Bretagne: where I discover I am not really a beach person anymore

What a funny and singularly interesting day this is turning out to be! I am sitting in great luxury on a fast train (senior discounts are tremendous in France, as they are in Poland, but not so much in the US), on my way to Saint-Malo, which, in case you're map-challenged, is on the Brittany coast of France. 

The thing is, I had wanted to go to Bretagne all along and indeed had booked a stay on the coast, further west, but in the end, the expense and the time away from Ed and family held me back. For the n-th time I changed my reservations and now am returning to the farmette on Thursday instead of on the weekend. But I still wanted to go to Brittany, at least for the day. No problem! The closest destination easily accessible from Paris is Saint-Malo. It's some 260 miles from Paris, and this fast train will get me there in 2 hours and 20 minutes.

Normally, train tickets are readily available on the SNCF (French Rail) website, but here's the rub: as you may have noticed we are in the period of les grandes vacances, where half the population of Paris (maybe more) exits the city and heads for the coast. This period of pleasure lasts anywhere from two weeks to a month or more. In the second half of August, everyone starts returning to work. This movement of masses and a return to routine even has a name for it -- la rentrée. The return. But it's more than just a physical return. La rentrée is more important than January 1st as a time for etting of new goals and resolutions. The energy in Paris shifts from deadsville to something akin to a frenzy of activity. And today is a Sunday, so for many it is a perfect time to pack up the bags and the family, and travel back to Paris. In other words, even several weeks ago, I almost could not find a train ticket for my own return trip. In the end I snatched one last seat on an evening train back and felt like dancing at my luck!

Since it is Sunday and French people are food obsessed and especially for Sunday lunch, and I am going to a seaside destination, I had also spent a huge amount of time back at the farmhouse looking for a place to eat a hearty Bretagne lunch. Here, too, I finally got lucky. Reservations in my pocket, I got up a little early this morning, went down to breakfast...

... and set out for the Montparnasse train station. Google will tell you it's a 40 minute walk from Le Baume. I have done it pulling a suitcase, so I know it's uphill. Of course, I am unencumbered today and so the walk is easy and fun. Sunday morning in Paris and in August? Empty streets!

(two men)

(the train station is just behind the big tower)

I think Montparnasse can be a pain to navigate. Hall 1? Hall 2? Does it matter? But, I have plenty of time. I find my train, find my seat and relax.

 

(bright and shiny)

 

 

Now, about St.-Malo. I've never been to it because were I to stay for more than a day, there are far better choices than this rather sizeable town (pop 46 000) that was largely destroyed during World War II. Nearly 80% of it was bombed to the ground, so dont look for too much of cute and old; what seems cute and old is likely a reconstructed version of what was once here. Indeed, the novel All the Light We Cannot See (absolutely brilliant! Read it if you haven't yet done so!) is in great part set here during the battle for control over St-Mallo in 1944. 

I'm at the eastern-most edge of Bretagne. If I took a few steps more to the east, I'd be in Normandy and facing the Mont Saint Michel. But is it really the "vrai Bretagne" (the real Brittany) here? Well, of course, I'm about to find out. What it does have is very attractive ramparts and a very wide space for a promenade along a very long and wide beach. I think that should do it! And if I get fed up with all of it, I can always take the "sea bus" ferry to Dinard across the mouth of the River Rance -- a ten minute ride. (Would you believe it, Ed and I once biked along the hilly coast in and around Dinard!)

 

The train pulls into St-Malo, I look around me.

Brittany it is. 

I have little time before my lunch reservation. My train arrived at 12:16 and my chosen dining place is 35 minutes by foot. 

 

 

 

But I am right by the sea (or more accurately -- the English Channel)! I can peak at the water.

It really is a lovely day for this, no? Sunny, with  a breeze. At least this is the way it feels in the early afternoon. 

(grandpa applies sunscreen)

I reach my lunch place just in time. It's the Maison Vermer.  I considered myself lucky when Madame Sophie eventually shot me an email telling me they had a table for me.

