Go with the flow

We first felt our characters shift and slide across the surface of our world when a man in chef’s checks opened the locked door of a restaurant in Le Home Varaville to speak to us. It was a quarter past two, and we were too late for lunch. At home, we would have assumed the man was about to tout for our business and we would have haughtily walked on, hungry though we were.

But his first words showed he was more taken by the vision before him. “Vous êtes de vrais voyageurs!” You are true travellers. He was short as full-bellied, with short dark hair that crept around the sides of his face and alert black eyes. “How far are you going?” We gave our usual self-conscious laughs and admitted, “Santiago de Compostela in Spain.” He though this was marvellous, in the purest sense of the word.

For half an hour we talked about chance and of opening oneself up to the people one met. Of taking time to realise when one is happy, whether that meant going for a long walk or being settled and knowing your home very well. He told us about a village nearby, Grangues where “a strange power” vitalised people who went there. Was it on a lay-line, I wondered? But my French wasn’t quite up to the question.

We left “Au Pied des Marais” eventually to wander looking at shells on the beach and to find the manor house where we were to spend the night. Later we returned to the restaurant where – the only customers – we enjoyed excellent service, a beautiful seven course meal, a bottle of Bordeaux and the company of the owner as he nipped between kitchen and table to chat. Before a huge log fire we learned of his years working in restaurants in London, Monte Carlo and in private service. He loved cooking and making people happy, loved living there with his young family. Now he was aiming for a Michelin star to ensure a clientele that would let him continue his chosen life. He said he envied us, but I objected. I did not want to cause envy, which is a negative emotion. We agreed “inspire” would serve. As we left, he said we had reminded him of the path he was on, that was in danger of being forgotten.

The next day, in the venerable but alive town of Dives-sur-Mer to which we had diverted on our restaurateur’s advice, we were adopted in the 11th century church of Notre Dame by a local man, an enthusiast of both the church and photography, who led us on an illustrated story of the church. It was founded after a living statue of Christ was fished out of the seas nearby, and became a place of pilgrimage. He took David and his camera in hand to make sure he captured the details buried deep and dark in the fragments of thirteenth-century stained glass in the East window. Details and knowledge that we would never have gleaned without him.

He made himself late for his lunch, so we walked him back home across the market square, and as we waved goodbye he was still calling advice on the route to take for the best views of the sea.

We too were late, with all the day’s walk still ahead. But we’d learned an important lesson in making room for chance.