En Bretagne

The sun rises in Perros-Guirec at 8:20. (In Paris it will have been just short of 8 today). This means that when I wake up, I can still see the pinky peach colors of the predawn light.

And by the time I am out of the shower, a band of gold has hit the waters of the English Channel.

Notable is the fact that there is sunshine. That's a surprise! None was expected in the days leading up to the weekend. It's as if Brittany wants me to forget that the last few trips here have been cold and wet. Well now, the day is opening up very good possibilities.

Breakfast first.

It's nice enough. Big windows, great views (but then, I have that in my room). There is, however that bigger hotel vibe. There are in fact 45 rooms at the Agapa, spread over those 3 buildings. (By comparison, the Baume in Paris is tiny at 35, and the Hotel Mont Blanc in Chamonix is at 40.) It feels smaller because my building is indeed small, but there are clearly enough rooms to accommodate a seminar group here. So the breakfast room is large and the buffet -- a classic buffet. A little of this a little of that. I search out the Brittany stuff, and it is there: Far Breton -- a custardy cake with prunes, brioche with jam from their best local bakery. They also have great seeded breads which pair well with Brittany salted butter! And finally -- a classic: buckwheat honey, which I love. All told -- it's nice.

Around me -- that seminar group. French. And a sprinkling of older couples of all genders -- mostly French, some British. This feels nice -- like I've entered a place that draws on those who live nearby.

 

The tug to be lazy is strong, but the tug to walk the trail while the weather holds is stronger.

To understand the walk, you have to visualize a map of Brittany. To me, it's sort of like an image of your left hand, with five stubby fingers (St Malo, which starts off Brittany after leaving behind Normandy, is at the wrist). Perros-Guirec lies at the tip of the thumb. (Finistere -- the very western most tip, is like the middle finger sticking out at the ocean, though Bretons would never say fuck you to the sea -- they know better than to feel superior to its might.) My walk would circumnavigate the thumb. Not too long -- about 10 kilometers (a little over 6 miles), though I mix it up a little, because in the end, after walking the shoreline, I do not retrace my steps. I meander through the middle of the thumb.

Off I go!

Down the steps first. Noticing the flowers:

(anemonies are everywhere)

Toward the beach.

Do you see that blue sky?? 

Boats on the water. The sailing school has kids out doing figure eights out there. At the same time, a group of grownups seems to be doing aerobics in the sea. In wet suits.

(I'm guessing these are the moms of the sailing kids)

Sea gulls sunbathing... wait, do birds sunbathe?

Bathing huts and catamarans for rent. Ed, where are you?!

 

 

Looking back now from the GR 34 trail: a truly remarkable golden glow on the wet sand.

Looking forward now: the rugged coastline begins.

What stands out? The pink boulders! Oh, those huge boulders! However did they pile up like this?

An unbelievable landscape!

There are scattered groups, or pairs of people. Not mostly French, all French. A weekend walk in the sunshine. Locals maybe? They're not taking pictures and they're chatting up a storm, so probably. Wouldn't you be out on a day like this? Bonjour! Bonjour!   

What's this? A 17th century poudriere -- where they stored powder for the cannons.

A house, a lighthouse, and a boulder that looks like it landed from pink Mars.

No idea what this next building is. An old chapel maybe?

It's not totally quiet. There is the wind. There is the occasional French chatterbox. And there are these two, talking to each other (my bird identifier tells me they're European robins):

(A nice French group offers to take this photo)

And now I am at the other side of the thumb. No longer in Perros-Guirec. This is the Plage de Saint-Guirec. Quiet. Empty. Well, except for this guy.

(I love that they make all the beaches here free of smoking.

Just a little further is my final coastal destination: the Port of Ploumanac'h. Lots of pleasure boats, probably staying put for the winter. Some fishing boats too. It's a completely protected little bay.

The port itself is totally quiet. But there is one restaurant, and quite a number of French families in it. I'm not especially hungry, but I could use some water and maybe I should go for a plate of local cheeses... and a Kouign Amann! 

 

(This one comes with ice cream...)

I'm curious about the landscape away from the sea. This is a chance to admire some of the distinctive Breton houses. Either stone, or white with blue shutters... They're lovely to look at. So I veer away from the coast and try to find my way along the crisscrossed roads, determined to not once look at my phone or google maps.

I do find this Sculpture Park -- these are in fact made from the local pink granite.

And I come across a country school...

And an old windmill, about which I know nothing...