The food? Well, it's good, but I misfired with this one. It's Parisian good. In Brittany I would have loved something fresh and honest, not necessarily presented beautifully, but full of that seafood richness that I so associate with the coastal towns of Bretagne. Here, I had a lovely tomato carpaccio, a tuna something or other, then some fish that was a total mystery to me, and finally melon with sorbet. It was a fixed meal because that was definitely the cheapest way to go.

(Tomatoes to start with; and no, that's not wine -- since they didn't have zero wine, or zero beer, I had to settle for a fizzy apple cider rose from England. There are plenty of French ciders, but they, too, are not alcohol free.)

 

The one thing I'll say is that everyone there was speaking French. I felt I joined in on a Sunday dejeuner. 

After lunch, I went for the long walk along the Channel.

I did not swim. I did not even walk on the beach. Most big public beaches in France that I have visited had public showers -- to wash off salt and sand. None here. Why get my feet all hot and sandy? And I have to say this -- it was insanely hot by the shore.

(ice cream break)

For reasons that still perplex me, it was significantly hotter here than in town. All sun, no shade. I had applied sunscreen to my face and I am wearing long pants, but still, I felt over-exposed.

Again, there was a good side to the walk: everyone around me spoke French. This was definitely a beach destination for the French. And it's no Coney Island. Not many are swimming in the nicely shallow waters.

 

All this was surprise. I always thought that La Bretagne attracted  British people. It's but a boat ride away. But all those pink British bodies are apparently frying by the Mediterranean. I don't see them here.

Eventually I come to the end of the promenade (thank God) and turn into town.

Ah. This is where the populace hangs out in the afternoon!

It is packed. The main drag is filled with shops and strolling people -- French. but definitely others too. So you come to Saint Malo and you stroll past shops. And I have to admit it -- it's more interesting here than by the beach. For one thing it's cooler. There are street performers. There are Bretagne sweet shops.

I have on my list a place to visit that sells (apparently) the best kouig amann here. You remember my obsession with this sweet pastry the last time I was in Brittany (in October)? Well now, here, they make them by the thousands and they do look very very good. I pick up a couple. Who knows why or when I will eat them. Probably tonight, instead of dinner.

 

The shop sells these also in vacuum packed bags. I'm told they are good this way for a month. For a month??  -- I ask. Like, until September 17th?? Yes. You have to finish baking them. Here are the instructions. I buy one big one, despite the fact that Madison Sourdough makes perfectly good kouig amanns. I want to compare!

I walk on further. I have time to kill -- my train leaves at 6:14 p.m. (the one with the last remaining seat!). 

 

 

 

I head for a tea-shop -- the Bergamote. Again, recommended by I do not remember whom. I had done these searches weeks ago at the farmhouse. 

The tea-shop is a really good place for me. It's quiet, with light jazz in the background. And it is pleasantly cool, but not too cool. I hear French everywhere.

 

 

I order a tarte Bretonne, with apples and pears and caramel and if that's not sweet enough for you -- a dollop of whipped cream. I figure the melon dessert for lunch was light enough to allow for this. Besides, I cannot sit here for a whole hour and then some, just sipping one cup of tea.

But I must say, in terms of taste -- the tea I pick -- a red fruit rooibos is fabulous. It's just as described -- delicate. Most red fruit teas overwhelm you with their fruitiness. Not this one. I get a box of it to take home.

And still I have time to kill. I take a walk through town again, I stare at the ramparts, I take a peak at the River Rance which once enthralled me. (Ed and I hiked along its banks on one of our first trips together. It was December. We got lost in fields of artichokes. Grand memories!)

And then I make my way to the train station, get into my seat, grateful for its availability, and head for Paris.

 

 

I am super tired: I'd gone to bed after 1a.m. last night and got up way too early. For the remaining days, I have nothing to rush for. The pace will be gentle. I like that.

 (so many people at the Paris station...)

 

I have to finish with a few words on Saint Malo. One person wrote about it thus -- simply put, it's a tourist trap. I guess I do not disagree. Of course, I am in the busiest month here. Even my beloved Languedoc beach towns would be hellish in the summer (we always went in June, before schools closed here). But Saint Malo just isn't a draw, the Bretagne buildings with their slate roofs and uneven stone notwithstanding.  

