in France: love and such

Is intense friendship all that different from love? If you care about someone, is that a sign of love? Let me speak by way of example: today, yet again, we did not leave work/sleep (one of us slept, the other worked) behind until noon, by which time, the best breakfast option was the creperie at the harbor. A good enough choice. I select a crepe with blueberry jam, Ed has a crepe with strawberry jam.





At the table by the window, two men are engaged in an animated back and forth. Obviously caring deeply about the outcome. Profound concern. A form of love. Brotherly? Loverly? Friend or colleague? It hardly matters. His eyes show caring.





At another table, a more elderly couple sits down. He takes off his Breton cap. They study the menu. He orders a sweet crepe with honey. She takes a longer minute to decide. He looks at her patiently. Or, is it that he is thinking of countless such times spent with her, just so, waiting, waiting, thoughts drifting, waiting? Such is love.





Oftentimes when I travel, I snap photos of people’s laundry strung out on a clothes line. It’s a natural: colorful, with a hint of old-wordliness to it. Here’s another such photo:





The difference: it’s our laundry. After many trials and tribulations, we did a load this morning (well, closer to noon). We hung it to dry in the riverside yard and then went off for the day.

Went off where? Oh, on a hike. We had one picked out: just south of Dinan, in part along the river Rance, and in part through the beautiful Breton farmlands. We start in this village, by this building. No, no, it’s not about marriage. Or at least not entirely. It’s the French town hall. Every village has one. You file important papers there. Births, deaths, purchase of property, well yes, marriage too. Every French marriage must be recorded at the Mairie. While Santa looks on.





We leave the village and proceed to lose ourselves in the lanes and passages of the lands bordering the river. Walking along a quiet country road from one village to the next -- this is what makes me happy. I say as much to Ed. No one can say that I do not express positive emotion.



the colors of a Brittany December day




are these collard greens?




bare trees, a green field




December light

Perhaps you have been wondering – what’s with the clumps of green stuff around the trees of Brittany? Here’s the scoop: it’s mistletoe. It grows randomly, often transported by bird droppings onto a tree trunk where it takes hold and grows, sometiems with terrific abundance. It used to be regarded as a menace (is love a menace?) but more recent studies have revealed that where mistletoe spreads, so flourishes bio-diversity. In other words, love is a good thing, don’t you think? (BTW, the association between love and mistletoe is a Scandinavian things so please, do not blame it on the French).




Our hike takes us down to the River Rance and the canals that were built centuries ago to facilitate transport. They are still in operation, but not now, not in the off season. There is a mill here as well. Very old, very beautiful.









I hear someone working in the field behind the lock keeper's house. It is indeed Monsieur the lock guard. Ed nudges me to ask about the operation of the locks. Monsieur tells us about the seasonal closings, the water levels, the boats that pass from the Atlantic, along this way, up toward the Channel.





I ask – but why is the canal so dry?
We wont start filling it until January. The first boat traffic will pass through in April.
I can hear Ed’s thought spinning – might one navigate a little boat through here? Through villages with bakeries where they sell great bread? The man loves boats and good French bread.





We walk along the tow path. The sun is low, but still there, protecting us from the night that is so quick to take hold. The shadows are elongated now in ways that could only happen toward the end of the day.





We pause at the second series of locks and Ed reads the description of how one navigates a boat through them. I can tell. Someday, he will be doing this kind of navigation. Someday. But not this year.

Our small map tells me that we’ve walked too far. I’m about to suggest we head back, but a small sound across the river holds me back. Donkeys. In love? One tries to straddle the other, she pushes him (or is it her?) off. They nuzzles, lick each other, mellow now, they rest in contentment.

















A Saturday afternoon in France.

And now we walk back, ourselves mellowed by the sight of love. Or such. Up the hill toward the village where we left the wee car (mystery solved! The car stalls on purpose! And restarts itself at intersections! Smart!). Past chickens, farms, fields of greens, past a goat. A lonely goat. A goat asking for attention. Two bearded fellows, engaged.













Bronze fields of wet earth and last year’s leaves. Bare trees, golden tones from a fading sun beam. Then dusk.













Time to head back to Dinan.

As we approach the old town, we note the dense traffic. Why? It’s not market day. Why the congestion? We park the car and walk toward the center and it becomes obvious that this is just the way a Saturday afternoon is meant to be on a fair December evening in Dinan. People are out and about. Not shopping exactly, though some are certainly gazing into shop windows. Mostly strolling, sipping warm beverages, buying bread for the meal ahead. And stopping at the parent sponsored school holiday fair, where you can pick up the Breton cake and a cup of warm spiced wine. (We support the schools of Dinan! We pick up both!) And gaze up at a French Santa.