And yes, the Brittany houses are lovely. And I should mention this: Brittany isn't an especially warm region of France, but nor is it cold thanks to the Gulf Stream. This is why you see the occasional palm...

Though mostly, it is a region of blue hydrangeas and roses and pink daisies.

(neighbors, chatting)

(winds blowing)

(I wonder where I am...)

(Oh! my beach is that way! Down I go...)

So this is where the local populace has been hanging out! Well who could blame them!)

I am ready to take a rest in my room up those steps! I've been out and about for nearly five hours!

In the evening, I have a reservation at a local restaurant downtown. I wrote them, they wrote back. All is set. Here's the place:

Except that it's closed.

They must have decided to go away at the last minute, because a handwritten sign tells me that they're gone until the end of next week. Well great... What now? It's starting to rain...

I dont want a fancy meal at the hotel today, but perhaps that's the best alternative on a Saturday evening? 

No it's not. They're fully booked. But they call down to La Plage and they have a table for me. Great! I can try some of their fish dishes. Even if does mean going down those steps again. And back up afterwards. In the rain.

(the restaurant is a scant 12 minute walk... but all the way down there, by the beach...)

 

 

But the dinner is wonderful. Just what I like: fresh food, with no mistakes. The fish, a Saint Pierre (which is, I believe, a John Dory), is not undercooked or overcooked. The veggies are still crisp. It's all delicious!

 

I have a dessert of ice cream. They do ice cream really well here -- this one is raspberry and vanilla with bits of meringue, and of course caramel.

How can you not smile? Despite the rain, or maybe because it's Brittany and its raining?

with love...

En Bretagne

If I look at Ocean's sidebar, which counts the days I spent in destinations away from home, I see that in France, Paris has dominated. Well sure. For any number of reasons. Second place goes to the France's southern Languedoc. That's because in years past, Ed and I spent weeks there together, year after year. But the clear third is Brittany. I've traveled there alone, with Ed, with a friend, with the young family. Fact is, I love Brittany -- the northwestern most tip of France. I love that there is a coastline of course, but I love that it is not uniform. The north shore borders the English Channel, the south and west -- the Atlantic. Then there's the Brittany of the interior -- agricultural. Artichoke land. Dairy, too. Salted caramels were born here -- as if someone thought to bring the salty air and cover the milky sweet candy with it. When Ed and I first came here back in 2007, I'd been with him only for two and a half years. We returned twice again and I liked it so much that I asked him if we should consider investing in a summer cottage somewhere on or off the Brittany coast. I knew him that little! (Investing in a vacation home, no matter how shabby, is the very last thing he would ever do.) We hadn't found a perfect place to stay then and I imagined that in our own cottage, I'd tend the garden and talk to the locals, thereby perfecting my French, while he sailed in some small rental sailboat (of which there are plenty). If grandkids were to be born, we'd keep them for a chunk of the summer and teach them both French and sailing. That's how little I also knew myself, as a grandparent! As if I'd like being that far away from the young families, for that long!

Yep, I love this area of France. Sure, it can be drizzly. And even if I spoke French, I would be a misfit because locals like to keep their distance from Parisian types. There's a reason why their dialect (Breton, or as they would have it -- Brezhoneg, from the Celtic language group) appears frequently on signposts and elsewhere. But the scenery is stunning and the food is amazing and the people are kind. 

And yet I never found a good place to return to. The towns and villages were too remote, or too touristy, or not accessible without a car, or with few good hiking options. Eventually I stopped trying and explored other regions of France.

Still, every now and then I'll poke around on the internet to see if any place catches my eye. And most recently, I found Perros-Guirec. Population: just over 7,000, so it is a town rather than a village. At 525 kilometers from Paris (325 miles), it's easily reachable by a TGV (rapid train), then a local train, then a bus or cab. It lies on the so called Rose Coast, bordering the English Channel (there are famously pink granite cliffs everywhere). There are beaches -- three of them in fact, and the seaside is dotted with turn of the century villas. And there is a small hotel that looks like it may have great views. I decided to give it a try.

Ed and I hiked the Rose Coast, with backpacks, stopping in small towns along the way. That was that first Brittany trip, now 17 years ago. We stopped just short of Perros-Guirec, doused in rain and bad weather. Typical Brittany variability. At age 54, I felt I could do anything. At age 71 I understand that attitude to have been youthful exuberance. (From Brittany, we took the train to southern Provence, where I biked with him, still with packs attached now to the velos. That was brutal! I was not trained to bike the steep hills of Provence!)

