from Brittany, France: paths

And the next day, everything changes. I’m in just one small corner (the northern coast), of one small department (“Finistere” – the end of the earth), of one small province (Brittany), of a not too large country (France) and I wake up to a day where nothing is as it was yesterday..

First, the weather has changed. Clouds roll in, the wind picks up. The pavement is wet. And yet, there is hope. Sunrise out the window shows cloudbreaks.




It’s Sunday – a big family promenade day with a lot of eating thrown in. I can handle that.

We head to the village next door and inspect the bakeries. It’s a small place and so there are only four, all within two blocks of the imposing church.





We’re not the only ones looking for bread products.










Okay, this part’s easy. I have a café crème with pain au chocolat. I rolled croissants for a bakery in Madison a few years back. I know this stuff -- it’s all in the chocolate. No, it’s all in the butter. No, it’s all in how they make it. I’ve heard all the arguments and none of them explain why every bakery here makes perfect pains au chocolat while we struggle to get it right back home. And so many of our bakeries give up the fight and stick with investing in lots of sugar. Ah well. We got ‘em, hands down, on the work ethic. None of this bloated vacation stuff and leisurely week-ends. What a waste of quality work time. (I wonder why Sarkozy is doing so poorly in the polls. Oh, I see -- he’s regarded as lacking the stature befitting of a French president. That’s sort of funny.)


For lunch, we pack a couple of veggie quiches and water. We head out to the next big Aber Benoit (one last reminder: aber = a wide, long ocean inlet, sort of like a fjord except without the drama, unless you can call the huge tidal variations drama). The local map shows a trail along the edge. Some ten kilometers of forest path, with promises of rural scenery. Excellent.

It is a gorgeous walk. And, though just kilometers from yesterday’s hike, it's completely different. We’re at low tide and so we share the space with birds, the occasional fisherman and two horseback riders. Noone else. Take a look:































We come to a point where path meets road. We sit or a rock and eat our lunch and watch monsieur dig for clams. For dinner tonight? I ask. Of course, he says.





Is there another path back to our starting point? I prefer loops to retracing steps and our map dead-ends here. He doesn’t know. He’s not familiar with this spot. Just that it has clams. But the next man to come out the mud (with a bucket of seaweed, also for the missus) lives just up the road. No other path and don’t walk the road – he warns us. It’s dangerous! Noting our reluctance to repeat the hike backwards, he offers a ride to our starting point. We’ll take it! Just one of you – he says. My car seats just two.

If you love small cars, as we do, this is the place for you. Even if it means that sometimes one has to wait while the other gets the ride. I send Ed to bond with monsieur. And I sit down to watch a farm cat prowl around the yard, at the same time that a rooster is strengthening his vocal chords. This, to me, is a good way to while away idle time.


And now the sun is occasionally poking through. We drive to the far western coast (don’t think big distances here – we’re talking maybe 10 miles). I pick up a noisette (sort of like an American macchiato) at a sister café to Ocean, the blog and we set out again.





The wind is strong here. But we are hardly alone. The path is a local favorite and this is, after all, Sunday and the big meal has to be properly digested. We exchange bonjours with all passersby (the dynamic is always the same – as an obvious outsider, with huge camera dangling from my neck, I get the first call. If I greet the local walkers, they are all over us with friendly responses; if I don’t, they look down to avoid the awkwardness. Except for the kids who don’t know any better and shout out bonjours before anyone else has a chance to make the gesture).

























The shoreline is rocky here. Where are the quiet coves of yesterday? Some would say that this is the more beautiful coastal path, but my summer cottage would face the gentler waters. Then again, other people like drama.






Our evening meal is back in Aber Wrac’h. A small port village with three good restaurants. Ed comments – they sure know how to work with food here. Indeed.

We ask for more bread to wipe the plate of every last bit of avocado mousse. And I look forward to the last sweet bite of … crème brulee.

from Brittany, France: a place like no other

It’s settled. I choose to build my summer house here and not by the Mediterranean.

I cannot, nor do I really want to embark on anything remotely like that (well...), but in moments of fancy, it’s cool to imagine this other life. And those moments of fancy really get going when I am actually in the place I could easily call my second home.

(Eh, it’s too far from daughters. That is a problem. Good thing flights of fancy don’t call for a resolution of such tough issues.)

Each time I am in Brittany, it becomes crystal clear, as clear as the waters at low tide, that here I should stay, all summer, every summer. (Happily, I forget about this when I leave, but right now, I do not remember how it is that I forget it so quickly; right now, I’m in the thick of Brittany adoration.)

