With soul so pure ONE MORNING before I am old and hoary I shall waken again to the sound of water slapping gently against the hull of a small vessel as she lies asleep beside the jetty in St. Pierre. I shall climb lazily out of my bunk, sniff the mingled smells of cod, coal smoke, and heather, then I shall amble across the wide Place bordering the harbour, to the Café” L’Escal. Madame Ella Girardin will see me coming and my croissants and coffee will be waiting on the bar. And if Ella detects a certain weakness in my gait there will be a small glass of brandy beside the coffee cup. Some of the quiet fellows sitting at the little table will give me a casual “bonjour.” Others may acknowledge my arrival with a greeting in Portuguese or Spanish. As I drink my breakfast I will listen to their comments on the state of the fishery and on the happenings in the world of ocean. Morning is talking time, but eventually I shall go out on the cobbled streets that run uphill amongst the crowded narrow houses of the little town.
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