This, too, is Brittany:
Indeed, a day without rain here seems unfitting. Like a winter without snow back home. It happens, but you feel strange about it.
Last night it rained hard. It was dark of course and I saw nothing, but I could hear it. And I thought -- maybe I'll get lucky and I will be forced to stay in my room come Sunday! I had walked so much on Saturday (25 000 steps -- which is as much as I ever want to walk anymore) that I thought I need a day to not walk. I have learned that when you cross 70, you always need recovery time after anything. Holiday celebrations? Recovery needed! A day of biking, of adventure? Recovery needed! A day full of grandkids? Recovery needed! You get the drift. I'm not especially tired. But your head, your heart, your lungs -- they need to stop running at full speed. This has been my experience again and again when I travel: after the grand Scottish hikes -- I needed downtime. After the endless Stockholm ramble -- ditto. And now, after my Brittany explorations -- I need a day of rain. Thank you, dear weather gods. You read my mind.
Breakfast: I decided that aside from the Far Breton (a prune and custard local specialty), there isn't a sweet cake that I really want here (there is no other pastry specific to Brittany), so I go in the other, salty direction: home cured salmon over dark bread (delicious!) and then back to my beloved seedy/nutty/fruity bread, with lightly salted Brittany butter (they never serve it unsalted, and that's a good thing -- salted butter is their specialty!), and buckwheat honey.
In the matter of honey: I'm tempted to bring some home. I know -- it is a terrible idea! Last time I packed a jar of honey in France, it opened in midair and everything, everything was covered in honey! But still, the buckwheat honey I can get in Madison is too strong. Last time I could hardly finish it. The taste was overwhelming. The one from Brittany is magnificent. Buckwheat here is a crop of great pride. Ask what the regional Breton dish is and everyone will say buckwheat crepes. (Why haven't I had one? Well. you could say the day is young.)
So how to treat this gray morning? First of all, I stay with breakfast for a long time. I listen to the French around me. (All French guests today. Maybe the Brits eat earlier, I dont know.) Yesterday, I am happy to say that I heard and spoke no English at all, with the exception of the one call I got from Ed. I was so happy to feel that level of immersion. It makes me want to redouble my efforts back at the farmhouse to keep up my French listening/reading. So I listen again at breakfast. And I watch, out of the corner of my eye. It's an art! I used to be more brazen and cast my admiring glance at various tables around me (as the only solo diner in any French restaurant, you have to cast your eyes somewhere!), until one day, some fifteen years ago, at a restaurant somewhere in the deep countryside of the Basque region, a little girl noted to her dad -- papa, that lady is staring at us! That put me in my place. Even a smile didn't help. I've become more discreet.
I do notice here that about 75% of the diners/visitors are around my age. October travel is mostly for the retired. And it's interesting to observe how different are the styles of partnership at this age. A guy at the table next to mine reaches out for the hand of his (presumably) wife. At another table, she is listening to video clips of (presumably) her grandids while he concentrates on his food. Yet another -- he has said not a word since they entered the room. She grumbles through one sentence after another. Breakfast, in general, isn't a time for laughter, but it seems to me that when you're older you are much less likely to chuckle, or even smile during any meal. Do we really save our happy faces just for the grandkids? Are we all consumed by our frailties? Are we too bored with all that we see? Has the excitement morphed into a more level-headed acceptance?
Ed and I are not a whole lot different. We routinely walk, eat, sit together in "quiet mode." I would find it jarring if it were otherwise. He's a great listener (should I want to break out of my comfortable quiet), but for him, thoughts don't usually travel to the cerebral matter that controls the spoken word, unless encouraged by me to do so (meaning I have to ask questions to get him to actually talk). Living alone for so long had made him develop channels of bypass. Sometimes he thinks he told me something, but in fact, if he did, I never heard it! When we do speak, it's often in shorthand. "What'you doing gorgeous" -- means "I love you and I am happy." When we do discuss stuff we've read (this is our most common topic -- that, and me expressing thoughts about my family), it's for the pleasure of sharing rather than because we look for input from the other.
In this way, with glances around and ears wide open, I stretch the breakfast moment to a breakfast hour. Or was it even longer?
I do have one scheduled event for this afternoon: L'Agapa is a hotel-spa. This designation is increasingly common in seaside or mountainside hotels. Indeed, it's popping up in cities as well. The hotels have figured out that this is an easy source of additional revenue: set up a sauna, maybe a whirlpool, a massage table, hire someone who likes to kneed bodies or tap cream onto faces and you're set! Even the Baume has succumbed: you can buy a massage, done in your room! I'm never tempted. It seems totally unnecessary in Paris, but here? At L'Agapa, they've made spa treatments a top selling point. As well they might -- with all this rain, you need to give people indoor options. I had booked a massage for Sunday afternoon a long time ago. It seems fitting for a stay that is to be in the moment and calming.
And so here's the plan: Do nothing, go nowhere.
Now let me ask you this: do you live by your own plans and theories? I know some people do. They're principled, programmed, productive. They have it all laid out. They know what's important to them. Me -- I do too, until something happens to change my mind.
In the end, my day completely did not match that earlier description. Small things toppled big ideas. I recalibrated.
First of all, there was a pause in the rain.
With a promise (100%!) of a resumption in the early afternoon. So maybe I should just do a leisurely stroll now? Not a long one. Just a little movement to taste that salty air?
