August 29. Inspiring lights in the Celtic gloom
Ushant! A name to strike fear into any mariner’s heart: an island of violent storms, savage reefs, treacherous tides, impenetrable fogs and tearing Atlantic gales; rising low but menacingly, like a crocodile in a whirlpool, on the edge of the continental shelf where the Bay of Biscay joins the English Channel; at the very western tip of France. “Ouessant”, they call it here. “The Westernmost” is how I like to translate it. Mind you, the Celts called it Enez-Eussa - the Isle of Terror - and the channel that separates Ushant from Molene is From-Veur - the strait of fear!
Except that, today, when I made the long anticipated sea crossing from Le Conquet, there wasn’t so much as an Atlantic zephyr, let alone an Atlantic gale, either to stir the waters into their customary anger or, more to the point, to shift the low, misty cloud that has enveloped the north-west coast of Brittany like a grey shroud these last four days.
But I made the best of it – hiring a bike which enabled me to see most of what is, without the assistance of the more violent among the elements, a rather flat and dull island. It occurred to me halfway round that Ushant is a bit like Lundy: the sort of place that everyone interested in the western seaboard of Europe ought to visit – but probably only once!
Ushant’s hallmark is its lighthouses. There are five of them in all: three at the outer edges of the reefs that stretch out towards one of the busiest sea-lanes in Europe, and two on the island itself. I paused for a glass of cider and a packet of crisps on the Pointe de Pern – the most Westerly point in France – where two ruinous pylons and a crumbling stone barn provided, respectively, electricity and a gigantic steam-powered fog-horn for the Phare de Nividic, just offshore. With its ceaselessly churning sea and gigantic mass
es of granite, the peninsula reminded me powerfully of Wingletang Down on St. Agnes.
Ushant! A name to strike fear into any mariner’s heart: an island of violent storms, savage reefs, treacherous tides, impenetrable fogs and tearing Atlantic gales; rising low but menacingly, like a crocodile in a whirlpool, on the edge of the continental shelf where the Bay of Biscay joins the English Channel; at the very western tip of France. “Ouessant”, they call it here. “The Westernmost” is how I like to translate it. Mind you, the Celts called it Enez-Eussa - the Isle of Terror - and the channel that separates Ushant from Molene is From-Veur - the strait of fear!
Except that, today, when I made the long anticipated sea crossing from Le Conquet, there wasn’t so much as an Atlantic zephyr, let alone an Atlantic gale, either to stir the waters into their customary anger or, more to the point, to shift the low, misty cloud that has enveloped the north-west coast of Brittany like a grey shroud these last four days.
But I made the best of it – hiring a bike which enabled me to see most of what is, without the assistance of the more violent among the elements, a rather flat and dull island. It occurred to me halfway round that Ushant is a bit like Lundy: the sort of place that everyone interested in the western seaboard of Europe ought to visit – but probably only once!
Ushant’s hallmark is its lighthouses. There are five of them in all: three at the outer edges of the reefs that stretch out towards one of the busiest sea-lanes in Europe, and two on the island itself. I paused for a glass of cider and a packet of crisps on the Pointe de Pern – the most Westerly point in France – where two ruinous pylons and a crumbling stone barn provided, respectively, electricity and a gigantic steam-powered fog-horn for the Phare de Nividic, just offshore. With its ceaselessly churning sea and gigantic mass
es of granite, the peninsula reminded me powerfully of Wingletang Down on St. Agnes. Gibbo at the most westerly point in France - the Pointe de Pern on Ushant. In the background, the now derelict equipment for powering the lighthouse.
But even more impressive is the Phare du Creac’h, reputedly the most powerful lighthouse in Europe, if not the world. It is black and white and massive. Du Creac’h is to normal lighthouses what the Millennium Eye is to fairground wheels. This is the daddy of them all!
And thereby hangs a theory of mine. The Bretons are big on lighthouses. There are hundreds of them. On the Ile de Vierge – Virgin Island – they’ve built not just one, but two of them, one the tallest in Europe. Now if that’s not making a Gallic, or better still a Celtic point, I don’t know what is! Because this fondness for tall straight things, penetrating the very skies above, goes back a long way in these parts. Around every corner is a standing stone, sometimes made decent with a cross on the top, but by no means always.
Yesterday I stopped off at the tallest menhir still standing in Brittany, at Kerloas near St. Renan. It has two protuberances, about a metre from its base, against which newly married couples were once wont to rub their naked bodies: on one, the man, so as to beget a son; on the other, the woman, so as to be the boss of her
household. One of them still looks suspiciously shiny and worn, and I’ll bet I can guess which!
