La Belle Bretagne
Good morning all, I hope this finds you well and happy. I'm writing in the town square of Douarnenez (land and island in Breton). It's a beautiful bay with a large wooded island in the middle, hence the name.
My ferry crossing was super smooth, and I was met in misty Roscoff, by my friend Gael, who I was so happy to see. We were formative friends, sharing a flat together in Brest in the mid 90s when we were about 19. It's a time in your life when lots is happening...I was living in another country for the first time, and he was living in a city for the first time. Although we only see each otheevery few years, it's great to have kept in touch, and we went through some very good times and very bad ones together. Now we're in our 40s, some things are better, some things worse of course, we all know how it is....just as you get to more comfortable in your own skin, it's the body that begins to rebel...but we are both still here,and nothing has fallen off so we count ourselves lucky!
I instantly feel at home looking at the countryside and seeing the houses; of course it is less foreign to me culturally and geographically than Ireland did because I loved here at a fairly young age. I feel my French is quite rusty though, but am managing! I've put quite a lot of time over the last few months doing Portuguese and Irish on duolinguo. Of course there are very few monolingual Irish speakers, so I didn't need it, but it was good to be able to understand a lot of the place names, and one of the wonderful things about learning other languages, you see a different way of looking at the world. I think I may have mentioned in my last blog something I particularly liked in Irish.. there isn't really a possessive; you say something is with me, rather than I have something. Perhaps it recognises the impermanence of life, and that we don't really own things, they are just with us. I learned some Breton while I lived here, and I had a brilliant teacher, Fanch Morvannou, so I remember a lot of drilled phrases. Gael's grandfather was a native Breton speaker, but he and his classmates were soundly beaten if they spoke Breton at school...the powers in Paris have always tried their best to stamp out any other national identities in this country...primary school teacher cannot remain in the same district for more than two years, and in the time of military service, everyone was sent to a different region so they were obliged to communicate in French. What's more, Gael tells me of his times in Morocco where people have told him of their respect for the Bretons....in the wars, it was them and the Maghrebins who were always sent to the front line first. The French generals saw Bretons and North Africans as little more than savages whose lives were cheaper.
On the other hand, the first thing I notice is the signage...now everything is bilingual, where as before it was only the main signs. Gael's daughters, 6 and 12, are both fluent in both languages as their school is bilingual, and this is a state school. Perhaps most significantly, they learn history in Breton...they are far less likely to be fed lies as so many European children are. The eldest also had science lessons in English, and is learning Spanish...the more languages you learn, the easier it gets, and especially if you begin young, and it really is a lifelong pleasure to understand not just other words, but other ways of seeing the world.
It's a misty day in Brittany, and Gael's partner has made pancake batter; both kinds- the savoury with buckwheat (gallettes), and the sweet crepes. These are specialities of Brittany, and we all have a go on the bilig, the flat hot plate they are traditionally made on (with varying degrees of success!) The really traditional Breton meal is one with ham, egg and cheese, eaten with lait ribot (a very healthy fermented sour milk) or cider. We have mead (chouchenn), another Breton speciality.
In the afternoon, we go into Brest....the old-stomping ground...I don't see much of the city, but what I see has of course changed, for the better, but not so much in a gentrified way, just easier and more human. Half the twin square is reserved for only children to play in. There is an enormous new library and space for skateboarders, and they have opened up the only medieval street to have survived the wartime destruction (Brest was to have been Hitler's Atlantic port in the planned empire) and the city was pretty much razed to the ground. This street had been condemned....it is a ruin...but has now been made safe, and there are flowers growing all around, theatre productions and art...it's lovely. The only negative change I see is that the port has been entirely cleaned up (it was perhaps a bit unsavoury), but it had been one of the main centres in France for unlicensed street art, and it has all gone.
That evening, Gael and I stay up way too late and drink far too much, talking of the past, present and future....lovely at the time, but the next morning was difficult. The girls have gone to work and school, and as Gael has the day off, we do the only thing you really should do with a hangover, a picnic and a long walk with the adorable rescue dog they have Baiha. The sun is shining, and we go to the Monts d'Arees, the hilly moors in the middle of Brittany ...incredible views, and we gradually start to feel human again. And Baiha is definitely feeling very dog. It's an early night for everyone; they both work very hard, Gael with young people who have had brushes with the law, and Catherine with people who have severe disabilities, many of them non verbal. They are both often tired, but they love what they do. Neither are the type who could cope with an office environment for very long. They are lovely people and I am so happy they found each other, and the daughters are really lovely and welcoming too.
