island life

Could you live on a small island in the sea? Take the ferry to the mainland every time you needed supplies, because the store on the island only carried basics? Could you do your craft there, in the quiet of the country lanes that had no traffic, because the handful of cars on the island barely made their presence known?

At one time, in a flight of whimsy, I thought I could. Yes, it was all fantasy, but I could see it: a white cottage with blue shutters, on the Isle of Batz -- a twenty minute ferry ride from Roscoff. If there would be grandkids, they would all come down for the summer and play in the healthy sea air. They'd speak French fluently by the time they were three and they would ride ponies bareback and hide under puffy quilts when storms rolled through. Ed would sail to his heart's content and I would occasionally worry if the seas were too rough.

Of course, forgetting about all practical issues, to say nothing of affordability, distance from home (because home is now solidly in the Midwest), forgetting all those realities, there is this basic obstacle: I am not an island type. I understood that today as I set out to spend a day on the Isle de Batz -- my one time flight of fancy, the place I imagined to be the most wonderful little getaway on this side of the Atlantic.


Let me start off by saying that we are in for a glorious set of days: a high pressure system has settled over France and the sunshine extends all the way to Brittany and beyond. A splendid spring day, with a high of sixty. It could not be better.

And so I am ambitious: there's a lot of walking you can do when you are energized by the splendid day outside.

First, a breakfast at my bakery of choice in St Pol de Leon. Approaching it the other way -- from the high road.






A pain au chocolat, but outside of course!





As I force myself to get up and get going, I see M. lobsterman. Except I no longer can think of him as such. I don't know whether in fact he ever was a lobsterman: my imagination was soaring here. In any case, he looked the part and his weathered hands and face surely have seen some stormy seas. I should note that perhaps his best fishing days are in the past: I would place him to be close to eighty.

Today M. Pêcheur (fisherman in French) is back again. And he lights up when he sees me. We exchange cordial greetings. Wait, he's not done yet. The guy's a flirt! The type that doesn't give up the ship easily! I remind myself that loneliness sometimes pushes one to be excessively chatty and that I could do my bit for those who crave human interaction, but still, I am glad to be up, out and away. And knowing that he's a regular makes breakfast at the bakery, my favorite bakery at that, a bit of a chore now. Never mind -- there's plenty of honey cake at home to finish off.


I set out. And it is a magnificent walk! I know now how to put together a route that keeps it down to a manageable 90 minutes to Roscoff, door to door. A few photos for you and do know that the reality is even better:
















Alright, Roscoff at last.


 


I'm nearly running now, as the ferry for the island leaves at 11:30.  That's one downside of island living right there: you live by the schedule of the ferries.


We're off. Roscoff to the south:






The island to the north:





There are a number of families on the boat. It is school vacation time and it is absolutely brilliant outside and, of course, it is the weekend. Still, even though the island is not large (maybe a couple of miles each way), once everyone is off the boat, we all lose each other quickly enough. So that no matter which way you look during your ramble, you rarely see another human face.

I see a velo rental shop and I decide to take a bike. It's easier to cover most of the paths of the island by bike -- I tell myself. Monsieur picks out a nice rugged country bike for me - I'm off. Not far. The tire is flat. I go back. We try again. The bike is really rough looking. Good! There are almost no paved lanes on  the island. Most of my riding will be on dirt paths, sandy lanes and rocky meadows.

So come on, ride with me, against the constantly blowing winds from the sea!


























About ninety minutes into the ride, while I am putting in that extra force, standing up on the bike to navigate one hill or another, I feel my back strain. Great. Now I will nurse a sore back for the next five days. Still, I go on. It really is beautiful here. And you could not ask for a finer day!


I look at the stone houses with the blue picket fence, I take note of the sailor's weather vane on a white chimney -- all so perfect and perfectly magical...











But after two hours, I tell myself -- ça souffice. It is enough.  I'm ready to go back to Roscoff.

My entire dream, lived in two hours. No, I am not an island person.


In Roscoff, most everything is closed for the afternoon. The French are so rigorous in their meal taking!  Come in at 2:30 and lunch is long over.

Still, there is always the outlier -- this time it's a creperie and I am happy as can be with my buckwheat crepe with leeks and scallops from the sea.






