Bretagne

The 2CV screeches to a halt.
Monica pulls the crumpled Michelin atlas from the back seat. The pages are still stuck together from the last camping holiday.
‘Why on earth are we going back to Brittany?’ she exclaims.
‘Because of the nose on the map,’ I say. ‘You’re holding it upside down, by the way.’
‘But that farm campsite here doesn’t have toilet facilities.’
‘Great, not a soul in sight, not even a farmer.’
I open the boot lid with excitement. An old horse comes trotting out from behind the curtains. The animal pushes Monica aside with its head and starts pulling our brand new tent out of the boot with its yellow teeth.
‘That filthy animal has to die,’ she hisses.