Sunday en Bretagne: la vie en rose

Sunday. I step outside. Brisk. The fires are lit, the stoves are burning.




Overnight, the French made significant adjustments to their attire. Whereas at the start of the week-end, only half wore scarves (and I should note that there are those here who wear a scarf year round), by this morning, not many flaunted a bare neck to the elements.

The elements were not especially threatening, but the temperatures dropped and the wind kicked in. I would put it at an “upper thirties” level. A warm spell by Wisconsin winter standards, but nippy for the French man or woman. And let me emphasize this (are you listening, Ed?): it is not a sign of weakness to wear a scarf. Men and women guard that larynx. How else would you be able to carry on the many conversations you typically have in the course of a day?



at the marché de Noel in Taden


The routine has been set: we leave at noon in search of a breakfast. Today we climb up to the center and then down to the other side of town just to pick up a breakfast pastry at our very favorite bread place. We feel we owe support to the Mesdames who somehow always have a hot baguette traditionel there at the counter when we show up.

Not that they need our support. At noon, the line had formed. Which is fine. It gives us time to think about what would be best. We settle for, among other things, a slice of this:





Just around a corner, a café-bar appears inviting. Up to now, I had taken to ordering my café crème at a small place with a lot of horse betting traffic. The coffee was good and there were always spare newspapers for Ed to “read.” But the café we enter now is different. The clientele is more, should I say maybe “hip?” Stylish, in a lively Breton way. The scarves have flair. The buzz is around something other than horses.





I ask if I can take out our pastries and as always, I'm reassured with a biensur! We eat and people watch. It is so pleasant not to see a row of computers (the norm at Madison cafés) and to hear, instead, animated voices. (It must be the scarf effect.)





Sundays in France (and I know I have said this in previous posts) charm me no end. If the weather is at all favorable, the towns and cities spill out, as people fill every conceivable communal space. If you choose to join in on this mass outdoor promenade (with refreshment time thrown in), you feel like you are indeed part of something far bigger than just your own preoccupations.

But all this does not happen until after the time of le dejeuner (the big midday meal). And so at midday, the streets are only moderately alive. (I see many who have been charged with picking up the baguette for the meal -- a task made even more pleasant by the availability of so many places to pause along the way for a quick refreshment.) We take a brief stroll through the old town center, admiring the shops from the outside (and, for Ed, the cat on the inside).








But as we are nearing the end of our time in Brittany (we leave early Tuesday), time is suddenly very precious and I no longer want to simply drift through the day. I have plans.

There are two big items set for this day: a hike up to Taden, the next village along the River Rance, and an evening of gift shopping at Dinan.


Still, the minute we hit a good stride along the river path, I begin to have doubts. Yes, it’s sunny, but I have become softened by the gentle winter and the warm interiors (the French heat their indoor spaces to my preferred level of warmth – some ten degrees higher than you’re likely to find in, say, Madison). I am feeling a bit nipped by the Breton breeze there, by the Rance.













But, I recall the words of Monsieur the other day (courage! It’s for the sport!) and I trudge forth. The French, for all their love of warm scarves and toasty interiors, do take to le sport in no light manner. This morning, we had quite the commotion outside our apartment as groups of young and old enthusiasts carried boats back and forth for a quick spin.





Now, as we briskly walk in the northern direction, I notice that the Rance is wider here. There are water fowl to admire, too. Shy creatures that take one look at you and swim away.





Our walk has a destination. The village of Taden is hosting a Christmas market. I’ve read the ads for it: nearly 80 stalls of foods, gift items, hot wine, cold wine, champagne... the typical attractions.

We turn away from the river and walk up the hill toward the village.





At the fair, we taste and compare honey cakes and wines and champagnes, and I purchase all the above (you’re going to carry that back? – this from Ed. Of course! Backpacks were meant for bottles of champagne sold by Monsieur le producteur himself. As always, I’m quite smitten with the idea of buying food straight from the person who made it).





At the side, there is a bouncing area set up for kids...





...but mostly, children here stay dutifully at their parents' side. I always am struck by how strong the lure of family is here. Children don’t rock the boat. I've wondered if it is because their school days are so long and their parent time is, therefore, too short in the course of the week. In any case, fussing is rarely tolerated.





(My daughters will remind me that the no fussing allowed bit was the norm at our house too. As were the scarves. In these small ways, I suppose, we were quite French-like.)

The holiday market is crowded and we do not stay long. I think Ed is a little puzzled by it all. Holidays are a mystery to him and people coming together to crowd a Manoir courtyard and rub shoulders with each other, given that they could wander, instead, in the vast beautiful spaces around us has to be a little odd. I explain to him that it’s for the joy of being together, sipping hot mulled wine and eating bits of honey cake.





It’s for the fleeting encounter with Santa – who in this country is always quite thin and has a beard made of excessively coiffed curls.









And for a look at the newest in caps and hats (Breton older men appear to favor the cap that you see in the first two rows, whereas the middle aged often appear in the rimmed hat).





A food day, a family and friend day. A stroll in the fresh air day. Markers of a good week-end day.


As we walk back toward the river, momentarily lost even here, on roads that give every indication that we are headed in the right direction...





...I drift momentarily into a review of my Sunday routines back home: clean house, work, eat a hastily thrown together meal. If the weather is superb, we will hike, bike or ski, but these hours will be squeezed out of an otherwise overburdened day. I shake off that reality and concentrate on the other one: that sometimes, not too infrequently, I have the good fortune of being able to place myself in these other worlds, where people treat Sunday regally. Up there with Christmas and birthdays, it seems. Every Sunday is a holiday.

We walk back along the river toward Dinan, shouting out an occasional bonjour to the families we pass along the way. The light is fading, but I don't feel the cold anymore. The wind has died down. An evening calm has set in.

















At the Dinan river port, the night lights have already been turned on.





We climb up the hill and join the stream of pedestrian traffic in the old town. We buy chocolates and I make a few other small holiday purchases. Our plan had been to eat a supper of crepes, but the creperies are closed for the evening. We go back to yesterday’s little restaurant in the port across the river and order pizza. With veggies and a dollop of crème fraiche to make it just a little bit more of a Breton pizza (Brittany is seafood along the coast, and all about cows, fruits and vegetables as you head inland).





Again, I cannot help but express the feeling of contentment. It may be the country air, the fresh and honest food, the carafe of wine. The pink and rosy glassware, throwing pink and rosy hues on the table -- that may be it too.

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.