Whether tiredness or relief, neither of us wakes early today and when we do the sun is streaming through the curtains. A quick check shows the battery has held its charge overnight so we'll cross our fingers and trust it will start on Sunday morning.

Within an hour Nick has two calls from the breakdown insurance asking how well they had handled our case. They were politely advised that if they spent more time ringing back people stuck in a broken down motorhome, than ringing up fishing for compliments, they might not have to be dealing with the forthcoming formal complaint. I won't name them, but Caravanguard in Halifax know who they are.

It's nearly 18 months since our last proper day out in Roscoff so around noon we set off along the beachside footpath. The tide is on its way in, a patchwork of glassy blue water filling the hollows in the sand. The sandbanks are an artist's pallet of reddish-browns and greens from algae and yellow to white sand. A truly beautiful sight with the whitewash of Roscoff's hotels, the dark sand pines and bright blue sky as a backdrop.

We continue into town, passing a couple of swimmers and enjoying the sun's warmth above the cooler air. Autumn is surely coming.

We get freshly made baguette sandwiches and take around to Le Winch to have with a beer. The bar here doesn't serve food but allow you to eat a snack of your own with their drinks.

On the next table one Scottish cyclist and two Irish hikers are talking about their trips and get around to touring programmes by celebrity chefs. They struggle between them to remember some names. We volunteer the answers and next minute we are all comparing the various ways we travel yet all get the same fulfilment.

After lunch we stroll the harbourside, a sight we never tire of seeing, and sit watching boats skim over the perfectly blue sea which merges with the sky, almost no difference in colour. It's that magical light for which St.Ives is renowned.

As we go around we notice a number of brightly painted metal sculptures and in the TO we find a poster about the artist Richard BROUARD.

We climb the hill to the chapel of St.Barbe, a small white structure on top of a dolmen. As we cross the car park the familiar rattle of a 2CV approaches from behind but when it passes it's no ordinary 2CV. As the sixty-something hippy driver gets out we tell him his car is 'tres jolie' and he tells us it is his own customisation. He has transformed it into a two door, two seat, round tailed, targa-top styled convertible, because he likes Morgans and Beetles.

Ali asks to take a photo so he invites her to sit in the driver's seat and he takes the photo. Then his wife points to the little wooden box at the back, covered in stickers of their travels; Morocco, Tunisia, Ireland, Jersey, Switzerland and most of Europe.

By the time we have wandered back through town the tide is going out and the wet sand is speckled with little clumps of white spikes which we think are cockles or razor clams, but too far away to see properly.

Just before we return to the aire Ali follows the sign up the track, to the farm offering onions for sale. 5kg of Roscoff pink onions and 1kg of shallots are a ridiculously cheap €5. Pink onions are €3.50 a kilo in the town.

We always love Roscoff and today Roscoff has loved us back, soothing away all the worry and frustration and bother of the last couple of days.