That's one long introduction to the fact that today I'm off to Brittany.

It's a beautiful day -- perhaps the one partly sunny day in north central France this month! I haven't the time to appreciate it.

I go down to breakfast (good thing I decided to stick with the hotel meal because it seems that my room does come with that breakfast).

 

And then I check out, and take a cab to the Montparnasse station. [If I wanted some practice in listening to rapid fire French, I surely got it in my 15 minute cab ride. The driver was on fire, talking with exclamation marks. This, in French: can you believe it, it was 3 degrees C this morning (37F)! That's January weather! And the heating bills! Mine have been double those of last year! Maybe more! I offer that the weather will warm up next week, that his bills are probably because of the war. You bet they are! They fight the wars. Americans send weapons to one side, other countries supply Russia and who pays the price? Regular citizens pay the price. Can't they resolve their differences with words? No comment on my part there. So he continues. All the way to the Montparnasse.]

Parisian train stations are complicated things. If you are used to their layout, you wont think twice about it, but to those of us who are once in a while French train users, you have to give yourself time. I have time. It seems the older I get the closer I come to the stereotype of the senior who always gets there way in advance of the scheduled departure. Forty minutes today! 

And soon I'm on this train (TGV -- Train au Grande Vitesse) speeding toward Brittany.

And in three hours, I am in Plouaret-Tregor, where I simply cross the platform to the waiting local that will take me straight to Lanion. 

 

 

 

A few minutes later I am at the L'Agapa Hotel by the sea.

What can I say -- perched as it is on the cliffs of the town (it has steep stairs leading to the water), it offers a stunning view of the wide expanse of the Trestraou Beach, the water, the seven (uninhabited, except by birds) islands and, too, the houses spilling down to the oceanfront. Here's a two part view from my exquisite deck, looking to the left, then straight ahead:

The hotel itself is an Art Deco building, restored from its original 1930s structure by a dedicated couple who integrated stone, steel, copper and glass inside and out, to create something unusual, yet fitting to the region (you're going to love it or you're going to frown at it... it's not your usual old mansion by the sea). I'd seen pictures of it so I was prepared, and I do in fact like it, but I dont give it much thought because the setting is so perfect that I can't waste any minutes staring at my hotel. Everything else is so fantastic.

(A corner of the main building, and below that -- a view taken later, from the beach towards it. The hotel has actually three buildings -- the main upper big one, then slightly lower -- my smaller one, and thirdly -- an even smaller traditional brick building that you can rent out in its entirety.)

I want to take a walk. Honestly, I'd be happy just taking it easy out on the deck for the rest of the day, but I understand the rains are coming later tomorrow and so if I'm going to be seizing the moment, it better be this moment! Where to? First, the town. I'm giving up on lunch (it's after 3), but I do want to find a bakery. I'm hoping there's an open one. Breton baking is up there for me. The best of the best. (You dont believe me? Read Lebovitz's article here.)

And I do find one, and yes, despite it's mostly empty shelves, it still has the most delicious pastries of them all -- the Kouign Amann. I'm deliriously happy.

Now let's find an open cafe bar and take stock. (I order tea -- it's getting too late for coffee for me.)

Several surprises, all rather pleasant.

Perros-Guirec is not precious and I am glad. I dont want precious. Precious brings lots of people with cameras (I know, like me!). Towns focus on sweetening their cobble-stoned streets even more by installing tourist attractions and transforming themselves into something they think you and I want to see. I prefer a town with a stable home population, supported by tourism to be sure -- all French beach towns are going to be that -- but also having a life of its own, preserved for its own residents. Sorede was like that: well, it wasn't a beach town, but it also wasn't particularly stuck on pleasing the likes of you and me. It had its own charm that wasn't immediately obvious. You had to go search it out.

Perros-Guirec seems in the same vein. Well, with a slightly greater bend toward tourism and a more commercial centre ville, but still, it strikes me as having its own soul.

 

 

Shockingly, I see no tourists at all in this central intersection. Plenty of locals greeting and kissing each other. Pausing for a drink (beer or coffee) and a chat. I sit down and soak it in.

And this particular cafe-bar has a steady trickle of locals, older mostly, but not only. 

 

 

 

And, too, one of them sets up to play the guitar. French songs. He mustn't do this very often because they're all about encouraging him, and many take out their phones to do video clips of this guy, presumably to send to others they know. Everyone is smiling. And that's contagious! I'm smiling too.

