A test for Ben's memory.
It looks familiar but I'm not sure. I do know what it's not, it's not La Lieutenance, it's not the Boudin Museum, it's not the birthplace of Erik Satie and it's not Ste. Catherine Church, which I used to pass when I walked from the cottage to the center of town, past the Patisserie and down to the Saturday marche.
Oh, Tom, 20 years of memories flood back. It was 1988 when I spent 6 weeks in Honfleur, picking wild blackberries and fraises (wild strawberries) which were growing outside the door of the cottage, walking through the old, old cemetery and walking along the Seine estuary. Mrs. Jolibois, the matriarch of the family that owned the cottage (she walked halfway across France during WWII to trade her jewelry to get her husband out of a French Nazi prison camp during the occupation) was surprised that we picked the blackberries. They were not worth picking unless there were enough to make jam. They didn't eat them any other way. We loved them as a breakfast treat with a warm croissant and strong French coffee.
What a time. What memories. Thanks again my friend.
