24/09/2012 | Printed Edition
By Ivan Briscoe For the Herald
Grande Rue, as you might expect, runs through the heart of the old city. At ground level, Boulogne-sur-Mer offers up the scarred stone and the obscure shuttered recesses of a French city in decline. It smells, as it should, of fresh croissant and black tobacco, of last night’s urine and the holy nectar of cheese. Of sea, granite, age and food.