I am up for it. Or rather down for it, as I must descend these stairs.
If yesterday I turned left along the thumb's edge, today I'll turn right. I dont need to go far. Maybe just up the road a bit to see the views, take in the shore front villas. Look at what's really blooming in the yards of the inhabitants of Perros-Guirec.
There isn't a walking path along the coast here, but the roads are super quiet and there is a good edge for pedestrians. Of which there are few. People out for a jog or a friendly chat. Otherwise -- quiet.
Beautiful ocean view mansions!
Nice views looking back toward "my own" Plage de Trestraou.
And then lo! What's ahead? Another beach -- the Plage de Trestrignel.
This one is much more serene. There's a restaurant bar looking out over the water, but otherwise, there's no commercial activity at all. No sailing school, no shops. Very few people.
And it's beautiful in its simplicity. I do see some "water walkers" (a new sport that I had not ever seen before: don a wetsuit and push yourself against the tides and currents), and a handful of swimmers.
The swimmers? A group of guy friends. They swim with orange bubbles on their backs. Is that to warn boats of their presence? Or a just in case signal -- find me, I'm lost at sea?
I ask them if the water is cold. Some have wet suits, others do not. They tell me no, absolutely not, but I already knew that by dipping my finger in the seawater. It felt really pleasant! Why am I not swimming? Or walking against tides and currents? The simple answer is that it's too much of a bother. With age, laziness creeps up on you like you wouldn't believe!
I leave the beach now and keep to the roads along the shore. So long as I've gone this far (and it hasn't rained, though my forecasters tell me it's coming!), I may as well push on toward the port of Perros-Guirec (it's actually called the Port de Plaisance). I know it isn't much to look at, because we drove past it on the way here, but I find the blandness really disarming. There are boats and there are some bars and eateries. Not much else. Nothing that would lure the visitor. Well, except for one thing: it has a good bakery (Boulangerie du Port). My hotel buys the brioche from them. Could I maybe find some of the other Breton pastries there? They close at 2, it's just 1 and my phone tells me (I succumbed to its wise words) it's a 26 minute walk from the Trestrignel beach. I'm on it!
(Passing: the biggest hanging rosemary bush I have ever seen!)
(Passing: fellow pedestrians, going to town)
(Passing: lots of boats)
It's a lovely bakery, run by two guys who seem like they really care about their breads.
Unfortunately, as far as Breton pastries go -- they're sold out, but for some Far Breton (I had it for breakfast!) and a BIG family sized Koiugn Amann. I honestly hesitated on that, but wasting 80% of a fantastic pastry is just a horrible plan, so I picked up a raisin roll instead and asked which of the 3 or 4 creperies in the port they liked best. The answer was immediate: Les Vieux Greements. The yellow one.
And that is how I would up having a most delicious ever buckwheat crepe. I chose one with spinach, egg and goat cheese. It seemed Bretonne. With a mug of their cider. Honestly? Heaven!
And with French to my left, and French to my right..
I had my beautiful moment for the day, right there, by the rather indifferent boat port in Bretagne.
As I left, my phone was practically screaming at me that it's about to rain, so I once again cut through the middle of the thumb to get to my hotel with alacrity. About a half hour walk that way, past simple residential homes.
And only in the last five minutes did it start to rain. Pouring rain, from all sides. I smiled the biggest smile yet! This day felt Bretonne!
Closer to 4, I walked over to the Spa. First, a few minutes in the sauna, then for my scheduled massage. This felt rather luxurious as I had just had a massage a month ago, a short bike ride away from the farmette. But, I'm glad I did it here. French massages have this added benefit that the people who do them really want you to look your best (as opposed to just feel your best). They assess your skin with the concern of a dermatologist. Your face is what you present to the world and they want to make sure you're proud of it. I think at 71, my face has long passed the stage of needing to show off its best, but I participate in this ritual because it reminds me that however you feel about your appearance (for example -- indifferent), others will only treat you with care if you treat yourself with care. Without overdoing it, you can take small steps that allow you to say to yourself -- I like being older! (Which I do. Most of the time. When my Stockholm knee leaves me alone, for example.)
The massage and facial were excellent. I feel relaxed. And I'm thinking maybe I was so terribly wound up coming here, that it took more than one day to spring loose from all that had been spinning inside me this past month? Maybe it wasn't the long walk that left me feeling my age. Maybe it was the month of September (and August thrown in for good measure). Maybe I am just now able to... relax.
I eat dinner at the hotel. This was planned. My room comes with a "one dinner" coupon. It's the perfect day for it. I can do fancy food, especially after a massage!
Did I love it? Well, I loved eating in place. And the food was well prepared. My "voucher" was for the tasting menu though and I can confidently say that not one of the courses would have been my choice had I been allowed to pick from the a la carte. Not eggs mimosa, not raviolis a la truffe d'ete, not the lamb. Nonetheless, all were good and I had a chance to see some of my breakfast compatriots in their evening demeanor. Equally serious, though I suppose the more formal atmosphere called for that.
A picture of one of the dishes (the raviolis, which were in fact quite good, but far removed from Breton cuisine):
And a note on yesterday's restaurant closure. Madame did write me tonight apologizing. They had a gas leak. Glad they had the sense to keep me out!
Good night, Brittany. I'm feeling your special vibe.
with love....
