pink cloves and sunny skies

I should have purchased the garlic...

Well, garlic is garlic. And moreover, Wisconsin has garlic. Plenty of it. But this garlic – it was so fragrant and so very pretty! Rose toned, held in bundles – garlic to be proud of.





I’m not much into souvenirs these days, but I do like to bring interesting foods home. And at the market this morning, I was smitten with the garlic.


Thursday is market day in Dinan. It is such a big event in my otherwise delightfully slow paced day that I could hardly sleep. Market day! Wake up! -- I shout this more than once at sunrise. Ed is somewhat less excitable. It takes a while to push him out.

Overnight, the skies cleared. All but the morning fog that gently coats the already wet landscape.





Up the hill we hike, hurrying, because on market day, everyone hurries (in an unhurried French sort of way). The town is absolutely buzzing. The feeling is of some big event, of a holiday in the making. Except that the holiday is not anything at all. It’s just a regular old shopping for food day. Sort of like getting all in a dither about going to Woodman’s.




Lines form – for the chickens, the country breads (because the bakeries here don’t produce sufficiently wonderful bread?), the cheeses, the cauliflower. The leeks, the lettuce, the onions. (And garlic. Don’t forget the garlic.) Pots of flowers.

















We buy food for breakfast and lunch. Yogurt, cheese, tomatoes. Olives and pickled mushrooms. Macaroons and tarts.






















But on the bread, Ed holds back. Can we go back to last night’s restaurant? Why? They had the best bread ever. (I would agree: we ate two baskets of it. And they had to refill the little tub with Normandy butter. Neither Ed nor I could resist it).

We walk back toward the brasserie, past gloriously alive streets, past cafés where people brave the winter air and sit outside...





At the restaurant they smile at us as we come in. Ah. The people who ate all that bread and butter. Or maybe – the people who ate every last snail and left nothing on their dessert plates. I ask timidly about the bread.

Oh yes, it is good. It’s from the boulangerie just across the street. See it there? With the yellow awning. Ask for the pain traditionel.

Talk about buying local!

We go to the bakery, praise their bread to high heaven and bag the loaf in my pack. Walking back to the river port, we stop at a charcouterie, were, besides pork products you can pick up a great looking tomato, cucumber and egg salad (we get a tubful).

And the chocolate shop. The one where I had photographed this plate of chocolate everything (including the plate and tumbler).





We buy a bar of milk chocolate with spice cake (yes it has pieces of spice cake in it) and bits of bitter orange.

Finally we are ready for breakfast. At noon again. We go back to the café where, on our first morning here, we were told that by all means, we can eat our bakery purchased treats with the café crème. Today I pull out a sack with an apple almond tart for Ed and a red berry almond tart for myself, monsieur brings my coffee and I feel the power of good food and warm café air overtake me. Ed, less emotionally charged, sits back and reads the local paper. (He always spends a great while on this effort even though he speaks not a word of French. I’ve never questioned what exactly he gets from it. The vignette of him studying carefully an incomprehensible French word is somehow sweetly charming. It never fails to make me smile.)

Down the hill now. With my pack full of market foods.




But as we enter our apartment and I unpack, I am reminded of the garlic. I should have purchased the garlic.

You want to go back?
Up that hill? Should I? The market may be over. It’s supposed to be a morning thing. It is now 1.
You want that garlic, don’t you?

I turn around and head back up the hill. Past lace curtained windows, past lace curtained doors. At a panting trot, that’s a fifteen minute climb.








The streets are still alive, but the pace is slower. People aren't rushing. They're strolling now. Shopping's done. Midday meal is done with.





I am at the square just as the vendors are finishing packing up their vans. I see one crate of garlic, but it’s not THE pink toned garlic. The vendor watches as I hesitate. It’s great garlic! She shouts. Yes but...

I hurry forward. There’s my garlic girl! All packed and ready to jump in behind the wheel. Excuse me, can you still spare some bunches of garlic? But of course! She smiles and reaches into the bowels of the van. Voila!

I trot back down, delighted. (But also a little apprehensive; my pack is fragrant with garlic fumes. What will this do to my suitcase?)

Down to the port-facing timbered house -- where we occupy the ground floor (see it there? Looking out on the river path? Yes, that's an artist painting. Such a French scene, no?)





Ed is ready for lunch, presented in the way that he likes it best – roughly spread out on the bed, with laptops not too far away.

We eat our midday meal.


The rest of the day? We made some decisions about excursions for the days ahead. That took a lot of effort! Spent, we opted for a leisurely evening. Up the hill, a stroll through the old town and pizza for dinner.




Walking home late in the evening, we watch the fog roll in.

from Dinan

We sleep at odd hours and neither of us is making an attempt to set our clocks straight. I fade away in the early night, sure, after dinner, but then I am up, working, until almost predawn. And then I fade again, succumbing to sleep until most of the morning is gone. It is a long and wonderful rest.

Our apartment is on the river road. Access here is limited to the “riverains” -- those who live by the river. That means we get almost no traffic at all, which is good, because the bedroom faces the road (and the living room and garden look out onto the river).

