An outbreak of twisting at the beach bar. At about midnight. It was then we realised there must be another bank holiday. The French seem to have about three a week. This one was in aid of some Jesus bollocks, I think.The twisters didn't seem holy though. All four of them. The DJ was outside with two racks of equipment for, as far as I could make out, a CD player and a microphone. Between tunes he suavely boomed towards the sea. Imagine Michael Winner was Sean Connery, but French. The twisting happened around the tables and in the street and continued all song long. When the song stopped everyone sat down and the DJ did My Way his way, in English then in French, and as soon as he stopped the entire audience left.
The next day we drove a long way to little sunny dead Rennes. The most happening thing in the city was a flatscreen in a kebab house showing Chelsea vs. Hull. The kebab house guy supported Chelsea, somehow, and the first half was watched. We drove on to an oyster town and discovered what everyone does with all the mandatory free time: they look at temporary, medium-sized statues of The Virgin Mary. With designated viewing areas marked by metal fences. Four more identical ones were placed around the town. Some were more popular than others. We ate some excellent sandwiches.