During my 20s, I was too poor to go abroad on holidays, as my friends did. They would go somewhere blazingly hot... I was a landscape gardener.
We would drive from one historic town to another, pitching our tiny camouflaged tent in the municipal campings, where the French would set up capacious awnings...and drink cold white wine.
Once, I was overtaken and flagged down by two sheepish gendarmes. When I asked why they had stopped me, one of them gestured at the car and said simply: Elle est belle.
One day we went to see Bernieres-sur-Mer, the town on the Normandy coast where my ancestors were once feudal lords.
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