I was going to conclude the Brittany leg of my journey with a visit to the extraordinary ‘alignments’ at Carnac, and a crossing on the ferry from Quiberon to Belle Ile en Mer. But Carnac is strictly speaking pre-Celtic and Belle-Ile – whilst undoubtedly living up to its name – I have visited before. The clincher was the weather forecast, which is dire.
So I decided to cut short my visit by a day and catch a ferry to Belle-Ile’s little sister, the Ile de Groix, where I’d never yet set foot. The only drawback was that the ferries sail from the deeply unlovely city of Lorient. It was built in the seventeenth century as a jumping off point for the French East India trade – hence the name – and, from what I can gather, its architecture has always been more functional than decorative.
Lorient does, however, have a most magnificent, well-protected, natural harbour, and it was the obvious choice when Hitler was deciding where to base his Atlantic U-boat fleet. In the final stages of the war, the city was bombed unmercifully by the Allies. They flattened everything – except the U-boat base, which was built of concrete several metres thick. It is now a rather sinister tourist attraction: “the strongest fortress of the 20th century” is the boast, and I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment. It is also quit
e spectacularly ugly and menacing, and is thus entirely in keeping with its surroundings.
So I decided to cut short my visit by a day and catch a ferry to Belle-Ile’s little sister, the Ile de Groix, where I’d never yet set foot. The only drawback was that the ferries sail from the deeply unlovely city of Lorient. It was built in the seventeenth century as a jumping off point for the French East India trade – hence the name – and, from what I can gather, its architecture has always been more functional than decorative.
Lorient does, however, have a most magnificent, well-protected, natural harbour, and it was the obvious choice when Hitler was deciding where to base his Atlantic U-boat fleet. In the final stages of the war, the city was bombed unmercifully by the Allies. They flattened everything – except the U-boat base, which was built of concrete several metres thick. It is now a rather sinister tourist attraction: “the strongest fortress of the 20th century” is the boast, and I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment. It is also quit
e spectacularly ugly and menacing, and is thus entirely in keeping with its surroundings. The U-Boat base - Lorient's premier tourist attraction
However, there was no avoiding Lorient if I wanted to get to the Ile de Groix, so I sought out the nearest campsite to the city, so that I could cycle to the ferry terminal, rather than having to find an over-sized parking space for Carmen. In this respect I was lucky. I lighted upon Armor Plage, which although now just a suburb of Lorient, does have several good beaches (from one of which I swam in yesterday’s windy sunshine) and an excellent municipal campsite. I cannot image any English campsite-owner choosing the name Camping Seaweed, which is how Camping des Algues translates, but I’ve not been too oppressed with kelp, and in every other respect it is ideal: just behind the beach, on the edge of what is a pleasant little town, and reassuringly protected by German gun emplacements!
The weather was blustery and grey, as I set off shortly after dawn to catch the only ferry of the morning. They say that French traffic systems are much friendlier to cyclists than English ones. Not in Lorient, they aren’t! My route consisted almost entirely of dual carriageways, along the edge of which I was obliged to creep, hoping to God that any mad Frenchman turning right would spot me in time. I’d got to within a mile or so of the Gare Maritime, when I suddenly spotted a road sign consisting of a big red circle with a bicycle symbol inside it. There was no indication of any alternative route, and by this stage it was raining hard. It took me at least another half an hour to reach my destination, with no help whatsoever from signs, road markings or my fellow road users, and by that time I was soaked.
However, all was well in the end. I warmed to the Ile de Groix as soon as I discovered that its patron saint is none other than our own St. Tudy, who travelled with St. Brioc from Wales, founded his church near Wadebridge and then went on to the Ile de Groix. This connection was sufficiently heart-warming even to take the sting out of the Ile de Groix’s chief military claim to fame, which is that the women of the island, led by their priest and in the absence of their menfolk, who were all out fishing, succeeded in frightening off a heavily armed English fleet in 1703 by dressing up as men and using milk churns to simulate cannon. What brave lads those English must have been!
I hired a bike and completed a circuit of the entire island, pausing at Locmaria for moules frites and a demi of vin blanc for lunch. I visited the two lighthouses at either end of the island, Pen Men and the Pointe des Chats, I looked hard into Port Saint Nicholas, without making a sound, to see if I could spot “The Quiet Fairy” to whom this is home, and I looked deep into the Trou de l’Enfer, surprised that there should be two Hell Holes (Lorient being the other) in such close proximity. When I reached the sheltered south-west of the island, I even went for a swim off Les Grands
Sables, which has the rare distinction for a beach of being convex, rather than concave.
