The veil of adventure

The bus drowsily came to a halt. As I alighted, a gentle breeze gusted at me, carrying with it hints of salt and a promise of more bracing slaps in the face during the day. It was the first relatively warm Bienvenue after my wearing journey through the bad weather of Normandy, a common butt of French irony. There I was, at last, - only minutes and curiosity stood in my way of reaching the coastline. The detective comes to town, and she will leave no stone unturned.
The town of Étretat had been beckoning me towards it just as much as the smell of Camembert cheese wheel revolted me since I saw it on one of the Monet’s canvases. So now, hypnotized, I strolled through the village cloaked in a mouth-watering scent of freshly baked bread. The windows of old timber-framed houses reflected slanting beams of morning light striking through the ashy sky. So peaceful, and yet mysterious…
The seagulls led the way, screaming out what I thought was French for directions, and finally a marvelous vista of white chalk cliffs and arches appeared before my eyes. The overwhelming beauty of this place resembled one of those souvenir snow globes, and at the same time its unrefined perfection gave me a loud feeling of freedom and a sharp reality of the moment. Perhaps, similar conflicting emotions engrossed a cow, which I soon ran into, as it was gazing wistfully at the fang rock that towered nobly over the sea.
What mysteries await me here? They say that a notorious gentleman thief, Arsène Lupin has hidden his loot in the hollow needle arch, and so I comb the rocks and tunnels for a secret passage. A medieval church on the edge of the precipice presents another enigma. I attempt to see something through its nailed down windows, but a passing mistral envelops the coast with a British fog in a blink of an eye, and I find myself in awe stretching my hands to touch the cloudlets. This sudden mist brings yet another puzzle: years ago the first biplane set to cross the Atlantic, L’Oiseau Blanc, vanished inexplicably. It was last seen above the shores of Étretat. I suspect they connived at erasing all traces of the plane from the sky.
After a long day scrambling among rocks, breathing the sea air, and unraveling the mysteries of Étretat, open-mouthed, I contemplated the blurred sun, which slowly spilled like flowing lava along the horizon and then blended with chilly water. A pillow in the room of Tintin had already been waiting for me at The Detective Hotel. The investigation goes on.