Rosko

I've really enjoyed experiencing Brittany as an adult. I came on some family holidays and school trips when I was young but at those ages was more interested in manic repetitions of the water slide or pretending to enjoy small French beer stubbies. Mum and dad took us to Eurocamp in south Brittany, which was heaven as a six-year old. As an 11-year old in Saint Cast le Guildo I remember trying rabbit meat and sharing a room with my mate Dan Jaques who listened repeatedly to Smells Like Teen Spirit on his Walkman at deafening volumes.

The reason for the enjoyment is because Berry and Helen welcome me into their lives, essentially as the third wheel in their marriage, with such ease and warmth. I'm very grateful for that. We engage in serious life chats and sub-standard imitations (except Berry, who's fluent) of the French language. It's a joy to be in their company and when they've figured out their five-year life plan, I'll be taking keen notice so that I can prepare to up sticks. I'm only semi-joking.

Roscoff (in Breton Rosko), a small pretty town that juts into the English Channel, has a large incongruous ferry terminal and was looking sunny and welcoming as I sailed towards Plymouth.

The two weeks off work that I'm taking are a rip-roaring romp around the UK and Europe. The next phase commences here.

Adieu le Bretagne.