Of course, Ed coaxes me toward THE bakery with THE best bread, and the ladies there smile at us there because they recognize my camera.





At a shop just up the street, we admire the salads and prepared foods and Ed gets it into his head that we should buy snails – stuffed with butter and garlic, all ready to be baked? Broiled? Something. I ask Madame – can I microwave these? Biensur! One minute in le micro!

Up one street, then back again. A mother and daughter exit a perfume shop. The mother has sticks of paper with fragrance on them. She lets the girl sniff each one so that she can pick a favorite.





I want to walk further, toward the chocolate shop, but our parking meter is almost up. It’s just as well. Let loose in the crowded streets of a weekend evening of Dinan, I would never stop. Not until the last person said goodnight and turned toward home.


In the apartment, after a snack of bread and cheese, snails and tomatoes, Ed dozes off. Not for long. There is dinner to be had. Just across the river, at a tiny local place, packed even this late, with families, friends, dogs. We order platters of seafood and buckets of moules frites and it’s all rather inexpensive and 100 % wonderful.





I gaze at the four children, eating together at the table next to ours. Ed's thoughts wander, most likely to the work that has to be done tonight on his trail case.





Or maybe to the good bread and sweet donkeys and lonely goats and sturdy boats. Probably not the mistletoe though. Ed's not a mistletoe kind of guy.

the best of Brittany

And now the urge to explore takes hold. The reports say the skies have cleared for us for a good number of days. That remarkable luck has to be channeled into something grand, something adventurous.

But when I wake up, I hesitate. There is fog. A great thick layer of it.




Still, the predictions are for sunshine. We set out north for Dinard, the holiday town by the sea.

Dinard is only half an hour north, but we are stumbling on our way there. We take the long route out, we can’t find a gas station, we can’t operate the gas pump with our credit cards, there is traffic as we cut through the center of Dinan. If the goal was to be in Dinard bright and early, that has long been replaced with the new of goal of getting to Dinard before the morning is behind us. But it hardly matters. This week, time is fluid. Time is of no consequence.

And on the upside, all that dallying gives the fog time to disperse and disappear into the landscape.




By the time we arrive in Dinard, it is indeed almost noon. We go to a cycle shop where the owner is holding two bikes for us. Half day, he tells us. I’ll only charge you half day. And then, the inevitable question. Where are you from? I think -- isn’t it obvious? Ed, by form alone, exudes America, no? Straight off the football field (though he has never, to my knowledge, held a football), with a few inches added for height and a few years added all around. But even when they hear us speaking English to ourselves, the Bretons are stumped. Denmark? Holland? And when I tell them no, no – it’s the other side of the ocean, the jaw inevitably drops.

I suppose it’s because it’s winter. Dinan and Dinard are not on the typical American tourist map in the mildest of times (Normandy and Mont Saint Michel are the favored northern France destinations). Early December keeps everyone at home. Or at least in Paris.

Me, I couldn’t love this season more. Yes, it can be unpredictable. In past years we’ve had more rain than sunshine. And the days are short. All that’s certainly true. But my semester’s done, the scent of holidays is in the air, the lights twinkle, vacation homes are shuttered and the year-round Bretons come out to fill the cafes and restaurants again. Or almost fill them. There’s always room for you. No reservation required.

And now Monsieur at the cycle shop recalls the one American who rented from him once. I think he was, how do you say it, in the movies? We can’t offer him any such glamorous story to recount at his holiday dinner table, but I am sure he’ll long remember trying to fit Ed onto a bike. In the end, the most comfortable one was a girl’s bike – a somewhat heavy thing with cycle shop ads plastered all over it. Good enough, says Ed, cranking the seat up to its highest position. We pick up snug helmets (here they come with ear muffs!) and yellow vests which are required by law in the countryside at dark and in poor weather. We have neither, of course, but I'm thinking Monsieur is a wise man, who knows Brittany roads and the (low) likelihood of getting anywhere and back before the sun sets on a winter day.

We set out. Half a minute into the ride, I nudge Ed. I still need my café crème. We pull over. A café bar is just there at the corner. I take a few good sips of a hot strong coffee with steaming milk and we're off.