The other interesting thing to note is that there are a few shops that probably do depend largely on visitors. This being France, I'm sure most British visitors come here in June and September, and French families -- exclusively in July and August. It's wonderfully dead right now. I'm actually surprised by that: why wouldn't a Parisian want to come up here for the weekend? It's only 3 hours by train from Montparnasse. (Well, obviously some are here, because my hotel is open. And I should note that I would not be able to afford its wonderfulness in high season. My travel budget fits well with the prices in the dead months!)

A surprising and curious little fact is that just about every store in town closes now on Sundays and Mondays. Weird, don't you think? Is it that they want to at least try to catch the weekender, but not so much that they're willing to give up their Sundays for her or him? Of course, I am here on both those days so if want to do any shopping, it better be today (or tomorrow).

 

 

Do I want to do any shopping? Not especially, but Brittany does offer solidly lovely kid stuff. Lots of shirts with navy stripes. And a few stores are stocked high with them. So I shop. For my cinq.

Back up the hill I go now, veering off to my street...

 

 

I drop off the bag(s) in my room (ten minutes away from the center of town) and head now in the opposite direction -- toward the beach. Down all those steps.

I dont really need to swim in ocean waters these days, even in good weather. I like doing exactly this: walking on wet sand, licking my lips of salt, looking at the occasional brave soul who does try the cold waters, smiling at the kid who plays paddle ball with his dad after school. This, to me, is the perfect beach scene, one I want to participate in!

 

 

 

 

A couple more cute shops along the waterfront. Empty. I look there as well. I admire the symbols of Brittany emblazoned on tshirts, sweatshirts: salt, crepes, puffins. The letters BZH that stand for Breizh -- which is Breton for Brittany. Fish, waves, rain. Yeah, I'd say that's a good summary!

 

 

It's 6 now -- too early for dinner. I walk up the steps to my room. Past homes with those classic Brittany hydrangeas, now fading from their bright blue and pink colors

A look out my room's windows at the view that you cannot tire of...

 

 

 ...And a few minutes later, I walk back down, because my dinner place for today is called La Plage. The hotel has a restaurant, but it's not cheap, so I'm saving it for a later day. This evening I go with one of their recommendations. As the same suggests, it's on the beach. There are a few diners, but not many. I hear French, I hear British English. The stragglers who didn't get home before the end of September!

Seafood. Obviously this is what I want. I'm in Brittany -- this, more than anywhere else in France, is local seafood country. Oysters, lobsters, sea bass, sea bream, pollock, mackerel, sardines, clam, shrimp, mussels, snails sold in Paris so often are from here. 

I order that Brittany seafood platter. Just to have it once. A mixture of oysters, shellfish, snails. All good, though of course, you'd have to be pretty inept to mess this up. Oh, and a veggie salad, so that I have my share of veggies for the day.

A diner, obviously one in the know, gets up and goes out with his phone to take a picture. Must be good, so I do the same. 

And it is good.

The sun sets inland, behind us, but the sea waters pick up the colors. So beautiful! 

Tomorrow, one more big test for this place: does it offer good walking options? Hint: I now the answer already. At the end of this beach you can pick up the GR 34 -- the trail Ed and I used to hike along the Brittany coast.

with love from this enchanting place...

a full day in Paris

When I was boarding the plane in Madison, I thought how my Paris stay was wide open. I planned nothing. I told myself that I would wait until an idea formed. By the time I came down to breakfast this morning, images formed, ideas were born quickly, effortlessly. I wrote them down: Jardins, Les Nereides, bookstore, Cyrillus, Petit Bateau, Bon Marche, Cafe Varenne, d'Orsay. No imperatives, but this will give structure to my walk. 

This is what came of it -- my one non-rainy, full day in Paris:

Gray skies outside. Actually, the whole day is rather gray (initially). Does it matter? No, it does not. I have sweaters, I have a jacket. I have a French scarf. It's October after all.

I come down for breakfast. They've shuffled things around a bit. No more self service, and there's a menu. With prices. And this I approve of -- they've kept the price of rooms steady, but they've made the breakfast an extra option. There are days when eating breakfast elsewhere is really very tempting. Today is not one of those days, but still, I like the freedom of going down the block for a bigger croissant. But today, I find my favorite seat and order the usual.

Again, it's like watching a film in slo-mo. Every bite is deliberate. Every movement -- steady, unrushed. Nothing but the moment. This is Paris for me!

I start my walk. I'm rested, I'm so happy to be here. 

