The Inaccurate Tourist

63. Charming Bretagne

We had a rough start to our trip, because we had unwisely chosen to pick up our rental car on a holiday. Anticipating the increased demand, Hertz decided to open their agency two hours later than the officially posted hours. So we started out on the route to the South of Brittany well into our precious daylight hours.

We started planning several weeks ago -- to take advantage of the four day weekend that accompanied Remembrance Day. Antonio and Anna like to book gites or Bed and Breakfasts on France, which is a charming way to visit, both for price, quality and friendliness.

Day 1 - There

Our first destination was Morbihan, which is a region towards the south. Given our limited daylight (we left Paris at 10am and squandered 4.5 hours en route) we decided to skip Vannes, which might have been a charming medieval city, and zoom right by the prehistoric stone monuments. We had sunshine and we wanted, nay needed, to see the savage coast.

The presqu'ile de Quiberon is attached to the mainland by a skinny road. Just veer off and you arrive at craggy cliffs andd rushing ocean waves. If you've been to Ireland or British Columbia... well, hold your tongue. Nobody wants to hear the comparison. I had my heaviest of heavy leather jacket and my transformer mittengloves -- and I was thankful. It was a balmy 12 degrees Celsius but the sun had a tendancy to hide behind the exciting and dramatic clouds. The wind was biting -- but it would have been impossible to complain. Brittany is stunning.

We walked and sheltered in the aforementioned crags. There's a warmth of spirit by the ocean, if I may be so poetic. Sculpted rock, white noise of the waves, glittering granite, and so forth. Anyway, my camera battery ran out so we went back to the car to get the spare and to warm up. We brought out Antonio's new kite.

I like kites a lot. I used to have a dragon kite that I loved to fly. Antonio's kite was a little trickier -- it had two separate reels of string that you used to control it. The wind was quite strong, so it would snatch the kite, take it up high where it would immediates start spinning wildly, twisting together the two strings, and then come crashing straight down into a rare or delicate plant, usually with surprising violence and noise. Eventually, we decided that kites are stupid and boring and put it away.

We drove down the côte sauvage to Quiberon, a charming seaside port town -- relatively shuttered for the season. Regardless, we walked along the boardwalk and the beach and I wrote myself love messages in the sand. Hooray!

Then we drove up to Auray, another pretty little town where we called the owner of the gite -- who gave us the most charming directions possible. We were to go to the one-church town of Crac'h, find the only open café and ask where to go next.

We ate crèpes in Auray, passing by St-Anne Church, one of the important pilgrimages in Brittany. I made a very funny joke about how the city was pommé which has a very clever double sense because apples (pommes) are very regional and there were decorative apple banners, and because pommé means way out in the sticks and isolated. Normally Auray is a bustling historic and artistic town -- but out of season and late at night on a holiday, well, we were feeling a little lonely. The restaurant we found, however, served the best crèpes to date -- yum. You can tell when a restaurant has made a commitment to quality ingredients. Even the cider was excellent, and it was all at non-Parisian prices.

Afterwards, we searched out the gite and found the bar, where they told us that we needed to take a ferry to Scotland. The bartender shushed the rest of them and gave us good and clear directions. Then we got lost and had to knock at someone's door to get clarifications. He hopped in his car to lead us straight there.

I dare anybody to tell me that the French are rude to foreigners or tourists.

The gite was pretty and warm, an smelt like fresh sauna wood. I went to sleep happily.

Day 2 - The Charming Seaside Nightmare Continues...

It was still alive when I picked it up. I poked it wth my finger. It moved. So I put this living thing in my mouth and chewed it. It had no voice but I could hear it scream...

We got up the next morning at the break of dawn and broke our fasts. We left straight away for Locmariaquer, a charming little seaside town. Our first stop was at some megaliths, the monuments left behind by the prehistoric people of Brittany. There is a group of three in the city -- a tumulus, which is a covered tomb, a rock table and a huge menhir, which is normally a single standing rock with ritual significance. This menhir, however, was huge, fallen and broken. Carvings and the position of the pieces suggest that it was deliberately placed there in pieces for symbolic reasons -- between five and six thousand years ago.