However, there was no avoiding Lorient if I wanted to get to the Ile de Groix, so I sought out the nearest campsite to the city, so that I could cycle to the ferry terminal, rather than having to find an over-sized parking space for Carmen. In this respect I was lucky. I lighted upon Armor Plage, which although now just a suburb of Lorient, does have several good beaches (from one of which I swam in yesterday’s windy sunshine) and an excellent municipal campsite. I cannot image any English campsite-owner choosing the name Camping Seaweed, which is how Camping des Algues translates, but I’ve not been too oppressed with kelp, and in every other respect it is ideal: just behind the beach, on the edge of what is a pleasant little town, and reassuringly protected by German gun emplacements!
The weather was blustery and grey, as I set off shortly after dawn to catch the only ferry of the morning. They say that French traffic systems are much friendlier to cyclists than English ones. Not in Lorient, they aren’t! My route consisted almost entirely of dual carriageways, along the edge of which I was obliged to creep, hoping to God that any mad Frenchman turning right would spot me in time. I’d got to within a mile or so of the Gare Maritime, when I suddenly spotted a road sign consisting of a big red circle with a bicycle symbol inside it. There was no indication of any alternative route, and by this stage it was raining hard. It took me at least another half an hour to reach my destination, with no help whatsoever from signs, road markings or my fellow road users, and by that time I was soaked.
However, all was well in the end. I warmed to the Ile de Groix as soon as I discovered that its patron saint is none other than our own St. Tudy, who travelled with St. Brioc from Wales, founded his church near Wadebridge and then went on to the Ile de Groix. This connection was sufficiently heart-warming even to take the sting out of the Ile de Groix’s chief military claim to fame, which is that the women of the island, led by their priest and in the absence of their menfolk, who were all out fishing, succeeded in frightening off a heavily armed English fleet in 1703 by dressing up as men and using milk churns to simulate cannon. What brave lads those English must have been!
I hired a bike and completed a circuit of the entire island, pausing at Locmaria for moules frites and a demi of vin blanc for lunch. I visited the two lighthouses at either end of the island, Pen Men and the Pointe des Chats, I looked hard into Port Saint Nicholas, without making a sound, to see if I could spot “The Quiet Fairy” to whom this is home, and I looked deep into the Trou de l’Enfer, surprised that there should be two Hell Holes (Lorient being the other) in such close proximity. When I reached the sheltered south-west of the island, I even went for a swim off Les Grands
Sables, which has the rare distinction for a beach of being convex, rather than concave. Les Grands Sables on Groix - lovely, and with a touch of pink, even under grey skies
There is an old Breton proverb which avers that “Who sees Groix, sees his joy”, and for all the grey skies, blustery wind and intermittent downpours, I was pretty joyful. It isn’t as smart as Belle-Ile and none of the beaches compares with the magnificent Port Donnant, but it is pretty, has no pretensions, is largely unspoilt and, when the sun is shining, I’ll bet it’s a little heaven on earth.
This is my last night in Brittany. Tomorrow, I start the long trek south to Asturias, where I hope to arrive on Saturday evening. I don’t feel I’ve in any way done Brittany justice. But then you would probably say much the same even if you spent an entire summer here, let alone just ten days. There is just so much coastline to see, so much culture to soak up, so much wonderful food to enjoy and so many beautiful places to visit – Lorient not included. Every August, they hold the “Inter-Celtic Festival” here. If it was anywhere else, I might be tempted to go.
There is an old Breton proverb which avers that “Who sees Groix, sees his joy”, and for all the grey skies, blustery wind and intermittent downpours, I was pretty joyful. It isn’t as smart as Belle-Ile and none of the beaches compares with the magnificent Port Donnant, but it is pretty, has no pretensions, is largely unspoilt and, when the sun is shining, I’ll bet it’s a little heaven on earth.
This is my last night in Brittany. Tomorrow, I start the long trek south to Asturias, where I hope to arrive on Saturday evening. I don’t feel I’ve in any way done Brittany justice. But then you would probably say much the same even if you spent an entire summer here, let alone just ten days. There is just so much coastline to see, so much culture to soak up, so much wonderful food to enjoy and so many beautiful places to visit – Lorient not included. Every August, they hold the “Inter-Celtic Festival” here. If it was anywhere else, I might be tempted to go.
A culinary note on which to finish: French supermarkets having never apparently heard of either mint sauce or redcurrant jelly, I have taken to accompanying my coteaux d’agneau (of which I am inordinately fond) with a large spoonful of my wife’s blackcurrant jam. Like Gibbo and Groix, it is a match made in heaven!
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