Classic Crozon: looking north from the Pointe de Penhir to the Pointe de Toulinguet - and the beach where you're not supposed to swim!
August 31 A Laver of a crab!
I am at Camaret, on the Crozon peninsula, which juts out from the Brittany coast south of Brest rather like a giant anchor, albeit one with all sorts of odd-shaped prongs at its business end. Crozon appears to be off the main Anglo-German tourist routes. I saw as many English cars en route to the Cap de la Chevre this morning as I would expect to encounter French cars on the way to the Lizard. My appalling linguistic skills are therefore more of a handicap than ever. I can work out in my own mind what I want to say. It is when my interlocutor asks me a question in reply that I go all to pieces. Pathetic, isn’t it?
Yesterday, the shone sun, for the first and – if the weather forecast is to be relied upon – possibly the only day of this leg of the trip. I spent the first part of the afternoon basking, swimming and reading on the almost deserted beach below the campsite. Then, when the incoming tide left nothing more than rocks to perch upon, I took myself off to Camaret-sur-Mer on the bike. It is a pretty little fishing town, with a long line of shops, bars and restaurants along the harbour. Not in the least bit chic, but quite smart. Having chosen a restaurant at which I would sup later, I went to explore the standing stones at Lagatjar, which rather suffer in their impact from the modern housing estate which has been built alongside, and then onto Pointe de Penhir, one of several dramatic headlands that stretch out in all directions from Camaret and Crozon. It was still sunny and warm, so I decided on a final swim before supper, on what looked like an inviting beach. But when I got there, I was confronted by huge notices saying “Baignade Interdit” by order of the
Council. However, no-one seemed to be taking the slightest notice of them, so I didn’t either.
I am at Camaret, on the Crozon peninsula, which juts out from the Brittany coast south of Brest rather like a giant anchor, albeit one with all sorts of odd-shaped prongs at its business end. Crozon appears to be off the main Anglo-German tourist routes. I saw as many English cars en route to the Cap de la Chevre this morning as I would expect to encounter French cars on the way to the Lizard. My appalling linguistic skills are therefore more of a handicap than ever. I can work out in my own mind what I want to say. It is when my interlocutor asks me a question in reply that I go all to pieces. Pathetic, isn’t it?
Yesterday, the shone sun, for the first and – if the weather forecast is to be relied upon – possibly the only day of this leg of the trip. I spent the first part of the afternoon basking, swimming and reading on the almost deserted beach below the campsite. Then, when the incoming tide left nothing more than rocks to perch upon, I took myself off to Camaret-sur-Mer on the bike. It is a pretty little fishing town, with a long line of shops, bars and restaurants along the harbour. Not in the least bit chic, but quite smart. Having chosen a restaurant at which I would sup later, I went to explore the standing stones at Lagatjar, which rather suffer in their impact from the modern housing estate which has been built alongside, and then onto Pointe de Penhir, one of several dramatic headlands that stretch out in all directions from Camaret and Crozon. It was still sunny and warm, so I decided on a final swim before supper, on what looked like an inviting beach. But when I got there, I was confronted by huge notices saying “Baignade Interdit” by order of the
Council. However, no-one seemed to be taking the slightest notice of them, so I didn’t either. A suburban Carnac - the stone rows at Lagatjar, on the outskirts of Camaret
My meal at La Voilerie was OK, but no better than that. The fish soup was exemplary but there was something slightly odd about the crab mayonnaise. There appeared to be the correct number of arms, legs and other bits and pieces, but the pincers in particular were of strikingly different dimensions. I concluded that either my crab had been an assemblage from more than one crab, or, like Rod Laver, it had spent a lot of time playing tennis, leaving one forearm much larger than the other! At any event, whilst, at 10 euros, it might have been cheaper than my crab at the Turk’s Head on St. Agnes, it was certainly no better.
With half a bottle of a modest Muscadet, the bill came to 26 euros, which represented reasonable value. It’s the booze that’s become so expensive here in recent years. A 250 ml ‘pression’ – that’s less than half a pint of fizzy lager – will now set you back 2 euros 40, even in a scruffy tabac, and a glass of wine is the same price. That’s the equivalent of something like £4.20 a pint at the current exchange rate, and it’s frightful stuff as well. Wine in the supermarkets and ‘caves’ is still marginally cheaper than in England, but I’ve yet to find better value over here than the magnums of Chilean cabernet that Tescos were selling for £5 a throw just before I left. I even brought a couple with me; now that’s coals to Newcastle if you like.
The weather hasn’t held. By the time I was making my way back from Camaret the thunderclouds were building, and the most tremendous storm broke over the peninsula at 2.00 this morning. I’ve never heard anything quite like it. It sounded as if God was hurling wardrobes around in the attic, and the
lightning was so incessant that the countryside appeared floodlit. And my God, didn’t it rain!
