Celtic to the core - a holy well in the parish close of Lamber near St. Renan
August 27. On the road again
I write at Camping Les Abers, looking out through Carmen’s windscreen to the clitter-clatter of low, rocky, somehow desolate islands that fringe the North-West coast of Brittany. In the distance, a faint pink glow enlivens the otherwise unremitting grey of sky and sea, offering hope of a brighter day tomorrow.
The campsite is at Aber-Wrach (as in Aberystwyth), just west of Landeda (as in Lanivet).The district of Leon (from Caerleon), where I am presently based, was originally divided up into Dumnonee (as in Devon) and Cornouaille (as in it goes without saying). Even the Breton language, now so jealously guarded, was largely imported from Cornwall and Wales, from the fifth century onwards.
But when we talk about ‘Little Britain’, which is what Brittany literally means, we need to remember that the ‘British’ in question was strictly of the ancient, Celtic variety. The Irish, Welsh and Cornish who colonised Brittany in the Dark Ages were looking for somewhere to escape from the Saxons and Vikings, pressing ever westwards. Armorica, as it was then known, was a bleak, infertile, windswept, storm-ravaged, thinly populated peninsula largely cut off from the rest of civilised Europe. It made the Cornish, the Welsh and the Irish feel entirely at home!
Anyway, by reaching Aber-wrach by way of Wales, Cornwall and a sea crossing to Roscoff, I have been travelling in ancient, not to say sacred footsteps. St. Pol-de-Leon, just a few miles from the ferry terminal, is named for the same Paul who gave his name to Paul, near Penzance, and whose chapel here at Aber-wrach I visited earlier today. He was a Welshman, of course!
Unlike Paul, who no doubt made the crossing on a millstone or a cabbage leaf, I travelled in some style, on the Brittany Ferries flagship, the Port Aven. It is a trip I have made many times, and I was looking forward to its rituals, not least the steak-frites in the self-service restaurant as the boat clears the Eddystone lighthouse (and not a moment before!). The food on Brittany Ferries is not exactly world-class, but it is at least French, which is a good start.
I looked up at the board above the servery, just to check that it was on. Sure enough, there it was: “Entrecote grille”. But what was that in the small print underneath?
“Origin S. America”? I looked again, just to check it hadn’t read “S.Armorica”, which is what one might have expected on a boat run by the fanatic gastro-patriots who are the Bretons.
But no, S. America it undoubtedly was, and S. American it undoubtedly tasted – stringy and gristly. I have rarely been more disappointed with a meal in my entire life. My thoughts turned to Alexis Gourvennec, the Breton farmer who founded Brittany Ferries and who sadly died earlier this year. He was arguably the most effective militant farmer who ever lived. He bullied the Government into funding the Roscoff ferry terminal and he dragooned the notoriously cussed small farmers of Brittany int
o joining his co-operative – the SICA, as it then was – on pain of having their crops burnt.
I write at Camping Les Abers, looking out through Carmen’s windscreen to the clitter-clatter of low, rocky, somehow desolate islands that fringe the North-West coast of Brittany. In the distance, a faint pink glow enlivens the otherwise unremitting grey of sky and sea, offering hope of a brighter day tomorrow.
The campsite is at Aber-Wrach (as in Aberystwyth), just west of Landeda (as in Lanivet).The district of Leon (from Caerleon), where I am presently based, was originally divided up into Dumnonee (as in Devon) and Cornouaille (as in it goes without saying). Even the Breton language, now so jealously guarded, was largely imported from Cornwall and Wales, from the fifth century onwards.
But when we talk about ‘Little Britain’, which is what Brittany literally means, we need to remember that the ‘British’ in question was strictly of the ancient, Celtic variety. The Irish, Welsh and Cornish who colonised Brittany in the Dark Ages were looking for somewhere to escape from the Saxons and Vikings, pressing ever westwards. Armorica, as it was then known, was a bleak, infertile, windswept, storm-ravaged, thinly populated peninsula largely cut off from the rest of civilised Europe. It made the Cornish, the Welsh and the Irish feel entirely at home!
Anyway, by reaching Aber-wrach by way of Wales, Cornwall and a sea crossing to Roscoff, I have been travelling in ancient, not to say sacred footsteps. St. Pol-de-Leon, just a few miles from the ferry terminal, is named for the same Paul who gave his name to Paul, near Penzance, and whose chapel here at Aber-wrach I visited earlier today. He was a Welshman, of course!
Unlike Paul, who no doubt made the crossing on a millstone or a cabbage leaf, I travelled in some style, on the Brittany Ferries flagship, the Port Aven. It is a trip I have made many times, and I was looking forward to its rituals, not least the steak-frites in the self-service restaurant as the boat clears the Eddystone lighthouse (and not a moment before!). The food on Brittany Ferries is not exactly world-class, but it is at least French, which is a good start.
I looked up at the board above the servery, just to check that it was on. Sure enough, there it was: “Entrecote grille”. But what was that in the small print underneath?