I had long wanted to see it, and I'm glad that I did, and it was so easy to get to for the day, but I'm not likely to come back. And indeed, I conclude that beaches in the summer are just not much fun! Ed likes to swim in the ocean. I don't. That ship has long sailed. I used to love lying in the sun. No more. We know too much about the problems with that. So for older people, what's the point? 

And yet, in St. Malo I see many older couples, walking hand in hand...

Happy to be here. Well, good for them. I still love Brittany, but I am glad I didn't stick with my plan for a four night stay by the sea. I probably would have packed up and found an excuse to go elsewhere. Paris maybe?  And the Baume?

 

(Kouig amman for dinner)

 

 

with love... 

from Brittany to Paris

The morning is mapped out for me: I have a train from Plouaret Tregor to Paris, leaving at 10:01. This is what you do when you dont know the habits and designs of a locality -- you play it safe. The better connection would have been from Lannion, taking the local to Plouaret Tregor and changing there to the rapid TGV to Paris. But the change time was short -- just a handful of minutes, so that any delay in the Lannion train would have caused me to miss my connection. So I played it safe and booked from Plouaret Tregor, booking a taxi to that more distant town. That added thirty Euro to the taxi tab, but again, I absolutely cannot afford to miss the connection to Paris. I did not know that the Lannion train is deliberately positioned to take people to the Paris-bound train. It shuttles a whole bunch of people to make that connection. I would have been fine going along with them. 

So I had this booked cab. It's normally a half hour ride to Plouaret Tregor (as opposed to 15 minutes to Lannion), but the cab driver, too, wanted to play it safe. There may be traffic. There's road construction. Could we please leave at 8:45? 

All this to say that I got up when it was still dark. That sounds a lot worse than it really is, since, as a reminder, the sun rises here at around 8:30 a.m. right now, but still, it felt like the middle of the night.

Showered and packed by 7:30. Hey, I have time for one last walk! And I want that walk. To the beach, to the sea, to breathe in that salty air one last time.

I'm becoming a pro at the steps! (I could try the road to the beach, but the steps are ... an adventure! At least for me they are...)

 

 

 

It's beautiful by the water's edge!

Not a soul in sight. Wait, is there someone in the water? Looks like it!

 

 

The boardwalk, on the other hand, is deserted, the shops, restaurants -- closed. I like the silence -- the absence of cars, of people. You can really take in the waves. And the song of the noisy European Robin.

Back at the hotel now -- breakfast. The usual. Good, but not Breton enough. It's the one flaw that I would ascribe to L'Agapa. And I really searched to supplement it. And still, I feel I missed out on a lot of Breton baked goods.

One last look outside....

I'm off.

My taxi driver is chatty. A really pleasant guy, with three young daughters at home. Curious about his passengers. Testing the waters of my political convictions ("so, you're going to have a new president soon?"). I dont need to tell you how most of the French feel about the future of our country. Particularly here, in Brittany. (In the south, around Sorede, Marine Le Pen's far right party has made greater strides.) Still, he is very amused that gender appears to be an issue in our presidential elections. ("Only in America do they still talk about this as something unusual!") 

We switch to more neutral topics. He asks if I like it here, I ask if he is from this region. Yes indeed! He says it with great pride. ("Life is so much less stressful! I drive a taxi, life is good.") In the summer, of course, he is busy. French vacationers in July and August, British and German in the shoulder seasons. I ask if he sees many Americans. He tells me -- yes, because there are now tour groups that come here for hiking. He is hired to transport their bags from one hotel to the next as they walk along the coast.

I had to laugh at that. I told him we had carried our packs ourselves. I suppose I said it with a note of boastfulness. I was, after all, already in my fifties. It's easy to see nothing but the glory in that feat, but of course, I have memories too of the endless search for an internet connection (for Ocean writing!), and, too, of the pouring rain on that last day, drenching us, our packs, our spirits. Kids these days have it so easy, what with their smart phones, Ubers, organized treks, dont you think?

