Back on the beach the couple rearrange their belongings, the woman keeping hold of the camera. The young man gestures with his hand. Are you ready? Will you follow now? The walk takes them through mangroves and the rusting military installation. They’ve already seen the graveyard for Allied servicemen, for the British, Americans and free French. Some were named, others were not. The headstones for Indian and African soldiers only give a regiment and number. Here, looking out to sea, are great walls of stone, gun emplacements and brick domes like beehives.

The husband does not like their taxi driver. The man who brought someone else in without consulting them. He speaks too quickly and is too ready to joke with them. His jokes are not funny and half of them come in a pigeon French that he can neither decode nor keep up with. Instead the husband is left to nod along. He is making them walk too fast. Too far and too fast. The taxi driver is wiry. What little muscle he has twitches with every movement. The young man is more toned. His calves swell with every step and his torso is lined by flexing muscles at the stomach and waist, a series of lines converging down to a shot of hair and the long, fat blade hanging from his belt.