With a heavy heart, I have decided to return home early, with the Celtic characteristics of Galicia and Portugal still unexplored. The immediate excuse for thus bottling out is the three day (so far) delay in obtaining a replacement number plate for Carmen, plus the damage to her nearside, which makes it impossible to open the door, and means I have to clamber in and out of the driver’s compartment.
However, the truth of the matter is that I am travel-weary after the long slog south and really rather lonely. Being on one’s own is not a problem, when you can drop into the nearest pub or golf club and either pass the time of day with whoever may be there, or simply listen to other people’s conversations. But when you cannot understand a word they’re saying, or vice versa, you do feel a bit out of it, especially if there is no Times or television to help one while away the uneventful hours. So the prospect of driving several hundred miles through remote, inhospitable (so they say) Galicia, in a damaged van, with no company and a distinctly iffy weather forecast was not, I am afraid, one that ultimately appealed.
I knew that the game was up when I woke up this morning, pulled back the curtains to reveal a blameless sky of the brightest blue - and felt my spirits lift not a millimetre.
I am sure that Galicia is fascinating, and I deeply want to visit Porto and the Celtic sites of Northern Portugal, but both will have to wait until I can persuade someone to come with me.
In the meantime, the weather has been ironically blissful. Today has been by far the hottest day both of the trip and of my summer. I spent large parts of it in the sea, trying to cool off. This was pleasant enough at the time, but has left me with a blocked left ear. Although even that has its consolations, as it is helping to muffle the deafeningly loud music that is pounding out across the estuary towards the campsite, on account of the continuing Fiesta. Last night, the disco went on until 2.30! The very helpful man in the campsite reception warned me that I might be woken early tomorrow morning. God knows what that may involve. Probably yet another volley of deafening artillery shells, fired from the battlements of the fortress.
The town clock has a most melodious chime, reminiscent of the hours being struck on a spinet or, yes, a melodion. But at what appear to be random hours of the day, this is the signal for the aforementioned howitzers to open up over the bay, frightening the dogs and shattering the reveries.
However, you must not get the impression that I dislike Northern Spain. Very much to the contrary. The scenery is spectacular, the people are kindly, the food is much better than in Brittany and only two thirds the price, and the sea is wonderfully clear and almost silky smooth to swim in, even when there’s a decent swell running, which there certainly has these past three days. The surf has been by far the best of the entire trip.
Tomorrow, a taxi is due to arrive at the campsite at 9.00 to take me to an unnamed destination, where a new number plate should await me. Assuming that we don’t end up driving to Madrid or San Sebastian, I then intend to catch the bus to Oviedo, the capital city of the Principality of Asturias, to sample what the real Carmen promises me will be a “Pantagruelic” feast of Asturian specialities at El Raitan. (No, I didn’t know what it meant, either. Turns out that it’s from a ‘gigantic prince’ called Pantagruel, in Rabelais. But then Carmen always did have a better grasp of the English language than most of us in the NFU for whom it is our native tongue!)
In the meantime, I have been drowning my sorrows with some of that Breton bottle-conditioned beer that I mentioned a few days ago. The Duchesse Anne was excellent – beautifully malty, without being sweet, well-hopped, amber-coloured and quite strong. The Belle Ile was a bit of a disappointment. Despite having left it to settle for the whole morning, it was chock full of sediment when I opened it at lunchtime. It settled down eventually, and turned out to be a rather heavy, malty brown ale – the sort of beer that Newcastle Brown doubtless was before it was debased.
And if you’ve deduced from that last paragraph that that one of the reasons for my early return home is that I’m pining for a decent pint of good old Westcountry beer, you’d be spot on!
Monday, 8 September 2008
Saturday, 6 September 2008
September 6: It never rains.......
Bloody typical! You drive completely unscathed for 600 miles through flood, tempest, mad Polish lorry drivers, umpteen peages and even an inspection by the Spanish border police; then, as you’re inching towards your selected pitch among the pine trees – crunch! The hem of Carmen’s rather voluminous skirt had become entangled with a low-lying, jutting out railway sleeper, with predictable and doubtless expensive results. I cannot now open the side door, but she is at least still driveable.