After lunch, I face the hike home. The tide is low again. How quickly it changes here!






But I head inland. My newly established hiking route takes me through the fields of onion, then artichoke and cauliflower. Just one photos this time.






And now it is early evening and I am surely tired and happy to be home. Except, it is such a beautiful day. Could I stand one more quick loop? A walk to the park? To watch the sun set behind St Pol de Leon?

I could.



toward the bay




toward St Pol de Leon


Yes, I'm still hungry for supper. No need to go out for that. I repeat yesterday's meal of cooked eggs and salmon, endive, and leftover pieces of pastechou.

cloudy, with a chance of rain

It's an impossible forecast. A chance of rain: that's a Brittany constant! All of France may be luxuriating in sunshine, but Brittany lives with a chance of having something uniquely theirs: rain. On the flip side, France may be under a heat wave or a cold spell, but Brittany will be attending to her own weather patterns. They do things differently here.

No big hike for me though. A gray sky -- that's enough to keep me close to St Pol de Leon.

Which is not a bad deal. For one thing, it gives me a chance to go into town for breakfast. I miss that ritual of a coffee, with an eye to the people who come and go. To say nothing of missing my pain au chocolat.

But I turn first toward the sea -- a long route into town, but that's okay! Work up the old appetite! (As if it needs a nudge!)






It's a lovely walk, gray skies notwithstanding. And the tide is in! Hello, sea.






And even heading back toward the town center, the gray hardly matters. We're heavily into spring here!











I come in my most favorite way -- past the curving stone walls, right into the center. I love the fact that my favorite bakery is prominently before me as I enter the square.






A close up for you -- just so we can moan together with M. Louis at the anglicisation of the French language, or of the world in general.






I brought my computer with me. I intend to stay. The place isn't crowded, but there is a steady stream of traffic -- locals. Each one kisses those already present and one older gentleman is the supreme kisser, topping everyone else by pecking four times, rather than the brief two or very cordial three used by others. I didn't really take many photos -- just a few. Of the women whose animated conversation creates a lovely background music to my hour or so there.






Of the general coming and going of bread buyers...






Of my breakfast, of course.






And as I sat there and worked away, Madame came over and placed before me slices of some of the local brioche-type cake: le pastechou. It's made only in Brittany and the rich yeasty, eggy dough is filed with prunes. Delicious!






Filled with sweet thoughts and sweet breads, I eventually force myself to get up. As does the lobsterman whom I recognized from the previous day. He comes over, gives a fisherman's handshake (left hand) and asks where I am from and whether I would be returning tomorrow.
Well yes, I guess, sure, of course.
Bon. Until tomorrow.
Madame from behind the counter smiles. I ask her -- a fisherman? I mean, as if there were doubts. His rubber garb is dripping with moisture. She nods. I'm thinking -- it's lonely out there on the water. Is this where he finds solace at the end of his run?
As I thank her for the treats, she reaches behind the counter and packs a half a loaf of pastechou into a bag and hands it over. A gift.

At home, I put on my exercise video to make up for a morning of eating an enormous amount of bread.






I do some reading and writing at home and, too, I go out and watch the harvest of cauliflower in the field next to my little house. Note that the men are hand chopping the heads and slashing off the leaves before tossing the cleaned cauliflower into the moving truck. And here's the other thing: the driver sets the tractor to move forward without him. He joins the others in the slash and toss ritual.






And in the early evening I head out yet one more time. I have a deep craving for fish and vegetables (and visions of diving back into my pastechou late at night). There is a restaurant that's fairly popular in town and since I skipped lunch I thought I'd do my big night out today.

It was not to be.

I had it in my mind that the restaurant opened at six. Why I would think this, given that no restaurant has ever opened for dinner before seven in the entire country, is beyond me. And so it was closed and I did not want to wait, so I restocked at the grocery store and went home.

And let me insert a comment here on the whole French shopping experience: you have to remind yourself that it's different than back home. At the supermarket back home, I'll sometimes get a polite hi from the checker. At Whole Foods they add a standard line -- find everything you need? I think that's funny: by the time you're paying for your groceries, it's too late! Should the world stop for you now as you go out and and search, with assistance, for the organic Turkish dried apricots?