I say “almost” no traffic, because there is road work further up the river road, and we hear back hoes and mini excavators going by fairly regularly during working hours. Blissfully short, here, in France, with a long pause for lunch. The machines roll by just a few feet from our window. Most certainly I could poke them with a broomstick without getting out of bed.

In spite of this, we sleep soundly. Lulled by the luxury of having no preset internal alarm urging me to get going, be on time, get going.

The downside of this unscheduled life? It is past noon today by the time we stumble out into the world. Here’s an important question: what do you even eat if you begin your day at 1? People are filling the bars and restaurants, cider is poured, or, in the alternative, wine is uncorked. Beefsteak and frites placed before a hungry lunch crowd and I am still craving my cup of café crème.

Surely the numerous creperies here are meant for people (like us) who can't tell the difference between morning and afternoon. We order galettes (buckwheat crepes) with eggs and now we fit right into the stream of life here. Only my café crème is a little off. But then, I carry a camera. I’m one of those. I’m excused.










It’s the last of the warm and wet days in Brittany this year (so I read). Whereas in Madison, a blizzard rages, here the temperatures have hovered in a narrow range of forties and fifties. Initially today, it is wet enough for me to take out an umbrella. But not for long.

We walk first along the river bank. Ed has been wanting to do his usual inspection of boats along the water’s edge.





And then, as before, we climb up the hill to Dinan center. The idea is that we should walk along the ramparts that encircle the town (or at least its historic center). It is a leisurely, at times muddy, at times quiet and serene, at times melodic walk (with strains of Auld Lang Syne coming in through a loudspeaker somewhere).





Halfway, Ed finds a bench and takes a moment to consider his surroundings (this is a habit of his when hiking – a charming Juhn Muirian kind of thing, I think). I wander off to inspect a row of flowering trees (yes, I am in northern Europe... such is the gentleness of Brittany: rough seas surround a very mellow and forever green landscape); he gets up slowly to join me. Within minutes a group of men gather near the same bench for a game of petanque (an import here from Provence).





You could spend a day just looking at this bench and watching the Breton world unfold, right here, by the old ramparts. And it would be, in my view, a beautiful day. But, we have more to see, more ramparts to circumvent, more Dinan life to look in on. Children singing Christmas songs in school (strains of “We wish you a merry Christmas” spill out onto the street). Artists, sketching scenes of squirrels and holiday trees. December in Dinan. Sometimes visible to the passerby. Sometimes hidden behind a holiday lace curtain.












In one shop, I see a seamstress working. I knock on the door. Might you know where I can get some yarn or thread in Dinan? Yes, yes, of course, there is just such a place. She gives me directions and Ed and I take a detour. I have an errand there for a friend. We find it easily: a tiny shop that couldn’t be more precious and colorful. Ed whispers -- is color ever not beautiful here?





I buy what I think is right and this takes more time than you could imagine because time now stretches for me without boundaries. The only constraints are hunger and light.

It is not yet dusk, but we are, by now, hungry. And that is good news indeed. I see food I want to eat constantly here. When I ask myself – am I really hungry to warrant this additional indulgence, most often I have to admit that I am not. But this time we give in. We are just around the corner from a terrific bakery – a biologique (organic) artisanal place with Breton pastries and breads.





We split the apple tart and walk away quickly before an imagined hunger nudges us to make another selection.

Back to the ramparts. Back to people watching, window shopping (that Breton lace!), back to smelling the dampness, to admiring the winter berries and blooms.






























And now the loop is completed. We are at the point of our cobbled walk down to the port. One last look over the old town...









... and we head back to our apartment by the water.


But in the late evening we turn around and climb up again. You’d think that we’d reconsider. The mist is crawling up the river bank. I reach for my umbrella.





But I am hungry for that plate of Breton seafood. The one that needs my full attention, because there are shrimp to peel and oysters to slurp and snails to pull out. The one that I have been thinking about for months, because it’s been way too long since I have said – don’t make me eat another snail! (A Breton seafood plate will always have more snails of varying sizes than you could possibly want.)

We walk along the wet cobbles, dazzled as always, by the strings of holiday lights.




We pass a large and fairly busy brasserie with great big terrace windows looking out on the town. We gratefully accept a table by the window and I order my Breton plate and because this is considered only a starter, I follow it by a seafood choucroute – three different fish in a pot of boiled potatoes and sauerkraut.









Honestly, no one could be hungry after that. But our fixed price dinner (a modestly priced one at 19 Euros, tax and tip included; oh, and 8 Euros for a pitcher of wine) comes with dessert and so I continue. A lemon tart is indeed the perfect ending.





Except that I really cannot finish it with the pleasure it deserves. French people do not take doggie bags of leftovers home. They finish what they like. And I do not want to suggest that this is anything but delicious. I sneak a Kleenex and I gently wrap the remains of my tart and Ed’s flan and discreetly place them in my pack.

