Harbour exit

We watched a small oyster barge heading for the sea, but it made a youturn and returned to harbour.  
A squall broke out.  We took shelter and in the time it took to roll a cigarette it had blown away inland and the blue sky above the red lighthouse expanded and the sun shone kindly.

Mediterraneans call the small waves on a choppy sea 'sheep',  here they're enormous rams.  We threw driftwood into their breaking foam and Bernie herded them back to the shore.

We ate tuna on the terrace of a café in Hossegor;   The terrace was ours alone apart from a couple of sparrows squabbling over bread crumbs, a hunting dog who was after the sparrows and Bernie worrying about a small stick he'd brought up from the beach which neither the sparrows nor the hunting dog were interested in.

We collected driftwood to make lamps, we found a beaded fishing line with a diamond shaped lead which, once the dead worm is extricated, would make a good pair of earrings and the lead a possible pendulum for the grandmother clock I found in the attic. 

The beach is a free flea market of treasures.