In France, shopping is all about courtesy and the contest as to who is the most polite begins when you enter (or when your groceries are first touched by the checker)  and does not end until you leave the store.  On the first night in St Pol de Leon, I forgot all this. I was too preoccupied, too discombobulated, too distracted. And when the checker touched my first item on the conveyor belt, I said nothing. She stared hard at me, in shock. Still nothing. Finally she uttered a bewildered bonjour... I caught on right away and we launched into it.
Bonjour.
Bonjour.
Ca va?
Ca va.
That'll be 12 Euro.
Merci.
Merci a vous.
Bonne soiree! 
Bonne soiree! (not done yet! one more!)
Au revoir!
Au revoir. (and had it been the beginning of a weekend, there's the obligatory -- I wish you a pleasant week-end).

Anything less is insulting.

But you know, leaving the store, a bit disappointed about having to actually cook dinner on this night, I feel uplifted by the whole exchange. There is something soothing about this ritual of graciousness. Like a balm you put on to make the sting of life recede for a while.

And in the end, I do not fuss with dinner: a couple of happy Breton chicken eggs, salmon from the waters just north of us, endive -- a favorite of mine and grown in abundance in Brittany, tomatoes, cheeses, and of course the pastechou Madame had given me. And cider. I had a bottle of Breton cider and it had to be consumed. An easy assignment. And delicious.






I'll end with flowers from the day. Just because.

promenade

Even though I am so very far from the farmette and far from this week's Wisconsin weather (snow), I miss the spring that should be there right now. How long before the last snow melts? Before the ground is warm again? How long before the grass, so ubiquitous and green here, in Brittany, comes out of its brown hibernation back home? How long before I can plant? How long before I can sit on the porch all day long?

Too long.

It is to be another walking day for me, even as I notice that the skies are mostly gray. Except for a band of gold at the horizon.





The forecast says possible showers later on and so I decide to move quickly and to keep the walking down to a loop that can easily bring me back to town in case the rains come down.

So again, a small breakfast -- of honey cake (and I mean honey cake: the ingredients say 40% honey and 10% figs, with buckwheat flour, milk, eggs and butter making up the rest), an apple, and chamomile tea. I am saving the flower and propolis tea for home. Too special to fritter away on a rushed breakfast.






And this time, I head south. First, to town -- to ditch my recyclables. And to take in the town vibe on this nonmarket day. Then, on the quiet rural roads, toward the coastal path.






But here's the thing -- I have hit low tide again! You have to really watch the tides in addition to the skies to hit it right! I have yet to feel the full force of the sea. It's always on the retreat when I approach it.






Never mind: there is always the rugged Breton countryside around me.






This, too, is Brittany.






A year-round harvest of chou and a constant tending to the fields of artichoke.











My long loop brings me back to town. It is early afternoon, but there's  no rain yet. Should I eat now? Oh, the weighty decisions of being elsewhere, shunning routine, indulging in the trivial, so that eating or not to eating becomes the crucial issue before me. Nothing more than that.

I pass a creperie. Is it a good one? It's nearly empty now, but then, I am past the French lunch period. By 2 pm people across this vast country are digesting.

I go inside. There's a set three course meal for 10 Euro. And the buckwheat crepes sound so good!

I see that there is one other person eating at a booth in this rather austere space. A woman my age. We smile and there is a tacit acknowledgement that we are both the silent type. We will be friends in silence.

But I am not without companionship. The family dog comes over and sits stubbornly to my side.





Is he hungry? -- I ask the owner.
Oh no! Just old. And he doesn't hear well.

So I rub his ears fora long while and then ignore him. And at that point he goes to my other eating companion -- the woman sitting alone to the side. He fares better with her.  
Ah, so you're hungry after all! He may be deaf, but he hears that note of invitation. He returns and waits.

I eat my delicious creamy endive soup and then a buckwheat crepe with cheese, egg and salmon, dabbed with salad and the Roscoff onions. With a glass of Brittany cider. (This is one of the few regions of France where apples dominate. No vineyards here. None at all.)






Pooch likes the crepe as much as I do! Satisfied, he lies down next to me with that look of complete gratitude and contentment.

Me, I proceed to the last course -- a dessert crepe with a choice of toppings. That's not hard: local honey!