The drizzle has almost stopped now. The holiday street lights have been turned off for the night. The town is quiet. We walk the cobbled way down to the river port, content, grateful.

both sides of the River Rance

It’s rush hour in and around Dinan – insofar as the French are ever really in a rush. We hike up into the village on our side of the river, finding the going rather uninteresting here. It’s one of those things: we are technically residing in Lanvallay, but the walk up to its commercial heart (two bakeries, two café bars, a tabac and an epicerie; oh, and a hair dresser) is longer than the walk to big Dinan’s hilltop center (population: circa 11,000).

But we like knowing even the plainness of our surroundings. There is a misty drizzle, though it's not really cold. It is indeed one reasons why I love Brittany so much. The weather is mild, never extreme. The south of France gets the winter winds that chill the socks off of you. In Brittany, life is always moderated by the gulf stream.

At the bakery, there is a small gathering: standing, waiting for the evening bread to come out of the oven. Should we get something? No, no. We can’t eat our way through this place.

We’re at the supermarket that's along the main road just outside the village. Not many customers here. Still, it's well stocked. I’m looking at rows and rows of rosés. Ed is searching for the local apple juice. We find it among crates of produce (pears from the region of Lyon, apples from Normandy). But it’s not just apple juice (I call it juice here even though it's our cider; in Brittany, I can’t say cider, because cider is always with alcohol). It’s pink lady apple juice. And granny smith apple juice. And so on.



Ed has me read the descriptions. I can see how people get into this with wine! It’s rather captivating. He selects the “Tentation” Apple – "mildly acidic, but on the sweet side of the continuum. Leaves you with a sense of tarte tatin (apple upside down cake)."

We walk up and down the aisles, looking for the little things that would make this a French supermarket. There are many to smile at. Okay, language, sure. But also the content of labels. Boxes of soup that spell out the percentage of each vegetable pureed within. 14% carrot, 12% leek. And so on. Then there is the chestnut spread. Cheap, Ed comments, checking the label to make sure it's really mainly about chestnuts. It is. But wait: there is one and only one type of snack chip. Potato. One wee bag. Don't Bretons love chips and TV as much as we do?? Finally we find the foods for the immigrant, separately placed, much as we segregate our Mexican foods back home. Except here, it's shelves of British foods. Oh British food! Digestives (cookies). Worcestershire Sauce. Lemon curd. Their own orange marmalade. Life's necessities.

Walking back to the apartment, we pass the second bakery. The line is forming here, too. Next door, at the epicerie, we admire the salmon, the salads. Sort of what delis used to be like back home - Ed comments. Not anymore. We prefer to shop for everything in our big markets. Here, so long as you’re stopping for bread at the bakery, you may as well go next door to pick up shrimp. Or a salad.


Food. That reminds me. Earlier, there was lunch. Oh, now let me completely go back in time. To the morning, when we woke up to a day view of the River Rance.





Crossing the bridge, we begin the long hike up that pretty cobbled street you saw here last night.





Our riverside road has a bakery and a few bars, but they’re closed. Our landlord explains – many businesses close now for a week or two. They like a break before the Christmas holidays. Of course they do.

Up we go. The climb is steep. We almost change weather systems by the time we reach the center of town – from the partly sunny skies that greeted us just minutes ago, to the cloudy misty air that will keep us company for the rest of the day.


















looking down at the river port where we are staying


Holidays in France. There isn’t the shopping flurry here. Not for another week or so. But the mood of Christmas is vividly with us.





We stop for a pain au chocolat and café crème at a bar and then we meander.

Dinan is a lovely old place and even Ed, who is no fan of towns on any side of any ocean, is charmed by it. Medieval, quiet, moody and imposing, it is one of Brittany’s best. And now, it is free of the tourists that, in the summer, come in for the day, pick at the foods and souvenirs and leave to get closer to the sea. Dinan is a passing through kind of place. That was me once. (Diana, remind me: what ghastly period of years ago were we here?) Not today. Today, I can pretend to be a resident.



















By noon, I am craving lunch. At home, I never eat this meal. Too busy, too mindful of the big dinner at the end of the day. But here, I cannot pass it by. We tell ourselves: a few more churches to explore, a few more passageways to go through and we’ll stop and do as the French do. Or at least as the old Bretons do. Because if you look inside the numerous creperies and moules frites restaurants, at midday, the clientele is going to be, well, our age. (Younger people in this neck of France so often eat at home.) We order the north coast special: la galette – a savory crepe made with buckwheat flour. It takes me only fifteen minutes to decide on the filling. (I finally settle for local scallops and leeks.) The beverage, a local cider (yes, cider) is, of course, the drink of choice.





You would think that this would tide me over until the next day. So wrong. By late evening, we are climbing up to Dinan’s heart again. Almost empty now, near 9 pm. The older people are replaced at the eateries by a younger crowd. We stop at a moules frites place (how many ways can you steam mussels? According to our menu, some two dozen; I opt for the moules in the Brittany style: the broth has wine, onion, cream and tiny shrimp; Ed's happy with a broth of wine, onions and mushrooms).





Night time. Quiet time here, along the river's edge. How many times can I photograph the river? With lights and reflections that take your breath away? Oh, so many.