I couldn't believe my eyes this morning. Headed for the beach on my bicycle, I saw a cyclist in front of me.
A Breton. Unmistakeably so - tanned, weatherbeaten skin. Deep-set eyes under bristling eyebrows. He lacked only the cap, the blue and white striped jumper and the Gauloise between gnarled fingers.
It was only half an hour after the boat from Saint-Malo had docked at St Peter Port.
How did I know he was a Breton, apart from that? Dangling from his handlebars was a real, authentic, string of onions. Just like the ones my mother used to buy at the door from visiting French onion sellers.