Yesterday, we were introduced to a French tradition: the annual door-to-door sale of firemen’s calendars.
Last night. 8.00pm. We were just finishing beef bourguignon. There was a loud knock on the door. The four of us said nothing. Who could it be?
At dusk, shutters are firmly closed on all Breton houses and no one ventures out.
I went to the door and through the glass I could see a red reflective strip in the darkness.
I opened the door. Two firemen beamed at me.