On the lush green slopes leading from the beach to the higher vantage points h
uddled together, many of them weekend homes owned by well-heeled city folk from Paris or Rouen.
Above the houses the concrete bunkers have easily weathered the intervening six decades, and will weather many more. A stiff breeze blowing through the gun slots whistles eerily, and flaps the row of flags in pride of place in front of the small museum at the end of the beach.
The Union Jack is there. So is the Stars and Stripes. As are the Maple Leaf of Canada and the blue standard of the EU. A little away sits an armored vehicle, squat and watchful. This place is guarded. Feelings run deep.
Bill Coleman is easy to spot in the crowd of visitors trickling through the museum, his distinctive red hat emblazoned with the word "veteran." In many ways the spry octogenarian is the past come to life.
"I give talks in schools and so on," he explains. "I try to ensure that the things that happened here are not forgotten."
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