This morning the wild west wind tugged at my hat as I walked round the ramparts, so much so that I took it off and carried it in my hand. The sea was emerald flecked with white, and the waves crashed themselves on the rocks with a thunderous roar. The moon looked like a half-a-crown buried in the light blue sky, clear except for the air-line trails criss-crossing the sky making a tartan pattern. The sea-gulls kept a low profile standing in the lee of the corsaire mansions nestling together inside the ramparts and awaiting the tourists who would be pleased to trade a bit of their morning bagette or croissant for a photograph.
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