I leave the happy home for a smooth jounrey by rail, tram and bus to Plouzane, to the Panier de Laine (the wool basket). Brigitte is just a joy to meet and lovely to talk to...such passion for yarn and for crafts. We talk about how hard it is to survive as a yarn shop nowadays. I am also guilty of buying a lot online...I will much less now (maybe still looking for vintage yarns in eBay though). All our online things that A have are amazing, but yarn and crafts are not only visual, they are tactile. That is so much visual pleasure in going into a wool shop, but even more to touch...you need that to find what you are looking for a lot of the time. If course it costs more, but you are also providing a living for someone like Brigitte. She runs loads of workshops and people come to her for advice. She's lovely, and I'd hate to see her working in an Amazon warehouse. I'm met wonderful people in the shops on my travels and I want them to continue. It's nice personally to also feel my French has come back properly (it's the third day, and it's always like that)
On my journey back to Brest, and then into Quimper and Douarnenez, I write letters to send with the scarves...and also realise I actually really like it....I don't know why, and maybe this is just me, but it just feels more personal and expressive than an email. If you're reading this and think that may be the case for you too, please write write a letter to someone this week...maybe it's a joy for you to rediscover too. What's been difficult on this trip though is timing....writing a blog, writing letters, organising travel and resolving issues and making scarves is a lot. I accept that I am not going to make the blanket until I get home. I realise, as others have pointed out along the way, that camping by public transport, in the autumn, is kind of enough in itself. ...but if I hadn't done so, the cost would have been too prohibitive for me, and I wouldn't have done it at all.
And sure enough, I get to a lovely campsite in Le Treboul, just next to Douarnenez. I open up to find my inner canvas tent has gone mouldy....I thought it was dry when I packed up in Dungarvan, but it's a bit of a tall order for two hours of sun and wind to undo so many ways of rain. Anyway, I cut out the groundsheet, bury the canvas but in a bin with a prayer of thanks for getting me through the Irish storm among many other trips. My outdoor plastic sheet doesn't give me quite enough privacy, but it's dry, comfortable and it's going to be sunny all week. If course that means it was freezing last night, but a bit of canvas wouldn't have made much difference....and so this morning I do the best remedy, a lovely swim in the sea. The air is still pretty cold, making the water feel less so, and I know it will make me feel the cold less tonight. 'Il faut se barrer contre la froid avec les élements de froid' (the only way to defend yourself against the cold, is to use the cold). I'm grown to love swimming in cold water...I never thought I would.
This morning I visited Les Ateliers du Croas Men (the crossroads of the stone- menhir and dolmen are both Breton words- tallstone and tablestone). It's nice, but pricey; this area is the chichiest part of Brittany, and I get what I'm looking for. It's easy to see why it is a bit chichi here. Douarnenez and Le Treboul are wardens of narrow streets and lanes of gorgeous houses, and the pleasure port and sailing are a dream here. I'm also reminded this morning that my French hasn't come back very well at all. The woman who gives me coffee, where I am the only one not hitting the booze hard, at 10h30, tells me how pretty my accent is, and how much she loves Spain, and whereabouts do I live? I want to cry....I used to asked if I was Flemish or Dutch, which is perhaps the best a Londoner can hope for...never mind.
Anyway, will leave it there. Love and light to you all, Billy xxx
My ferry crossing was super smooth, and I was met in misty Roscoff, by my friend Gael, who I was so happy to see. We were formative friends, sharing a flat together in Brest in the mid 90s when we were about 19. It's a time in your life when lots is happening...I was living in another country for the first time, and he was living in a city for the first time. Although we only see each otheevery few years, it's great to have kept in touch, and we went through some very good times and very bad ones together. Now we're in our 40s, some things are better, some things worse of course, we all know how it is....just as you get to more comfortable in your own skin, it's the body that begins to rebel...but we are both still here,and nothing has fallen off so we count ourselves lucky!
I instantly feel at home looking at the countryside and seeing the houses; of course it is less foreign to me culturally and geographically than Ireland did because I loved here at a fairly young age. I feel my French is quite rusty though, but am managing! I've put quite a lot of time over the last few months doing Portuguese and Irish on duolinguo. Of course there are very few monolingual Irish speakers, so I didn't need it, but it was good to be able to understand a lot of the place names, and one of the wonderful things about learning other languages, you see a different way of looking at the world. I think I may have mentioned in my last blog something I particularly liked in Irish.. there isn't really a possessive; you say something is with me, rather than I have something. Perhaps it recognises the impermanence of life, and that we don't really own things, they are just with us. I learned some Breton while I lived here, and I had a brilliant teacher, Fanch Morvannou, so I remember a lot of drilled phrases. Gael's grandfather was a native Breton speaker, but he and his classmates were soundly beaten if they spoke Breton at school...the powers in Paris have always tried their best to stamp out any other national identities in this country...primary school teacher cannot remain in the same district for more than two years, and in the time of military service, everyone was sent to a different region so they were obliged to communicate in French. What's more, Gael tells me of his times in Morocco where people have told him of their respect for the Bretons....in the wars, it was them and the Maghrebins who were always sent to the front line first. The French generals saw Bretons and North Africans as little more than savages whose lives were cheaper.
On the other hand, the first thing I notice is the signage...now everything is bilingual, where as before it was only the main signs. Gael's daughters, 6 and 12, are both fluent in both languages as their school is bilingual, and this is a state school. Perhaps most significantly, they learn history in Breton...they are far less likely to be fed lies as so many European children are. The eldest also had science lessons in English, and is learning Spanish...the more languages you learn, the easier it gets, and especially if you begin young, and it really is a lifelong pleasure to understand not just other words, but other ways of seeing the world.