Of course, this is just lunch. I must think of dinner! And maybe a dessert? And a fresh baguette for the cheese back home? To the bakery then. As always, there comes to be only one bakery. Your favorite bakery. That's not hard. Mine will be the place where madame is so kind, each time asking me something about myself. Each time offering me the warmest smile. I see that they have a lovely Far Breton -- the pastry of the region. Sort of like a flan, loaded with prunes. Perfect.






So that should be the end of the adventurous part of the day. I should retreat now. Read, write -- all that, in my warm little house by the chou fields. But the weather flips on me. Or rather it changes its mind. Rather than raining in the afternoon, the sun comes out and the world takes on honey tones -- ones that become Brittany so much! A sunny day here is such a treat: it reminds you that even the most stern countenance benefits from a smile. So just before dinner, I go out again. In the direction of the coast, though taking a different set of roads.

And I discover the most delightful loop, taking me to the town park -- a gorgeous space, especially now, in the early evening of a full spring day.






Not surprisingly, the grandparents are out, walking their little ones.






Up and down the grand avenue of the park. And then all the way back to town.






Going for a walk -- especially in the evening, or on a day off from work -- that's such a Polish thing! Or perhaps a European thing? Une promenade (fr), una passeggiata (it), spacer (pl)... Why don't we practice the art of the walk back home? We don't even have a good word for it in English. Let's go for a walk. How bland that sounds!

My promenade ends with flowers. And so does this post. Because this is spring. Brittany tells me springs is here.

the point is to walk

It is, hands down, one of my favorite things to do when traveling. To walk, to move, to see something new around the bend. City walks are great -- there's so much to see! -- but a good country walk has the benefit of quiet and of good air. I was raised believing that a hefty inhale-exhale of fresh air would clean the lungs and put you in good stead to face the future. It's almost automatic for me: when I step on a rural path and the breezes blow in from the ocean or the mountains, or the forest -- I take in a deep breath. Inhale, exhale.

And so when the skies dawned blue, with just a wisp of cloud at the horizon, I was in a hurry to walk. Rather than going into town for breakfast, I brewed my flower and propolis tea, cut into my honey spice cake (with figs!) and called it breakfast.






The most obvious hike from St Pol de Leon is the one along the coast: northwards, toward Roscoff. By road, it's an hour's walk. Along the coast -- at least double that.

You'd think that you don't need a trail marking for a walk along the coast -- I mean, how can you go wrong if the sea is to be your constant companion! But Ed and I did a five day hike along a different segment of the Brittany coast and losing the trail was a frequent and frustrating event, leading to retraced steps and lengthy delays.

Here, it's not quite so dramatic. You may lose the trail, but you'll pick up a road and eventually it all leads to Roscoff.

So, off I go, first on the road, to the sea.






And looking back, over my shoulder, I see where the fishing boats are kept.






Once I find the trail, I'm almost sorry to be off road. All those winter rains? They have made slushy mud out of the dirt here. Within minutes, I am splashed to my ankles (and beyond) in mud.

Must go on, must go on. I get a break when the trail goes down to the sea.






Yes, here are the grandparents, putting up with their grandkids on school break, while the parents work.






But the trai quickly veers up into the fields again -- artichoke and cabbage, everywhere the two Brittany cousins stand side by side. I am surprised how much human labor still goes into agricultural production here.The guy below is tidying up the artichoke bed by hand.






And now, finally, I come across the stone homes with the slate roofs and sure enough --  I am in Roscoff.

What can I tell you about this town: well, it's half the size of St Pol de Leon (so about 3500 inhabitants), but it feels busier. It's a more popular tourist destination (it's cute) and, too, it has a ferry link to the UK. Both for people and for agricultural produce. And if you asked Roscovites what the town is known for, probably they would unanimously proclaim -- onion johnnies! Not too long ago, French farmers would harvest and ship their very uniquely special pink onions (to a French person, every product grown in every region is uniquely special) to England, where they would go door to door, riding bicycles, selling bunches of these French gems to the bedazzled (so they say) English people.

Roscoff, is, of course, a fishing port as well. Here's a view of the old harbor, walking in.






And I happen to be here on market day. Half of the stands are the same as those in yesterday's St Pol de Leon market. Here are some mighty crabs though that just came in...