My meal at La Voilerie was OK, but no better than that. The fish soup was exemplary but there was something slightly odd about the crab mayonnaise. There appeared to be the correct number of arms, legs and other bits and pieces, but the pincers in particular were of strikingly different dimensions. I concluded that either my crab had been an assemblage from more than one crab, or, like Rod Laver, it had spent a lot of time playing tennis, leaving one forearm much larger than the other! At any event, whilst, at 10 euros, it might have been cheaper than my crab at the Turk’s Head on St. Agnes, it was certainly no better.
With half a bottle of a modest Muscadet, the bill came to 26 euros, which represented reasonable value. It’s the booze that’s become so expensive here in recent years. A 250 ml ‘pression’ – that’s less than half a pint of fizzy lager – will now set you back 2 euros 40, even in a scruffy tabac, and a glass of wine is the same price. That’s the equivalent of something like £4.20 a pint at the current exchange rate, and it’s frightful stuff as well. Wine in the supermarkets and ‘caves’ is still marginally cheaper than in England, but I’ve yet to find better value over here than the magnums of Chilean cabernet that Tescos were selling for £5 a throw just before I left. I even brought a couple with me; now that’s coals to Newcastle if you like.
The weather hasn’t held. By the time I was making my way back from Camaret the thunderclouds were building, and the most tremendous storm broke over the peninsula at 2.00 this morning. I’ve never heard anything quite like it. It sounded as if God was hurling wardrobes around in the attic, and the
lightning was so incessant that the countryside appeared floodlit. And my God, didn’t it rain! An ominous sky - the night before the great thunderstorm over Camaret
Today has been mostly grey and drizzly, although the sun did break through just after lunch. I cycled via Crozon and Morgat to Cap de la Chevre, which about 12 miles south of here. If there is such a thing as a ‘typical Breton small town’ then Crozon is it: narrow streets of ancient houses leading off from its central ‘Place’ where a market was in full swing right outside the church. It has to be said that the fish and vegetables here are in a completely different class to anything on our side of the channel. One of several fish stalls had the most beautiful turbot on sale for 26 euros a kilo. I was sorely tempted to buy one for my supper, but then it dawned on me that it wouldn’t be improved by several hours in a rucksack on my sweaty back.
The Cap de la Chevre is my third cape of the trip so far. It translates as ‘Cape Goat’, which doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as Cape Wrath or Cape Cornwall. Nor am I entirely sure which are the two seas whose meeting point it is supposed to mark. Presumably the Bay of Biscay and the English Channel, although Point de St. Mathieu (which I can see out of Carmen’s windscreen as I write on the other side of the Rade de Brest) would be a much more obvious choice. But it is a magnificent headland and does command spectacular views on every side, from the Pointe du Raz and the Ile de Sein in the south to Ushant in the north. My distinguished predecessor (in the sense of being a Celtic traveller) R.A.J.Walling was so impressed with the cape that he declared it “the true finis terre – the end of the earth” (The Magic of Brittany – highly recommended).
Now it is raining again and it is time for supper. After moules for lunch at Morgat, I’ve bought myself some steak – local, of course, but with English mustard!
Today has been mostly grey and drizzly, although the sun did break through just after lunch. I cycled via Crozon and Morgat to Cap de la Chevre, which about 12 miles south of here. If there is such a thing as a ‘typical Breton small town’ then Crozon is it: narrow streets of ancient houses leading off from its central ‘Place’ where a market was in full swing right outside the church. It has to be said that the fish and vegetables here are in a completely different class to anything on our side of the channel. One of several fish stalls had the most beautiful turbot on sale for 26 euros a kilo. I was sorely tempted to buy one for my supper, but then it dawned on me that it wouldn’t be improved by several hours in a rucksack on my sweaty back.
The Cap de la Chevre is my third cape of the trip so far. It translates as ‘Cape Goat’, which doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as Cape Wrath or Cape Cornwall. Nor am I entirely sure which are the two seas whose meeting point it is supposed to mark. Presumably the Bay of Biscay and the English Channel, although Point de St. Mathieu (which I can see out of Carmen’s windscreen as I write on the other side of the Rade de Brest) would be a much more obvious choice. But it is a magnificent headland and does command spectacular views on every side, from the Pointe du Raz and the Ile de Sein in the south to Ushant in the north. My distinguished predecessor (in the sense of being a Celtic traveller) R.A.J.Walling was so impressed with the cape that he declared it “the true finis terre – the end of the earth” (The Magic of Brittany – highly recommended).
Now it is raining again and it is time for supper. After moules for lunch at Morgat, I’ve bought myself some steak – local, of course, but with English mustard!
1 comment:
Hi Anthony
Lovely! I'll share it with Tom, we need to plan our road trip.
The short story about the bride from the Scilly Isles was Thomas Hardy A Mere Interlude, in Collected Short Stories, Macmillan, also in Oxford Book of Short Stories
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