhere else. Life isn't bad.