Following a fabulous day trip to Bruges, from my P&O cruise ship Arva. drifting lazily amongst the crowds of sightseers, I was unprepared for the hellish number of visitors to Mont St Michel, on the next day-trip.

The day started very early, before any chance for breakfast with a long, extremely boring coach trip from Cherbourg with a dozen other trippers. We didn’t speak much, just watched the sun rising over the flat countryside until eventually I caught sight of the sea, and then the familiar shape of rock.

We had stopped at a remote service station for 5 minutes- just enough time for a toilet break, but not enough to purchase a bottle of water using the impenetrable French debit card machine, so still desperately thirsty.

Will I expire through drought? Would anyone even notice if I didn’t return?

Fortunately, there was a shop with no queue in the car park, where I could temporarily slake my raging thirst - not dead yet!

I couldn’t believe the size of the carpark or the number of people, mostly French, on a dull Thursday morning in October walking towards the ancient abbey or riding the shuttle buses every 10 minutes.

They all looked so eager to be consumed by the magic of the place.

The new Lumix S9 camera again proved a delight to use, capturing joyous visitors drinking in the atmosphere.

After steadily climbing the ancient walls, I came across a museum of gruesome artefacts, portraying the island’s history, but no mention of virgins.

Coming out into the light, I was entranced by the sight of the gorgeous young lady wearing a blue turban, l sitting on the wall by the side of the steep downward steps, totally engrossed in a book

After managing several photographs, concentrating on her long legs, I felt compelled to stop and speak

“Hello,” I ventured, hesitantly hoping she spoke English.

“Go away,” her eyes flashed, briefly acknowledging my presence.

I felt compelled to continue, “How do you stay so calm amongst this bustle of visitors all dashing about buying useless souvenirs?”

“Easy,” she casually replied, “I fuck their brains out, then eat them for lunch. Now buy me a coffee and you can be my next victim.”

Suddenly the crotch of her tight blue jeans turned transparent, for a second revealing a cavernous vaginal opening, dripping with sperm, testament to the centuries of erotic pleasure her hapless victims were promised.

I was completely lost, knowing this was to be my last sexual act on the planet, but unable to resist as she took my trembling hand, weaving through the crowds to a cold, dark dungeon set into the rock face, where I was stripped and bound.

She laughed at my feeble attempts to touch her luscious tip-tilted breasts as her razor-sharp teeth severed the tip of my penis from its shaft.

My screaming seemed deafening, but nobody came, as what was left of my penis entered her gaping vagina.

“Say thank you properly. You are number 100,000 to fuck the Mont St Michel Virgin,” as she scratched another digit into the hard rock, resuming her place on the wall and flushing my remains out to sea.

She lazily pressed the red button on Her laptop removing every trace of my existence from this planet; knowing that nobody would ever come searching for me and waiting patiently for Her next victim.