We slept in on the morning of arrival to Brest, France. It probably doesn't help that Case, though ordinarily happy to scan a phrase book and then slaughter any language you might care to name, adamantly refuses to attempt French. (The most he does is an imitation that he calls "the French guy", and don't EVEN get me started on that!!! The things you learn about someone after you marry them!!!!)
The boat arrived at 9:00 a.m. and had to leave again at 3:00. We managed to struggle forth from our cozy, dark, inside cabin at about 1:00, just in time to hop on the port bus and ride the loop through town. Though I'm sure there's more to see than we did, we were less than overwhelmed. It probably doesn't help that, during WWII, the Allies bombed the city to rubble (only three buildings remained standing) because of its large German submarine base. Aside from a rather striking old fort on the point of the harbor, we saw only concrete boxes. Stalin would have loved it, but after the port city architecture of the Azores and Cobh, Ireland, it was a bit of a let-down.
So, for photos, we're including these colorful snapshots (yes, these were taken in Brest):
A troupe of French bagpipers pipes us back to sea. (They play the bagpipes in Brittany. Who knew?)