Then we went to visit the Bay of Morbihan on the edge of town. It was still very early in the morning, so we had the port to ourselves, and had no trouble parking. I suspect it would be somewhat different in high season. The tide was low, so we went walking on the sea bed.

The next stop was Le Trinité sur Mer, another sleepy little port town that probably bustles and bursts in season. We walked through the huge marina -- evidently the town is a major yaghting center with year round yaghting enthusiasts doing their yaghting things. And catamarans, rowboats and hydropters. We stumbled across the fish market on the pier, and while I'm hardly a fishy expert, the fishies looked shiny and brilliant. The crustaceans were energetic and the shellfish were likely very unhappy to be there. Apparently oysters are sorted according to size and sold live by the dozen, at half the price of Paris. We could see the oyster farm on the other side of the port.

We also found an outdoor market that sold bright, organic regional produce. I happened to smile at the sausage lady and started chatting. She wanted me to try her andouille. I asked what was in it, already knowing and dreading the answer (smoked pig entrails). She replied smartly, "it's 100% pure pork!" I couldn't let such disingenuity pass, so I ate the offered chunk. She laughing asked me to eat it facing away from the sausage, because foreigners are liable to spit it out. It is a strong and different taste -- but it's not as bad as andouillette, which is along the same lines with extra putridity, and gravy.

We bought some quiches and cider and went to Carnac to see the Ménec alignments -- some of the most important prehistoric megalithes in Wester Europe. Over three thousand single standing rocks were placed in east-west alignments over several kilometers. The rocks ranged in size from knee-high to larger than a telephone booth. The alignments are only partially visitable -- you can walk among some and touch the rocks, but politely asked not to climb on them or push them over. After decades of tourist erosion, other areas are being left to regrow the natural Breton scrub, kept trim by sheep.

We at our quiche and drank our cider and headed out to the next stage in our trip.

At this point, it's worth mentioning that my good Breton colleague, who shall remain Nameless Philippe, advised us not to visit Bretagne in November. "What, are you smoking some sort of crack for the vacation impaired?" he spluttered, "Bretagne is cold and miserable and there's nothing to see but rain and clouds."

We had had nothing but fine weather, but at that moment it started raining. The sun disappeared for nearly two hours, while we drove to Pointe de Raz. As soon as we got out of the car, however, the sun started shining magnificently through dramatic clouds.

The point is an outcropping of rock pointing a finger towards the West. The view is already spectacular, and adding the golden setting sun makes it impossible to describe appropriately without swearing or crying.

You can climb over the dangerous rocks and perch over the dangerous cliffs. The wind was biting, but there were plenty of sheltered nooks to sit in and enjoy the sunshine.

That evening, we headed to Audierne to find a restaurant. There was only one that suited us, so we moved onto the next town, Pont Croix. There weren't any there, so we went back to the first. That, of course, is the danger of low season.

This was where I learned that oysters are alive at the moment of consumption. If you poke at their side, they draw themselves in protectively. If they don't die from being torn up with your fork, the actual chewing does them in. At first, I felt kind of bad about that -- but hey, lettuce is arguably alive when you eat it.

Then I had the filet of Grondin, accompanied bya carrot flan and potatoes. Dessert was a crème caramel. There was only the one server in the restaurant, so the meal took extremely long -- the host of the gite phoned us to make sure tat we weren't lost.

In the end, we made it to the gite, which was supremely lost, and we collapsed into sleep.

Day 3 - Out of the Frying Pan

We woke up to discover that the gite was perfectly charming, a renovated farm building tucked away in the fields. The host was equally charming -- she brought us breakfast apple cakes made with Grandmother's recipe and lots of coffee. We had homemade apple juice (apparently this years batch was substandard, but I couldn't tell you why) and apple jam. I'm not much of a breakfast eater, but I do enjoy my apples.

Then we walked out throuh the farm and said hello to some cows. There was an electric fence, so I touched it. Zing!

We set out to Douarnenez, which is yet another charming port town. The tide was low again, and the long inlet was filled with Saturday fishermen digging for shellfish. One particular crusty fisherman was eager to show me his catch and introduce me to his crusty mates. Ahoy!