And, too, there is another prepared foods person, selling not paella and not chicken stew, but this:






But I'm not buying today. I walk briskly on, through town...






...until I come across a small card store. I look inside. There are racks of postcards, but they aren't the usual glossies. There are funky scenes of Breton country life and of colorful fishing boats and I'm quite taken by all of them. So I pick out a handful and I take them to Monsieur Louis who is sitting there, behind the counter.
He tells me -- you know, I painted the ones you chose. He shows me his originals.





I'm delighted. I tell him -- I like the joy in them!
I clearly said the right thing, because he smiles and digs out an article in the local press. It's about him and he shows me the title -- artist paints joie de vivre.
He says some niceties about my French and then mumbles -- I know English but I refuse to speak it.
Too difficult to communicate? -- I ask.  Oh, I guessed wrong on that one!
He is agitated now: No! I detest the domination of the English language! He is full of percentages and statistics about who speaks what and I am feeling apologetic about humanity out there even as, after all, this whole discussion started with a nod toward my French so that it's not clear why I should apologize for the anglification of the world at large. But I do. Because he seems so upset.

As always, when passions soar, it's best to change the subject: do you know of a good sea food place where the locals eat?
But I can't win. He tells me the name of one and asks me if I know what that stands for and I'm thinking -- it's probably the name of a local poet and I am going to show my ignorance of French-Breton culture if I say that I don't recognize it. After all, there are so many streets named after poets around here... let me guess that it's a poet. So -- is it a poet?

Another wrong calculation. It is actually a pirate who steels for his king and I get a lesson on this as well and before I make any more wrong guesses, I best be off, in search of his favorite seafood place. Which turns out to be closed for the day.

Never mind. There is an immensely popular spot (called La Bonne Etoile) just up the street and they have a good deal on a set lunch menu and so I eat a salmon salad, a fish of the day and I finally finally I have my morning coffee, even as it is now past 1.





On another day, I'll come to Roscoff to take the boat out to the islands, but for now I just want to keep on walking and since Roscoff is at the tip of a tongue that juts out to sea, I can stay on the trail along the coast and then eventually turn inland to return toward St Pol de Leon.

And I remember this about the northern Brittany coast: the tides here are tremendous. Your entire view changes, depending on when you look out toward the sea. We're at low tide now. Can you tell?






Here, the coastal walk is easy and mostly along a quiet road. But when I turn inland, I get lost on the many many rural roads and paths that cut through the landscape. (And in Roscoff, it is a slightly different landscape. Remember? They're all about onions here. Planted, of course, by hand.)






And as we get closer to Saint Pol de Leon, we're back with the chou. For this farmer, it's in the form of cauliflower.





I completely mess up with the trail home. It's hard to understand how I manage to do this, but after an hour or two of walking, I am nearly back in Roscoff again. It's time to get off the paths and stick to rural roads. Walking in circles is only fun if you don't have a destination in mind. I have a destination in mind: home.

On a quiet country lane, I come across three Breton lads. They have slingshots and they're practicing firing them but they pause as I approach them. They see my camera and ask for a photo. I oblige.





And they're curious boys so they ask where I'm from, and I tell them, and of course, they are surprised. You just don't expect to find someone from "north of Chicago" on your path through the chou and onion fields in early March. So they ask me how I like Roscoff and I shower the superlatives and here's the thing -- they say thank you! Instinctively. Thank you for saying nice things about our town. How many spunky kids out for a good time would think to say that? I wanted to find their parents and tell them what a good job they're doing in the rearing department, but thought better of it. The boys seemed concerned that I noticed their slingshots. Maybe they would not have liked parental notification on that score.

And now I am almost home. I can see the towers of St Pol de Leon churches. The last hill, the last farmstead...






Home. And it is almost evening, though you can hardly tell. Even though they don't do daylight savings until the end of March, they are at the western most edge of a time zone (Poland, on the other hand is on the east of it) and so the sun even now does not set until close to 7.

I eat a supper of bread and cheese and then I go out again. Just to take in the warm evening colors. And here, I can show you my little white house at the edge of the chou fields. Mine is the one with the rounded roof, next to a neighbor who has an even more modern structure.






I'll leave you with a photo of that flowering cabbage -- the Breton cauliflower. Because every day should have flowers in it, right?