Page 116 of A Castaway in Cornwall
Here and there small streams ran across the street—water from the surrounding hills finding its way to the sea after recent rains. He made use of the planks left by helpful residents to cross over them without getting wet. The town had clearly grown in the years since he’d spent his summers there. Many new houses and streets had been built, while some of the old streets had been widened and the names changed from French to English. He reached a narrow street only eight feet wide he thought he remembered asRue des Trois Pigeons,but the signreadHill Street. He’d found the original street name amusing as a boy and did not think the change an improvement.
In the distance, above the rooftops, he glimpsed a castellated church tower he recognized, probably the very church his grandparents had attended. He decided to make his way to it and find his grandparents’ former home from there.
Before he could, an aroma caught his nose. A delicious, familiar aroma. And on its scent, he was transported to the happy days of his childhood, when his grandmother would take him to the localpâtisseriefor his choice ofvraicbuns or deep-fried twists of dough calledmèrvelles.
He walked on. In his boyhood, the north side of King Street had looked out over green fields; now more houses and businesses filled the once-open space. He turned the corner, passed an ironmonger’s, a greengrocer’s, a hat shop, and a newsagent’s, and then—there it was.Egre Bakers & Confectioners.The bow windows gleamed, the displays of honey-brown bread loaves, cakes, and every good thing drew him to the familiar doors. He smelled warm yeasty bread, cardamom, andchocolat, and could almost feel his grandmother’s hand holding his.
He entered the establishment with a sense of stepping back in time. The man behind the counter greeted him and asked how he could help.
“I came here regularly as a boy. It’s one place that seems blessedly much the same.”
Alexander ended up buying severalvraicbuns dotted with raisins, and half a dozen golden-brownmèrvelles,still warm. He would share them with Laura and her aunt, he decided. If he resisted eating them all himself.
He then asked the man if he might direct him toRue des Vignes.
“You mean Vine Street? Certainly...”
Following the man’s directions, Alex turned onto a lane of vine-covered houses. There he saw it, surrounded by other houses, when it had at one time enjoyed sprawling lawns on two sides.
It seemed smaller than he remembered. The wrought-iron gates less high. But he recognized it, even so.
He stood at that gate and selected a pastry from the bag, lifting it to his grandmother in a toast of sorts and then savoring every bite.
Eventually, he walked back to the harbour and relished the sight of all those ships moored there, recalling his first long-ago glimpse of theVictorine.
He noticed an older man in a tweed coat and slouch hat, watching him with friendly interest. When Alex looked over, the man asked, “Are you admiring the ships or daydreaming?”
“Both, actually. I especially admire that brig, there.”
The man’s broad shoulders straightened, and his chest seemed to expand. “You have a good eye, sir, for that is my own ship.”
“Is it? You must be proud indeed.”
“I am. Just back from several weeks at sea.” The man nodded toward Alex’s parcel. “And I see you also have a good eye for bakeries.”
“Yes. In truth, I have been enjoying a little stroll into the past. My grandmother used to take me to Egre’s bakery. Here, help yourself.” He extended the grease-stained brown paper bag.
The bushy eyebrows rose. “That is prodigious generous of you. Ah, Jersey wonders. You must be a local lad, then?”
Alex shrugged. “I spent summers here as a boy. Take two. My eyes were bigger than my stomach.”
The older man patted his rounded abdomen. “That is not a problem for me, as you see.” He took a big bite. “Delicious.”
“I agree.”
The man chewed, then said, “Your accent ... Do my ears mistake me, or do I recognize something of the French ... perhaps Normandy?”
Alex reared back his head in surprise. “Close. Brittany. You have very skilled ears, sir, for although I have not been home in a few years, my honored father lives near Quimper.”
The man nodded. “I have been there. Beautiful country. Though Camaret-sur-Mer is my favorite.”
“Camaret-sur-Mer! We used to take holidays to the seashore there in my childhood. You have refined taste as well as hearing, I see.”
The man wiped crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have spent a great deal of time in France and learned to hear the differences. I’ve grown quite fond of the country. In fact, I had thought that when this blasted war is over, I might live there. But, well, Jersey has a ... certain beauty ... that keeps me here.”
Alexander watched the older man’s face and guessed, “And does this ‘certain beauty’ have a name?”
“Ah, you are too clever for me, my friend.”