Or she would be, if it wasn’t for the other little problem that I detected, when I came to get my bike down from the rack at the back. Where the rear number plate should have been was a blank, grey space. The plate had been there when I left my overnight campsite at Castets, a few miles north of Bayonne, no doubt about it. But somewhere in the ensuing 220 miles it had evidently been shaken, or possibly flushed, from its moorings, by the bumpy Spanish roads or the incessant deluge. I retraced the last few miles between here and Comillas, where the road had been particularly bumpy, but to no avail. So I rang NFU Mutual International Rescue (cue Thunderbirds theme music) and got, not Virgil or Lady Penelope but a rather baffled French woman, to whom I explained my predicament. I am still awaiting her call back.
Still, there could be worse places to be marooned. San Vicente de la Barquera, on the coast about 35 miles west of Santander, isn’t quite in Asturias, but it is a very handsome town, with two fine bridges and a magnificent sixteenth century ducal palace. I am looking across the estuary at it now, with the houses of the town clustered at its feet and the Picos de Europa behind it in the distance (in truth, that last bit is poetic licence, because although I know that the Picos are indeed somewhere out there in the distanc
e behind the Palace, I can’t actually see them on account of the low cloud and heavy rain!)
Or she would be, if it wasn’t for the other little problem that I detected, when I came to get my bike down from the rack at the back. Where the rear number plate should have been was a blank, grey space. The plate had been there when I left my overnight campsite at Castets, a few miles north of Bayonne, no doubt about it. But somewhere in the ensuing 220 miles it had evidently been shaken, or possibly flushed, from its moorings, by the bumpy Spanish roads or the incessant deluge. I retraced the last few miles between here and Comillas, where the road had been particularly bumpy, but to no avail. So I rang NFU Mutual International Rescue (cue Thunderbirds theme music) and got, not Virgil or Lady Penelope but a rather baffled French woman, to whom I explained my predicament. I am still awaiting her call back.
Still, there could be worse places to be marooned. San Vicente de la Barquera, on the coast about 35 miles west of Santander, isn’t quite in Asturias, but it is a very handsome town, with two fine bridges and a magnificent sixteenth century ducal palace. I am looking across the estuary at it now, with the houses of the town clustered at its feet and the Picos de Europa behind it in the distance (in truth, that last bit is poetic licence, because although I know that the Picos are indeed somewhere out there in the distanc
e behind the Palace, I can’t actually see them on account of the low cloud and heavy rain!) View from the campsite - San Vicente de la Barquera, with the Picos in the background
However, it has to be said that after my twin misfortunes I wasn’t really in the mood to enjoy the series of explosions, accompanied by air-raid sirens, which emanated from the town’s lofty fortress. It would appear that some sort of fiesta is taking place. Mr Grumpy wishes them joy, although he won't be amused if the amplified striking of the town clock goes on throughout the night!
Asturias and Galicia are the odd ones out in the co-called “League of Celtic Nations” in that their Celtic languages have not survived. As far as I can gather (and I stand to be corrected) their claim to be Celtic rests on the North-West coast being the final refuge of the Celtic Iberians, when the Romans finally conquered the peninsula in about 200 BC. Somehow or another they clung to the coastal fringe of Northern Spain, and there they have remained, cut off from the rest of the country by the Picos and other formidable mountain ranges, with their own very distinctive customs, cu
ltures, cuisines – and climate, which tends to be sunny in the morning and wet in the afternoon.
However, it has to be said that after my twin misfortunes I wasn’t really in the mood to enjoy the series of explosions, accompanied by air-raid sirens, which emanated from the town’s lofty fortress. It would appear that some sort of fiesta is taking place. Mr Grumpy wishes them joy, although he won't be amused if the amplified striking of the town clock goes on throughout the night!