It's a misty day in Brittany, and Gael's partner has made pancake batter; both kinds- the savoury with buckwheat (gallettes), and the sweet crepes. These are specialities of Brittany, and we all have a go on the bilig, the flat hot plate they are traditionally made on (with varying degrees of success!) The really traditional Breton meal is one with ham, egg and cheese, eaten with lait ribot (a very healthy fermented sour milk) or cider. We have mead (chouchenn), another Breton speciality.
In the afternoon, we go into Brest....the old-stomping ground...I don't see much of the city, but what I see has of course changed, for the better, but not so much in a gentrified way, just easier and more human. Half the twin square is reserved for only children to play in. There is an enormous new library and space for skateboarders, and they have opened up the only medieval street to have survived the wartime destruction (Brest was to have been Hitler's Atlantic port in the planned empire) and the city was pretty much razed to the ground. This street had been condemned....it is a ruin...but has now been made safe, and there are flowers growing all around, theatre productions and art...it's lovely. The only negative change I see is that the port has been entirely cleaned up (it was perhaps a bit unsavoury), but it had been one of the main centres in France for unlicensed street art, and it has all gone.
That evening, Gael and I stay up way too late and drink far too much, talking of the past, present and future....lovely at the time, but the next morning was difficult. The girls have gone to work and school, and as Gael has the day off, we do the only thing you really should do with a hangover, a picnic and a long walk with the adorable rescue dog they have Baiha. The sun is shining, and we go to the Monts d'Arees, the hilly moors in the middle of Brittany ...incredible views, and we gradually start to feel human again. And Baiha is definitely feeling very dog. It's an early night for everyone; they both work very hard, Gael with young people who have had brushes with the law, and Catherine with people who have severe disabilities, many of them non verbal. They are both often tired, but they love what they do. Neither are the type who could cope with an office environment for very long. They are lovely people and I am so happy they found each other, and the daughters are really lovely and welcoming too.
I leave the happy home for a smooth jounrey by rail, tram and bus to Plouzane, to the Panier de Laine (the wool basket). Brigitte is just a joy to meet and lovely to talk to...such passion for yarn and for crafts. We talk about how hard it is to survive as a yarn shop nowadays. I am also guilty of buying a lot online...I will much less now (maybe still looking for vintage yarns in eBay though). All our online things that A have are amazing, but yarn and crafts are not only visual, they are tactile. That is so much visual pleasure in going into a wool shop, but even more to touch...you need that to find what you are looking for a lot of the time. If course it costs more, but you are also providing a living for someone like Brigitte. She runs loads of workshops and people come to her for advice. She's lovely, and I'd hate to see her working in an Amazon warehouse. I'm met wonderful people in the shops on my travels and I want them to continue. It's nice personally to also feel my French has come back properly (it's the third day, and it's always like that)
On my journey back to Brest, and then into Quimper and Douarnenez, I write letters to send with the scarves...and also realise I actually really like it....I don't know why, and maybe this is just me, but it just feels more personal and expressive than an email. If you're reading this and think that may be the case for you too, please write write a letter to someone this week...maybe it's a joy for you to rediscover too. What's been difficult on this trip though is timing....writing a blog, writing letters, organising travel and resolving issues and making scarves is a lot. I accept that I am not going to make the blanket until I get home. I realise, as others have pointed out along the way, that camping by public transport, in the autumn, is kind of enough in itself. ...but if I hadn't done so, the cost would have been too prohibitive for me, and I wouldn't have done it at all.
And sure enough, I get to a lovely campsite in Le Treboul, just next to Douarnenez. I open up to find my inner canvas tent has gone mouldy....I thought it was dry when I packed up in Dungarvan, but it's a bit of a tall order for two hours of sun and wind to undo so many ways of rain. Anyway, I cut out the groundsheet, bury the canvas but in a bin with a prayer of thanks for getting me through the Irish storm among many other trips. My outdoor plastic sheet doesn't give me quite enough privacy, but it's dry, comfortable and it's going to be sunny all week. If course that means it was freezing last night, but a bit of canvas wouldn't have made much difference....and so this morning I do the best remedy, a lovely swim in the sea. The air is still pretty cold, making the water feel less so, and I know it will make me feel the cold less tonight. 'Il faut se barrer contre la froid avec les élements de froid' (the only way to defend yourself against the cold, is to use the cold). I'm grown to love swimming in cold water...I never thought I would.
This morning I visited Les Ateliers du Croas Men (the crossroads of the stone- menhir and dolmen are both Breton words- tallstone and tablestone). It's nice, but pricey; this area is the chichiest part of Brittany, and I get what I'm looking for. It's easy to see why it is a bit chichi here. Douarnenez and Le Treboul are wardens of narrow streets and lanes of gorgeous houses, and the pleasure port and sailing are a dream here. I'm also reminded this morning that my French hasn't come back very well at all. The woman who gives me coffee, where I am the only one not hitting the booze hard, at 10h30, tells me how pretty my accent is, and how much she loves Spain, and whereabouts do I live? I want to cry....I used to asked if I was Flemish or Dutch, which is perhaps the best a Londoner can hope for...never mind.
Anyway, will leave it there. Love and light to you all, Billy xxx
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