“Origin S. America”? I looked again, just to check it hadn’t read “S.Armorica”, which is what one might have expected on a boat run by the fanatic gastro-patriots who are the Bretons.
But no, S. America it undoubtedly was, and S. American it undoubtedly tasted – stringy and gristly. I have rarely been more disappointed with a meal in my entire life. My thoughts turned to Alexis Gourvennec, the Breton farmer who founded Brittany Ferries and who sadly died earlier this year. He was arguably the most effective militant farmer who ever lived. He bullied the Government into funding the Roscoff ferry terminal and he dragooned the notoriously cussed small farmers of Brittany int
o joining his co-operative – the SICA, as it then was – on pain of having their crops burnt. Alexis Gourvennec - a pocket battleship of a farming leader
The likes of Handley and Haddock are but pigmies to Gourvennec’s colossus. He transformed farming in Brittany. The magnificent crops of cauliflower, onions, leeks, potatoes, lettuce, shallots, broccoli and artichokes – especially artichokes, although he never did manage to persuade Plymothians to love them! – that I drove past on my way here this morning are a tribute to his passion, skill and belligerence.
I don’t know about him spinning in his grave. I’m surprised that he hasn’t burst forth from it: to blockade the ferry company which has so betrayed his legacy and to threaten to burn its boats, one by one, until every last kilo of foreign beef has been tipped into the grey Atlantic.
That apart, the journey across was relatively uneventful. I stayed last night at Mogueriec, not far from Roscoff, on a campsite which, apart from me and Carmen, was eerily deserted. Even the owner made his excuses and left. It was a disturbed, as well as a lonely night. I was just dropping off to sleep when my ears were assailed by the unmistakeable whine of a mosquito, on its final approach towards my neck. Now, if there is one thing in life that I detest even more than split infinitives and the mispronunciation of west country place names it is mosquitos! I had the light on a flash, armed myself with a rolled up Times, and went in search of the little beggars. I got two in the first sweep, two more later on, and one final buzzing menace was nailed to the window frame just before dawn. Conducive to sleep this was not, so I have invested in an electronic device which promises “45 nuits” of mosquito-free bliss. We shall see.
One thing that that Bretons have not, fortunately inherited from their Celtic cousins further north, is their cuisine, which is Frankish to the core, albeit using the magnificent local ingredients. I cycled to Prat-ar-Coum this afternoon to buy some oysters for my supper. A dozen of the freshest, plumpest, most sea-flavoured bivalves as could be imagined set me back just 4 euros 50. On Sunday, at L
yme Regis, the Hix Oyster and Fish Bar had much less fresh oysters on offer at £1.75 each!
The likes of Handley and Haddock are but pigmies to Gourvennec’s colossus. He transformed farming in Brittany. The magnificent crops of cauliflower, onions, leeks, potatoes, lettuce, shallots, broccoli and artichokes – especially artichokes, although he never did manage to persuade Plymothians to love them! – that I drove past on my way here this morning are a tribute to his passion, skill and belligerence.
I don’t know about him spinning in his grave. I’m surprised that he hasn’t burst forth from it: to blockade the ferry company which has so betrayed his legacy and to threaten to burn its boats, one by one, until every last kilo of foreign beef has been tipped into the grey Atlantic.
That apart, the journey across was relatively uneventful. I stayed last night at Mogueriec, not far from Roscoff, on a campsite which, apart from me and Carmen, was eerily deserted. Even the owner made his excuses and left. It was a disturbed, as well as a lonely night. I was just dropping off to sleep when my ears were assailed by the unmistakeable whine of a mosquito, on its final approach towards my neck. Now, if there is one thing in life that I detest even more than split infinitives and the mispronunciation of west country place names it is mosquitos! I had the light on a flash, armed myself with a rolled up Times, and went in search of the little beggars. I got two in the first sweep, two more later on, and one final buzzing menace was nailed to the window frame just before dawn. Conducive to sleep this was not, so I have invested in an electronic device which promises “45 nuits” of mosquito-free bliss. We shall see.
One thing that that Bretons have not, fortunately inherited from their Celtic cousins further north, is their cuisine, which is Frankish to the core, albeit using the magnificent local ingredients. I cycled to Prat-ar-Coum this afternoon to buy some oysters for my supper. A dozen of the freshest, plumpest, most sea-flavoured bivalves as could be imagined set me back just 4 euros 50. On Sunday, at L
yme Regis, the Hix Oyster and Fish Bar had much less fresh oysters on offer at £1.75 each! Their sacrifice was not in vain!
I was given a leaflet describing the local attractions when I arrived this afternoon. From this, I learned that, near Plougerneau, there is a “Seaweed Museum”. Now that’s got to be up there, alongside Barometer World (near Okehampton, if you’re desperate), as one of the most unlikely tourist attractions in Western Europe!
I was given a leaflet describing the local attractions when I arrived this afternoon. From this, I learned that, near Plougerneau, there is a “Seaweed Museum”. Now that’s got to be up there, alongside Barometer World (near Okehampton, if you’re desperate), as one of the most unlikely tourist attractions in Western Europe!
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