Asturias and Galicia are the odd ones out in the co-called “League of Celtic Nations” in that their Celtic languages have not survived. As far as I can gather (and I stand to be corrected) their claim to be Celtic rests on the North-West coast being the final refuge of the Celtic Iberians, when the Romans finally conquered the peninsula in about 200 BC. Somehow or another they clung to the coastal fringe of Northern Spain, and there they have remained, cut off from the rest of the country by the Picos and other formidable mountain ranges, with their own very distinctive customs, cu
ltures, cuisines – and climate, which tends to be sunny in the morning and wet in the afternoon. San Vicente at night - shame you can't hear the music
Legend has it that as the Romans pushed ever further north and west through Spain, some of the native Celts took to the sea, and ended up in Ireland, possibly as the Fir Bolg, or whoever it was who built Dun Aenghus and similar remarkable stone forts, or possibly just as a smattering of settlers, cast ashore on a distant land. I think I tend towards the latter.
Of connections between Celtic Northern Spain and Cornwall, I could find no trace, until my mother (learned lady that she is) recalled some lines from Milton’s Lycidas, in which the poet mourns the death of his friend, drowned in the Irish Sea, and wonders where his bones might have been carried:
“Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold.”
Bellerus is an old word for Cornwall, the Mount is St. Michael’s, between which and the Spanish ports of ‘Namancos and Bayona’s hold’, there is nothing but open sea. Even in the sixteenth century, it would seem to have been accepted that the Celtic nations looked to each other, in every sense.
I bought myself a splendid pork chop in San Vicente this evening, and am feeling slightly more mellow, having consumed it with local beans and carrots. But it has still been a pretty rotten day.
Legend has it that as the Romans pushed ever further north and west through Spain, some of the native Celts took to the sea, and ended up in Ireland, possibly as the Fir Bolg, or whoever it was who built Dun Aenghus and similar remarkable stone forts, or possibly just as a smattering of settlers, cast ashore on a distant land. I think I tend towards the latter.
Of connections between Celtic Northern Spain and Cornwall, I could find no trace, until my mother (learned lady that she is) recalled some lines from Milton’s Lycidas, in which the poet mourns the death of his friend, drowned in the Irish Sea, and wonders where his bones might have been carried:
“Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows denied
Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold.”
Bellerus is an old word for Cornwall, the Mount is St. Michael’s, between which and the Spanish ports of ‘Namancos and Bayona’s hold’, there is nothing but open sea. Even in the sixteenth century, it would seem to have been accepted that the Celtic nations looked to each other, in every sense.
I bought myself a splendid pork chop in San Vicente this evening, and am feeling slightly more mellow, having consumed it with local beans and carrots. But it has still been a pretty rotten day.
Thursday, 4 September 2008
September 4: The road to Hell -or Heaven?!
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!
Tuesday, 2 September 2008
September 2: A la recherche de temps perdu
I am a terrible one for nostalgia. I love nothing better than to wallow in lost but happy times, or what Henry Williamson called ‘ancient sunlight’. So if my exploits of the last couple of days seem to have something of a sentimental journey about them, you will understand why and, I trust, be appropriately forgiving.
I stayed last night at Audierne, about five miles from the Pointe du Raz. It is a pleasant fishing village cum holiday resort, tucked just in behind the coastline, around a little estuary. The last time I was here was on the second part of my second honeymoon. As the storm clouds gathered yesterday evening, I cycled into town from the campsite at Kersiny Plage to revisit old haunts and bring happy, sunlit memories back to life. The town didn’t seem to have changed one bit, and, sure enough, there, out by the breakwater, was the Brasserie de Grand Large, where I had downed my first pression as a newly re-married man, on a gloriously sunny eve
ning back in May 2001. My reverie was rather rudely curtailed when I discovered it was shut!
However, the Hotel du Roi Gradlon (the Breton equivalent of King Arthur), where Claire and I had stayed, overlooking Audierne’s long white beach, was very much open, so I had a drink there instead. It is a rather unprepossessing building, but in a glorious situation. A double room with a balcony and fabulous views out to sea will set you back 79 euros, which strikes me as about as decent value for money as you will find in these parts, especially as the food is excellent as well. I can recommend both Audierne and the Roi Gradlon unreservedly – and that’s nothing to do with rose-tinted spectacles!
