Lizzy Davies visits a sleepy seaside resort on France’s north-western coast - the setting for one of the greatest comic characters in the history of cinema I’m dining alone in a busy hotel restaurant, trying my best to look dignified and ladylike while devouring a plate of freshly grilled sardines. No easy task. For one thing, the bones get everywhere; for another, I am being watched. To my right sits a family of brazenly curious French tourists, staring at the English girl with her funny table-manners and her three newspapers piled on top of each other on the table. To my left are a couple, noticeably more interested in the sea view - and me - than each other. Flustered and self-conscious, I look out to the Atlantic for comfort, and, more precisely, to a 6ft 8 bronze statue peering over the beach below. Now there was a man, I reflect, who never let absurdity hold him back.

Original Source In search of Monsieur Hulot’s holiday