Ah, Arcachon… carved like a poem, on the seasonal rhythm, the so-called Winter Town offers a fragrance for each neighbourhood.
At daybreak, while the Bird Island is awakening, the fish market is already under way, bringing the fish from the boat to the plate; and, at the tide’s goodwill, I quickly roam across the salty meadows.
I then reach the huts built on stilts, which nearly seem to be resting; at the top of the Dune of Pyla, a herring gull is holding serenity in its beak. No doubt, Arcachon never ceases to lull the lovers of liberty.
My trip is coming to an end, I shall be going home soon. But one thing is sure, I’m bringing back in my suitcase the harmony, the diversity, the grains of sand and the iodic air, this beautiful scented candle and my memories.