Today, I drove through relentless and torrential rain to Trevignon, which is a few miles south west of the handsome fishing port of Concarneau. This is another place which holds the happiest of memories. I used to come here with my three children, Joanna, Becky and George, when we holidayed in Brittany back in the 1990s. There is a whale-shaped rock about a hundred yards offshore to which we used to swim out and then dive off – George, aged about six, included! The poor little lad almost drowned getting there, but once he’d made it, he would hu
rl himself time and again into the deep blue water, as if it was the greatest thing in the world.
I stayed last night at Audierne, about five miles from the Pointe du Raz. It is a pleasant fishing village cum holiday resort, tucked just in behind the coastline, around a little estuary. The last time I was here was on the second part of my second honeymoon. As the storm clouds gathered yesterday evening, I cycled into town from the campsite at Kersiny Plage to revisit old haunts and bring happy, sunlit memories back to life. The town didn’t seem to have changed one bit, and, sure enough, there, out by the breakwater, was the Brasserie de Grand Large, where I had downed my first pression as a newly re-married man, on a gloriously sunny eve
ning back in May 2001. My reverie was rather rudely curtailed when I discovered it was shut!However, the Hotel du Roi Gradlon (the Breton equivalent of King Arthur), where Claire and I had stayed, overlooking Audierne’s long white beach, was very much open, so I had a drink there instead. It is a rather unprepossessing building, but in a glorious situation. A double room with a balcony and fabulous views out to sea will set you back 79 euros, which strikes me as about as decent value for money as you will find in these parts, especially as the food is excellent as well. I can recommend both Audierne and the Roi Gradlon unreservedly – and that’s nothing to do with rose-tinted spectacles!
Today, I drove through relentless and torrential rain to Trevignon, which is a few miles south west of the handsome fishing port of Concarneau. This is another place which holds the happiest of memories. I used to come here with my three children, Joanna, Becky and George, when we holidayed in Brittany back in the 1990s. There is a whale-shaped rock about a hundred yards offshore to which we used to swim out and then dive off – George, aged about six, included! The poor little lad almost drowned getting there, but once he’d made it, he would hu
rl himself time and again into the deep blue water, as if it was the greatest thing in the world. Now, you know what you've got to do!!
I was determined to do it again, for old times’ sake, but although the sun had come out by this stage, the overnight storm had left a tempestuous sea in its wake, and whilst I managed to swim out to the rock, I couldn’t clamber onto it. Weather permitting, I’ll try again tomorrow. But it was still good to be back on what is one of my favourite beaches in all the world. It is a perfect crescent, with granite rocks on either side, and the quartz in the white sand makes it sparkle with a million tiny points of light when the sun shines, as it did eventually this afternoon. Happy days!
However, you will be reassured to learn that I have not entirely been neglecting my Celtic duties in all this self-indulgence. Yesterday, en route from Camaret to Audierene, I visited three of the most famous places on the Brittany tourist trail. First stop was at the Menez Hom, which isn’t quite the highest point in Brittany, but probably is the closest thing they’ve got to a sacred mountain, like Croagh Patrick. At just over 1,000 feet, it is a modest eminence and, the French being the lazy beggars they are, they’ve built a road almost to the top. Still, the views back over the Crozon Peninsula and out across the Bay of Douarnenez are stunning, and the weather was clear enough to be able to appreciate them.
Then it was onto Locronan, which is the Breton equivalent of Castle Combe, or Milton Abbas or Clovelly: a model village, all cobbled streets and old stone houses with hanging baskets and window boxes, grouped around a handsome church. Locronan has featured in dozens of films and television programmes including, most implausibly, Roman Polanski’s ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles’. It doesn’t look remotely like Dorchester, but it’s charming enough.