But even more impressive is the Phare du Creac’h, reputedly the most powerful lighthouse in Europe, if not the world. It is black and white and massive. Du Creac’h is to normal lighthouses what the Millennium Eye is to fairground wheels. This is the daddy of them all!
And thereby hangs a theory of mine. The Bretons are big on lighthouses. There are hundreds of them. On the Ile de Vierge – Virgin Island – they’ve built not just one, but two of them, one the tallest in Europe. Now if that’s not making a Gallic, or better still a Celtic point, I don’t know what is! Because this fondness for tall straight things, penetrating the very skies above, goes back a long way in these parts. Around every corner is a standing stone, sometimes made decent with a cross on the top, but by no means always.
Yesterday I stopped off at the tallest menhir still standing in Brittany, at Kerloas near St. Renan. It has two protuberances, about a metre from its base, against which newly married couples were once wont to rub their naked bodies: on one, the man, so as to beget a son; on the other, the woman, so as to be the boss of her
household. One of them still looks suspiciously shiny and worn, and I’ll bet I can guess which! The menhir of Kerloas - with that suspiciously shiny bump!
Be it sacred or profane, lighthouses seem to me to have much the same significance in modern Brittany as menhirs did in the old days. What finally convinced me of that was when, after returning from Ushant, I cycled down to the Pointe de St. Mathieu, at the western end of the Rade de Brest. There I found the still substantial ruins of a Benedictine A
bbey – with an enormous lighthouse standing right alongside the entrance to the nave!
Be it sacred or profane, lighthouses seem to me to have much the same significance in modern Brittany as menhirs did in the old days. What finally convinced me of that was when, after returning from Ushant, I cycled down to the Pointe de St. Mathieu, at the western end of the Rade de Brest. There I found the still substantial ruins of a Benedictine A
bbey – with an enormous lighthouse standing right alongside the entrance to the nave! Le Phare de St. Mathieu - presumably Cardinal Newman was asked to advise on its siting ("lead kindly light......")!!
I am camping at Les Blancs Sablons, overlooking the estuary (Aber or Rade) which has given Le Conquet its sheltered harbour. It’s a long way round to the town by road, but no distance at all on foot or bicycle, across the long, low passarelle, which I've discovered is French for footbridge. The beach here is superb. Even under murky cloud, swimming yesterday afternoon was a delight, and there’s surf as well. Le Conquet is a pretty, unspoilt little fishing port. There may be pleasanter corners of North West Brittany, but if there are I’ve yet to discover them.
And if you detect a slightly more upbeat tone as these notes reach their conclusion, there’s a very good reason. The sun has a last broken through. I celebrated by roasting myself an enormous veal chop (and drinking a toast to Compassion in World Farming as I ate it), which was quite one of the best things I’ve eaten all year.
A final postscript to Wednesday’s dispatch: St. Paul of Aurelian did not arrive in Brittany at Roscoff, as I suggested. He came ashore on Ushant. I visited the spot today. He was also indirectly responsible for the original chapel at Pointe de St. Mathieu. In fact, one way or another, I seem to be treading in his footsteps much as I did in those of St. Columba in Scotland and Ireland. I wonder if St. Paul built lighthouses as well?!
I am camping at Les Blancs Sablons, overlooking the estuary (Aber or Rade) which has given Le Conquet its sheltered harbour. It’s a long way round to the town by road, but no distance at all on foot or bicycle, across the long, low passarelle, which I've discovered is French for footbridge. The beach here is superb. Even under murky cloud, swimming yesterday afternoon was a delight, and there’s surf as well. Le Conquet is a pretty, unspoilt little fishing port. There may be pleasanter corners of North West Brittany, but if there are I’ve yet to discover them.
And if you detect a slightly more upbeat tone as these notes reach their conclusion, there’s a very good reason. The sun has a last broken through. I celebrated by roasting myself an enormous veal chop (and drinking a toast to Compassion in World Farming as I ate it), which was quite one of the best things I’ve eaten all year.
A final postscript to Wednesday’s dispatch: St. Paul of Aurelian did not arrive in Brittany at Roscoff, as I suggested. He came ashore on Ushant. I visited the spot today. He was also indirectly responsible for the original chapel at Pointe de St. Mathieu. In fact, one way or another, I seem to be treading in his footsteps much as I did in those of St. Columba in Scotland and Ireland. I wonder if St. Paul built lighthouses as well?!
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