Needless to say, we arrived at Plouaret Tregor way too early. It's a small station, with nothing going for it, so I take a brief stroll, suitcase and all.

And then the TGV comes and I settle into my amazingly comfy seat for the three hour ride to Paris.

(this too is Brittany)

 

(and this...)

 

 

(passing through Pays de la Loire at 300 km/hour, or 186mph)

Paris.

I surprise myself at how happy I am to be back at my hotel, this time in my very favorite room (I'm done with trying out others -- I like this one too much!). I missed the intimacy of a smaller place, with a known to me staff.

The view out onto the street, the Odeon Theater, just adds to my cup, which runneth over anyway.

Do I have a plan for this day? Are ideas popping into my head like on the day I arrived? No, and no. Tomorrow promises to be a very, very wet day. And the day after -- I return home. This afternoon is my best bet for a last long walk.

When in doubt, walk along the Seine.

On the way there, I pass a coffee shop -- I remember it from the days I was here with the young family. I could use a cup of good coffee and believe me, that is not always easy to find in Paris. Lots of cafes, lots of coffee, most of it just okay. I go inside this one (and yes, I appreciate the name!)..

It's tiny inside, but I am lucky to find a table. Oh! They have small cakes! Perfect. 

(a the table next to mine, rapid fire French...)

(superb coffee! some of the best I've ever had! and good cake, too...)

I found it sweet that both the server and the barista were quite friendly -- unusually so, for a big city cafe. They asked if I was a photographer, where was I from -- that kind of "small town" stuff. I think of Paris as a very polite city, and sometimes the shop keepers will ask about my French, but in general, cafes and restaurants work with too many people to take an interest in individual customers. Here, they took an interest.

Okay, to the river. I'll post a few photos. Today it's more about people than actual shop windows or Parisian sights (with a few exceptions!). Here we go:

(reminds me of Ed's hair when it gets to be long...)

(You have to be pretty in love and oblivious to the dangers of this world to sit right on the edge of the Seine...)

(a walk by the river does not mean that I focus just on the river...)

(so many intense conversations...)

(the wind has really picked up... I see storm clouds back there...)

(more conversations...)

(remember when you were a kid and you had to wait for the grownups to shut up already?)

(the pace is so much faster here than, say, in Brittany!)

And home. But not for long. It's getting close to dinner time.

Where to this evening? It's at a new place for me -- one that seems fitting for this trip, if you go by it's name: Oktobre. It's a fairly recent opening, and it's located in a space where other restaurants have had successful runs -- both ones that I had liked in years past. The chef of Oktobre used to be second in command at one of them (Kitchen Galerie Bis). This babe is totally his and I'm curious how a young mind might change the direction of a kitchen.

 

It's a small place with a very small menu.Two appetizers, four mains to choose from. But here's a super nice thing: one of the appetizers offers a sample of three completely different tastes (one based on carrots, another on beef, a third on mushrooms). And it is magnificent! I wont bother describing it in detail. What for... I only want to encourage you to try this place if ever you are lucky enough to be in Paris, and in this area, and in search of a good, innovative dinner. 

And then came the main course -- for me it was cuttlefish (and there were peppers, and beans, and chanterelle mushrooms, with a sublime sauce). Undoubtedly the best cuttlefish I have ever eaten anywhere. Not that I have eaten cuttlefish on any regular basis, but I have to say, this was just exquisite!

Now, I have to say, it may have been one of those dinners where I just ordered right. Perhaps other dishes were fine but not exquisite. I can't be the judge of that. But I am absolutely sure that if I am back in Paris, alone, I will eat here again. (The dessert was okay. Nice, but not memorable.)

It's a short walk back to my hotel. I pass so many crowded eateries, absolutely packed and indeed, spilling out onto the sidewalk, even though it's not really warm anymore. I wonder if older people, like my age people, also participate in this national mania of eating out late into the night... If I lived in Paris, would I have to push myself out the door more often, because that is what friends, family do? Or would I be the one person in the whole city who stays home on a comfy sofa and dozes off as the light fades? I do not know...

Tomorrow -- I'm finally aiming to do not much at all! We'll see how that goes!

with love...