A horn blow, a bit of the quay, two big moorings. The islanders await the boat, their mail, the produce with which they fill their wheelbarrows. The traveller lands on a quai fringed with imposing palm trees from the Canaries. Red ochre houses frame a street bordered with oleander. A few steps to the Place d'Armes and the magic begins.
The eucalyptus quivering with fragrances, the little Mexican-like Sainte Anne church, the shaded sidewalk cafés filled with nonchalant customers, a path that slips away through a gap in the pines… |