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Beyond the shoreline, we’re forbidden from visiting Avalon.ĭozens of islands - or island-like places - are claimed to be the real Avalon. I’m fascinated because we aren’t allowed to follow him. Then I watch as he lugs his amp over seaweed and granite boulders and past the stone wall that rings the island, where he disappears behind it. Maybe Camelot is a bar or a club somewhere around here. It made no sense, yet I heard it clearly. He tells them, presumably about the amp, “I just picked it up from Camelot.”ĭid I hear that right? There’s no way he just said this. His accent is rarely heard in these parts: American.
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#You see the trouble with me black legend full
Yet this is Brittany, radiant under full Northern summer sun, lighting beloved by so many painters for its rinsing clarity, today seeming to distill the Pink Granite Coast - its beaches and outcrops and inlets, sailboats crisp as flags, the sea’s chromatic scales of blue-greens and silvers - through a sharpening, horizon-wide lens.Ī guy carrying a black amp stops to chat with four people about his age, 20-somethings sitting on a blanket - the only people on this side of the island besides us. My husband and 14-year-old son are just ahead - tall figures about the same height, as of this year - and I’m snapping photos of them, of the pine tree-fringed island to our left, ringed by creamy beaches, so pristine and balmy the scene resembles the Caribbean of my imagination. The water is so warm, this final afternoon of July 2021, and the tide so low, I’ve walked here from another island a quarter mile away. I’m circumnavigating Avalon counter-clockwise, wading through see-through Atlantic waters at low tide.