Fresnay-sur-Sarthe, a pretty, tiny town in southern Normandy was dead Sunday night. As we drank in the only open bar in town a solitary boorish Brit in his forties was hectoring a group of French teenagers at an adjacent table. Why he was explaining - in shouty English - about butlers eluded us. The kids responded with embarrassed giggles.
Later, back at the camp, a fellow camper, a military search-and-rescue helicopter pilot based out in Iraq, showed us an otter swimming down the river next to our tents. Yes, Fresnay is swarming with Brits.