We continued on to the tourist village of Locronan, where they had the good sense to keep the town completely unchanged for hundreds of years. They claim the title of the most charming villages in France and it would be hard to argue. I suspect that it would be overflowing in season, but it was sleepy and pleasant for us.

The church was full of colourful statues, and the light was perfect for the stained glass. The boulangerie was pleasant and warm. We visited a glassblowing workshop and I treated myself to the oddest glass for my collection. We ate more crèpes, and Antonio and I shared an andouille crèpe.

We backtracked to the car to drive to Menez Hom, which has a vast 360 degree view of several peninsulas and the countryside. Once again, it was stunning. The back of the peak is a popular spot for model radio airplanes, which are very amusing to watch.

Onwards, we trekked towards the Presqu'ile de Crozon (Pointe de Pen Hir), to another stunningly incredibly spectacularly spectacular view. It was much the same geology as the other Pointe, but there were also remnants of bunkers that protected the inlets into Bretagne. Once again, we had brilliant sunlight and biting wind.

Since we were in the area, we drove into Brest. Hehehe. Brest. It's one of the important western ports of France and has unfortunately been blasted into rubble and rebuilt so many times that once more couldn't possibly hurt...

Learning from our mistake the previous night, we decided to locate our gite before it got too dark. It was less impressive than the other two. Significantly less impressive. It seemed clean, but my room smelled of impregnated and stale smoke -- funny because the posted signs outside insisted breathlessly on preserving the hypoallergenic quality of the rooms. The guest entrance was cold, unpainted concrete staircase into the back.

Travelling can be a surprise. I don't think of myself as a snob, but it's frustrating to leave a marvellous and beautiful room for a tacky and stinky room at the same price.

The restaurant the host gave us was the best address in Landerneau, the nearest town. Again, it's frustrating to pay the same price for a menu of an obviously lower quality. The less said...

Then the day was finished.

Day 4 -- Return to the Shire

The gite did have a nice breakfast nook looking over the garden. It was bright and sunny, and the coffee was abundant. Really, it was only bad in terms of price and stench.

We set out or our last day on a leisurely route home, passing through Morlaix. It's another charming seaside port town; I keep saying that, but every charming seaside port town is different. Morlaix is dominated by a large doublelayered viaduc and has a very long inlet. It was low tide again,and the muddy ocean floor looked suspiciously like chocolate.

We stopped at a pretty beach, which probably had a name, and got the kite out again. For two hours we took turns practicing flying it and chasing after it whenever it inevitably crashed hard into the beach.

Kites are a lot of fun, especially two-stringed kites when you get the hang of them. The instructions are easy -- pull right to turn right, left to turn left -- but it still takes some practice to get used to the proper force required.

Our last scenic stop was the Côte de Granit Rose, towards Trebeurden, a charming seasode port city. I'd already visited the area thanks to a corporate dive trip. We walked along the pink granite port and once more on the ocean bed. There was enough pink granite for a thousand kitchen counters!

Then to Ploumanac'h for more pink granite: huge boulders sculpted by the ocean into fantastic shapes.

As the sun was setting, we stopped in Perros-Guirec, a charming seaside port town. It was to early for dinner and we were feeling discouraged by our previous night's culinary misadventures. The Green Guide seened to confirm that nearly all the restaurants close during the low season.

In terms of price (25€), quality, ambiance and service, the single restaurant in the guide that was open was probably the best restaurant I've ever visited. Antonio had more oysters of a better grade, Anna had an exciting plate of mixed vegetables and fish arranged in ocean waves, and I had a slightly spiced vegetable soup served with shrimp on toasts. We all had the roasted scallops as the main dish, arranged in a circle alternating with coins of fried plaintains. Original, and highly effective. My dessert was an English trifle with raspberries, Antonio had the chocolate cake with fig jelly, and Anna had the Turinois, a fluffy cake made of white beans from the region.

At ten o'clock, we ended our trip and started back to Paris, where the rat bastard rental company charged us extra for bringing the car back seven hours early. Thanks a lot, Hertz!