Our first full day here began to turn perfect in the wee hours of the morning, when the Internet became totally dysfunctional in our room at the Inn. Monsieur Jacques, the proprietor, proposed a small apartment in a building down the road, just at the water’s edge. The selling point? The view. And a solid HomePlug.

In the apartment, Ed installs several borrowed Netgear boxes and creats an Internet hub. Functional, fast, solid. And, sitting here now, I am looking out the windows and seeing this:









I did Monsieur Jacques a favor as well – I gave him a card and a note from an old friend of his whom I met by chance this winter in Door County, Wisconsin. The coincidence of me running into a once resident of the village of Aber Wrac’h so tickled Monsieur Jacques that he repeats the story to anyone who walked past. Imagine, we have a guest from America. Oui-scon-seen. So she is in this shop up there, in Oui-scon-seen…

The skies turn partly cloudy by noon and I suggest to Ed that we hike the coast, from our village, due west, just to see how far we can go. There is a trail right along the water’s edge that snakes its way to the next Aber (inlet), tracking that body of water for quite a distance.

And this is when I come to know that Aber Wrac’h is my future spot of choice – my slice of beautiful pie, or, more appropriately, my savory crepe, made in the traditional Breton way – with buckwheat flour (see bottom of post).


Let me go back to the hike now. Repeating it for Ocean puts me right there, with the ocean breezes and the sweet sweet scents of May. There’s an explosion of blooms here right now. Brittany has the most temperate climate in all of France (ahhh, ocean currents), so the awful season ends before it becomes really awful and roses bloom early enough to make it into a May basket.

So off we go, leaving Aber Wrac’h at low tide, when the oyster beds are above water…










…leaving the Inn at the bend in the road…





…and picking up the coastal path for a long walk on this most gorgeous of spring days.







































As we reach the mouth of the next “aber,” both barefoot now, warm sand rubbing against our winter feet, Ed, in a completely uncharacteristic for him move, tugs me down to sit on the beach. Ed doesn’t much care for sitting in unshaded spots, nor does he look for crowds or noise, especially when there are so many coves and stretches that are quiet and empty. But here we are, plopped down right where a group of kite surfers has put up a volleyball net. Music is cranked up – French pop. A dog runs in and out of the water and a boy and his father haul in a RIB. The breeze is gentle and cool, but the sun is warm on our shoulders. We watch the ball go from one side to the other, back and forth, back and forth and we cannot get ourselves to leave.










I’m sure we would have stayed til dusk, but dusk comes late here and we still have quite the hike back to our village.

We cut back along country roads, past stone walls covered with flowers, past fields and gardens, with views of the water, at high tide now, all the way back to our village.





















The sailing school is having a week-end festival in Aber Wrac'h and now Ed is drawn into the world of boats. I doubt that the week will pass without him heading out into the Channel. Most every Brittany coastal town has a sailing club with boats for hire. Last year only a tame wind and a stubborn traveling companion kept him on shore. But this year I've mellowed...





For now, I watch a lesson in a kayak roll, and, at the other side of the dock, children coming in with their boats. It’s evening now, they’re done for the day.












Inside the village bar, I ask for a cappuccino. I remember now that Bretons put whipped cream in theirs and remember how naturally sweet the cream is here. At the other end of the bar, we see groups of older men, as everywhere in this country, sitting down for their daily review of events.





My own review reminds me that somehow we missed lunch. We make our way back to our room on the water, but only long enough for me to take one more look at the splendid aber.





And it’s not that the view to the street, at the other side of the small apartment is that bad. Food: it suggests a place to eat and it tells us what to order.





A shared salad with smoked salmon, a shared Breton buckwheat crepe with goat cheese, and moules frites. And a sweet apple crepe for desert. The only question is – do we drink the apple liqueur served at the side, or do we dump it on the crepe?


















Okay, we're back now. One more look out the window. A killer sunset. Home sweet home...

from Brittany, France: the morning after

The Inn, La Baie des Anges, is at the curve of a narrow road. Not much traffic here. Who would travel along this barren coast to a village that hadn’t even a grocer or a boulanger? Who would drive 600 kilometers from Paris to wind up here, the most western corner of the continent?

The window looks out on slate roofs and beyond that, the Aber Wrac’h (a long, wide inlet). The names here are like that – not French and not easy to say out loud.





If you think there aren’t many quiet French places by the sea these days, then take a look at Aber Wrac’h.

