The streets of Kemper

The tide was running deep and smooth and I allowed the tender to drift upstream on the flood before flashing up the outboard. I'd normally prefer not to motor, the peace of the wooded banks being too perfect, but I had a mile or two to make and the two-stroke would have to be engaged if I was to make the most of the time. The current on the bends of the Odet runs fierce and fast but further up, as the banks become more agrarian and more distant, the river eases it's grip and one can afford to dawdle. Before long, the quay where the steamers disembarked hoved into sight and I decided to be sensible and moor up, leave the punt and take the bus into the city.

Kemper is an old place, picturesquely pokey around the medieval centre, no modern symbolic office towers, no post-war concrete brutalism, though the boxy modern suburbs undulate the surrounding countryside, and hypermarkets bloom off every rondpoint like everywhere else in France. The skyline is dominated by St Corentin's cathedral. The market square from which it erupts used to be a jumble of shops and alleyways, right up to the gothic walls, but nowadays there is a pleasant open space, the uphill side of which is the Musée des Beaux Arts. There are still lots of half timbered buildings, cobbled side streets and pretty corners of geraniums.

I bought a newspaper with no intention of reading it, wandered into a cafe overlooking the square and sat quietly at an outside table to order a kir before looking for lunch. I was soon attended by a spikey haired, teenage waitress who politely took my order before spinning away, scribbling on a pad as she went to serve someone else. How French. Most businesslike. This nation and lunch are inseparable. I've known factory robots stop for it, along with shops, schools, medical services and port authorities. Nothing was going to happen now for a couple of hours, so it's eat or perambulate the quiet streets. Eat then. I spent a pleasant hour people watching. Local businessfolk, well dressed and urgent; families with trained children; Tourist of many nationalities, who were not sure of menu details and whispered like spies behind their cart du jour. One lady, American, in her later years and on her own, knew the system. I watched her eyeball a young, male waiter, ask in educated French, what was the best wine for escallopes and could she not have this, or that, but something else which she knew the chef would remember, as they were old friends, and he could mention her name to the Maitre. Merci cher. Classic, honey blonde, well dressed and canny, from somewhere like Philadelphia. I enjoyed my own curried moule frites and Muscadet with less bravado but as much pleasure, and a coffee later, strolled off to see the sights.

I could not resist the tranquil charms of the Musée des Beaux Arts. One of the finest provincial art galleries in the country, and currently exhibiting a Rodin. I once spent a week in Paris on someone else's expenses and discovered the exotic/erotic delights of Rodin's garden near the Invalides. I had my eyes opened to the sheer power of sculpture and have never looked at a piece the same way again. It's not something I have ever done, but I could toil and sweat for a hundred years and never get within a mile of his genius. There are always works by the Pont Aven groups, and other Bretton painters, traditionally figurative, and modern too, Like Soulanges, who's stark, black and white images are mysterious and moving. Enough art though. I had a tide to catch and was only playing at what I had come for; to explore historic Kemper, and see if it would tie in my mind, with an idea for a book I wanted to write, or finish. I left the cool gallery and walked out into the warm early summer afternoon.