The plan is to take the Green Way south. It’s a road that has been given over to pedestrian and cycle traffic and it stretches for miles and miles, through the Brittany countryside.

But early on I tell Ed we should reconsider. The road is an old rail bed and I have this to say about rail bed trails anywhere: they’re boring. They are straight and without topographical variation. Often they stay close to an auto route. And this one has the added issue of being not paved. At times gravel, at times wet sand, it is tough going!

Ed shrugs. It’s your call, he tells me. Because of the fit, the bike isn’t easy for him on difficult terrain. Here, we have the mud, but off track, we’ll have the hills.

We go off track anyway. We don’t have good maps and Brittany country roads are notoriously difficult to follow (they change numbers for no reason and without warning), but I’m longing for a feeling of true countryside. Of hills and valleys, streams and pastures, of farmsteads and forests.

And indeed, we do get hopelessly lost, but we have all that I so love about this landscape.





















On some hills, Ed does what I have never seen him do before (he is a far stronger biker than I am on the inclines) – he gets off the bike and pushes it forward. If I'm to damage my knees, it wont be on this girlie bike, he tells me. I laugh and zip forward. (And I take note that on the busier roads, he stays on the bike even on sharp inclines. Knees notwithstanding, it is perhaps too much to bear to be seen pushing a bike uphill as your female biking partner flies ahead.)

But we do get lost. Repeatedly. By midafternoon, I think we should head back. The air is getting the chill of the receding sun (in general, the temperatures have been in the upper thirties and lower forties throughout the day). I button the last button of my winter coat and wiggle my toes to keep them warm. Ed, of course, bikes without any coat. We respond differently to cold air: I get chilled, he does not.

Heading back. How do you do that? We are passing a small village. There is a large garage-like structure where someone is selling and distributing wines and cider. We go inside and ask for directions.
Where are you from? – he asks.
United States.
Really? Where in the US?
Wisconsin. North of Chicago.
So far? His eyes widen. And you’re here for vacation? For how long? You must explore this land more! It is so beautiful! Just go that way, toward that hill and climb it – you see the whole countryside before you! And then take the coastal road. A little hilly there, but it’s magnifique!
I’m not a fan of great hills...
Oh, but it’s the sport! Courage, courage!

I have heard these words before on our biking through France. They’re shouted at you by the locals as you attempt to navigate the challenging terrain. We are hardly equipped for such challenges now. Still, there is that lure of the beautiful countryside...

I buy a bottle of cider, stick it in my pack and thank the kind man for his encouragement. Allez, allez, he shouts out.

The sun is behind us now as we head back vaguely in the direction of Dinard. Up the hill for the view...





...and onto the hilly coastal road. And it is indeed beautiful.









At one point we abandon our bikes and take a short climb along a coastal path.





The channel and the open sea are before us. The shore alternates between cliffs and sandy coves. This is the coastal Brittany. The one that I can never get enough of.









And now, finally, it is our last big cycling climb. We pass old homes and even older churches...





...and ride into the outskirts of Dinard. At a little square, we take a break. We haven’t eaten anything since before noon and there appear to be a number of shops here.





We pick up pears at the grocer (they’re too good... we get more...) and we survey the bakery options. There are two of them, almost next door to each other. Which one do we try, the pink or the blue? The pink says artisanal! But the blue has pretty tiles on the outside! We go with the blue.





Ed is focused on the mille feuilles.




I pick up a pack of Madelines. To watch him eat that pastry is to know that beneath the "I'll eat anything that's cheap and not a cow" look, the man has a deep appreciation for well prepared food. You have to have another bite! – he tells me. Here, try some with the glaze! And more pastry cream. It is fantastic!


The end of the ride. The bikes are returned, we are driving back to Dinan. The countryside is beautiful now in the pinks and blues of twilight.





You would think that the long ride would have wiped us out enough to keep us from venturing out for dinner. But no. By 8 in the evening I am nudging Ed. Wake up from your nap! There is this terrific dinner place in town!

Up we climb, up the cobbled walk, all the way to a small square in the old city. The windows of the restaurant, Chez la Mere Pourcel, look out on the pretty blue lights of the Christmas tree.




The menu is so appealing that I do not want to decide. I ask for the terroir meal (dishes of the land, picked by the chef): scallops to start with, stewed chicken in a pot, cheeses, and a baked apple dessert.

The restaurant is packed on this night. It’s the pre-Christmas week-end – the waitress tells us. It brings out everyone. To shop? No, to eat of course. Yes, of course.