Oh, but wait. You need to get here first. The rapid train will zip you from Paris to Brest, a mere 30 kms away from here, in no time. But for a price. You can also drive. The highways are good. Or you can stick to the lesser roads.

Ed and I most always stick to the lesser roads. Especially if we’re tired. Nothing pushes you to sleep more than a stretch of boring highway. On the backroads, on the other hand, now that's my idea of gorgeous. Lush, rural, punctuated by villages where people walk their dogs and shop for afternoon baguettes.
























Yesterday’s weather was varied. And therefore beautiful. A landscape against a pattern of clouds, a rain and then a clearing sky and then more clouds.

And if that wasn’t splendid enough, the detour toward the coast and the Normandy sight of all sights (Mont St. Michel), just as the storm broke over it was over the top magnificent.





We paused for a cappuccino and a baguette and watched sheets of rain pound the rural landscape.. It was a good moment.





So, Aber Wrac’h. I haven’t said much about this place. I’ll get to that. We’re here for a week. Last night we did only two things: had the meal that I think about so often when I am not here – plates of Brittany oysters, langoustines and grilled fish (followed by, of course, crème brulee; there is always a crème brulee on the menu; no, really: always).










You ask what was the second thing? We tried to get the Internet to work in the room. That’s another “always” in the more remote inns and b&bs in France. It’s part of the process of settling in here. When the little box says “limited or no connectivity,” I feel I’ve arrived.

from Brittany, France: the tip of the pinkie

So many hours to get here! Three on the bus, eight on the plane, and almost nine by car. We could have eased the burden by taking a train, but I am feeling frugal and so we drove.

Flight gets into Paris, Ed and I linger over a petit breakfast and head over to Budget to pick up the car. We beg for tiny and get small. And we set out – toward the furthest western point in France, where the Atlantic meets the Channel.

It is a long long drive. 600 kilometers and twice that amount of strain as we battle drowsiness and unpredictable weather (sun, rain, torrential rain, part sun, thunder, fog, drizzle).

So, as I sit here battling deep sleep, I just want to say that we made it to little tiny Aber Warc’h. It’s quiet here. And so very beautiful.

take off

In shorts?
It’s warm outside.
You’re flying to Paris. It’s not warm in Paris.
I’ll change in Paris.

He changed on the bus from Madison to Chicago. Not because he was convinced of the rightness of this step, but, most likely, because he wanted me to shut up. There is only so much of the Nina lecture on American arrogance abroad that one can take.

In truth, I don’t really think that wearing shorts (jean shorts no less!) demonstrates that you are a banner child for ideologies about imperialism and nationalism and who knows what, but I find that traveling with Ed really tests my longstanding ideas about when and why you should attempt to fit in. If people take on roles in a relationship, Ed has taken on the role of the person who has his own internal compass, while I carry the compass of the world around us. Neither of us is willing to admit that there is a middle ground out there.

Now, we are sitting in the lounge at O’Hare, eating up every bit of free food that is offered here and I wonder if this is really why I so rigorously adhere to airline loyalty. For a free glass of champagne and a chicken sandwich?

All this to say that I love travel because it makes me understand all the ways in which I am just one grain in the human Sahara of life.

on the eve

I leave tomorrow. I’ll be in France and French speaking places for five weeks, though only at the end will I be alone. At other times, my occasional traveling companion, my daughter, and finally, my old (!) law school buddies will keep me sane.

It’s been hectic here. Still, I can now, on the eve of departure, take stock:

The Writer’s Shed Project is moving forward, but oh so slowly! Me, I’d have it up in a week! (I don’t know how to build anything, so don’t take me too seriously here.) And predictably, it isn't the act of building that poses problems, it’s the “everything else.”

Farming: the fields next to Ed’s farmette are showing some signs of veggie growth, but not in leaps and bounds.

Slow. It’s not always bad to be slow. I’m a snail-pinned member of Slow Foods, for example. Don't rush it! Enjoy the ride!

Still, when I come back toward the end of June, I’m hoping for more than snail steps. Snails can afford to dally -- they walk with sheds all ready made, no questions asked. Me, I have to wait for Amos and Ed to get in the groove.


In the meantime, I sped between places today, taking care of all that could not be attended to from over there.

No photos. Okay, one photo: of something I am not terribly sorry to leave: the café life of Madison at exam time (in a wine cave, no less!). Really, the café life over there is… more vibrant.





Be patient tomorrow and the next day. I am in motion. Posting may or may not be easy.

A bientot.