My final stop was at the Pointe du Raz, supposedly the most westerly point in mainland France, and the Breton equivalent of Land’s End. It is visited by millions of people every year and although the inevitable shopping village is less tacky and much less further away from the cliffs than at Land’s End, it’s not really the place to go to commune with nature at its wildest and most Celtic. Having said that, the views out to sea, across the truly frightening tidal race that gives the headland its name, to the island of Sein in the distance, are well worth the trek and the 6 euros you have to pay to park. I took a picnic, which included a cheese and tomato b
aguette into which I bit rather too energetically, squirting tomato all down my shirt and shorts.
I was determined to do it again, for old times’ sake, but although the sun had come out by this stage, the overnight storm had left a tempestuous sea in its wake, and whilst I managed to swim out to the rock, I couldn’t clamber onto it. Weather permitting, I’ll try again tomorrow. But it was still good to be back on what is one of my favourite beaches in all the world. It is a perfect crescent, with granite rocks on either side, and the quartz in the white sand makes it sparkle with a million tiny points of light when the sun shines, as it did eventually this afternoon. Happy days!
However, you will be reassured to learn that I have not entirely been neglecting my Celtic duties in all this self-indulgence. Yesterday, en route from Camaret to Audierene, I visited three of the most famous places on the Brittany tourist trail. First stop was at the Menez Hom, which isn’t quite the highest point in Brittany, but probably is the closest thing they’ve got to a sacred mountain, like Croagh Patrick. At just over 1,000 feet, it is a modest eminence and, the French being the lazy beggars they are, they’ve built a road almost to the top. Still, the views back over the Crozon Peninsula and out across the Bay of Douarnenez are stunning, and the weather was clear enough to be able to appreciate them.
Then it was onto Locronan, which is the Breton equivalent of Castle Combe, or Milton Abbas or Clovelly: a model village, all cobbled streets and old stone houses with hanging baskets and window boxes, grouped around a handsome church. Locronan has featured in dozens of films and television programmes including, most implausibly, Roman Polanski’s ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles’. It doesn’t look remotely like Dorchester, but it’s charming enough.
My final stop was at the Pointe du Raz, supposedly the most westerly point in mainland France, and the Breton equivalent of Land’s End. It is visited by millions of people every year and although the inevitable shopping village is less tacky and much less further away from the cliffs than at Land’s End, it’s not really the place to go to commune with nature at its wildest and most Celtic. Having said that, the views out to sea, across the truly frightening tidal race that gives the headland its name, to the island of Sein in the distance, are well worth the trek and the 6 euros you have to pay to park. I took a picnic, which included a cheese and tomato b
aguette into which I bit rather too energetically, squirting tomato all down my shirt and shorts. The Pointe du Raz, with La Vieille in the foreground
This was a pity, because I was enjoying myself, having actually found a sheltered and reasonably secluded spot, over-looking the Baie de Trepasses (so called for the number of drowned corpses that used to wash up there). Beneath the waves here lies Brittany’s Lyonesse: the lost city of Ys, which was drowned when King Gradlon’s wicked daughter opened all the sluice-gates. The Arthur/Gradlon legends are by no means identical, but they do have many common features, including Merlin. They are, of course, two trees from but a single root, and a root, what is more, that was essentially historical, rather than mythical.
No golf so far, but I have discovered some real Breton beer. I haven’t drunk it yet, so will report in due course.
This was a pity, because I was enjoying myself, having actually found a sheltered and reasonably secluded spot, over-looking the Baie de Trepasses (so called for the number of drowned corpses that used to wash up there). Beneath the waves here lies Brittany’s Lyonesse: the lost city of Ys, which was drowned when King Gradlon’s wicked daughter opened all the sluice-gates. The Arthur/Gradlon legends are by no means identical, but they do have many common features, including Merlin. They are, of course, two trees from but a single root, and a root, what is more, that was essentially historical, rather than mythical.
No golf so far, but I have discovered some real Breton beer. I haven’t drunk it yet, so will report in due course.
Sunday, 31 August 2008
August 31: A Laver of a crab!
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!
Friday, 29 August 2008
Inspiring lights in the Celtic gloom
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?!
Wednesday, 27 August 2008
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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