And yet, it's not easy to stay focused on just what's near me, and to move slowly all day long. When I come to busier streets, my pace picks up. I shop a little for the kids and now I feel as if I am part of the city's machinery. I'm using my credit card rather than my eyes. It's good, but it's not slow and quiet. It's intentional, but I'm sliding into a rhythm that is too familiar: my pace has quickened.

 

 

I'm in the neighborhood of the Cafe Varenne. There was going to be a day when I ate lunch here. As it happened, I'm in the vicinity, it's the golden lunch hour in France. So of course I stop. I love this place so much and yet, it is also true that this has to be one of the busiest, tightest eateries to park yourself in for a midday meal. Nonetheless, the owner and the waiters take the burden off of you so well (they find a space for you, they talk to you, you could be a tourist from Korea (I sit next to one) or the dignitary from the elites of Paris (plenty of those from the government offices nearby) and they treat you like you're their best guest. 

 

 

And in letting them do their work, I relax, again curbing the adrenaline rush that comes from that faster pace.

Lentils and poached eggs. Just that. Delicious.

But I don't linger. I want to take my packages home before heading out to the Musee d'Orsay. My Stockholm knee is acting up (so labeled because the very first time it went awry was in August, in Stockholm), and yet I do the long walk to the Baume, even though I have to be back again to this neighborhood for the museum. Seems like this is anything but leisurely.

But it's okay! Switching my pace, falling into step with the city's demands is just fine, because I know I can step out again when I begin to feel dazed by all that I want to see and do here.  I can even (oh horrors!) retreat to my hotel room and stay there for hours on end. No one will frown. No one will care! No one will know. (Well, you will know.)

Still, today I'm not needing a hotel room retreat. I want to go back and visit d'Orsary.

The urge to pop into this museum actually surprised me. I had checked the exhibitions in advance and felt no tug. But I suppose the publication of the new book on Monet stirred me up. Plus I have a specific request for an item from their gift shop. I cannot imagine standing in line to get in and then bypassing the art while there. So I buy a ticket. And because it is a weekday in October, I can easily get one for the late afternoon. This is the best time to visit d'Orsay -- toward evening. 

I take the bus most of the way. No lines at all to the entrance. I'm in.

While there, I spend the first hour rethinking Monet. Canvases of his, re-imagined, thanks to the article I'd read on September 16th (so just two weeks ago). 

I'm a little unsettled by what I read in that review of the book Monet -- a Restless Vision (I have yet to read the book itself). My first attraction to Monet was born of the same feelings most people have when they look at his canvases: they seem (at first glance) serene, often idyllic, bucolic, delightful. By the time you've come across the range of his paintings, you of course realize that there's more to this man than a love of pretty gardens would suggest. But you're hooked and you keep on looking at paintings like this one...

.. with such love for what it does to your inner soul. You don't feel sold out or manipulated. And then, you read about the man himself and can you now separate the art from what you learn about what drove him to it? I already knew that he made his kids work hard to keep up the garden at Giverny. But that's only a fragment of his story. And to be sure, I don't just fall for the art of persons whose lives I find to be noble or admirable. I first look at the painting. Nonetheless, I see now in Monet's canvases the disquiet that the author of the book apparently claims drove him to paint as ferociously and in the manner that he did (based on extensive research, and I mean extensive!). I'm seeing that now and it's just a tiny bit sad to recognize it. Maybe I should have stayed with my love of his colors, landscapes and gardens!

Seeing this painting of the Giverny bridge:

... also makes me think that it really is time for me to go back to Giverny. It's a great bother to get on that train, there and back, in one day, but maybe I should do it anyway, if not on this trip then surely on the next.

Most of the time, when I finish with the Impressionists, I feel done with d'Orsay. Unless there's a special exhibition that lures me in. Today there is indeed one, and though on paper it seemed just okay, in reality it is fabulous! It's on the work of Harriet Backer-- a Norwegian woman who painted in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. So in the period of Impressionism, and indeed, she was a great admirer of Monet and other painters of his caliber. She never reached great levels of fame outside of her home country (though she studied in Germany and in France) and indeed I have to admit -- I'd never heard of her! But oh my, is her work grand!

The theme here is music and color and you can understand why -- her art touches on both (she came from a musically talented family and her use of color is exquisite!). She painted quite a number of people playing the piano.

An incredible exhibition. See it if you're in Paris before January 6th!

[A note on museum photography: how well I remember the days when it was a real no-no to take out your camera in a museum and especially for a temporary exhibition! How grateful I am to smart phone inventors who put that camera lens into the phone! It popularized picture taking to such an extent that rare is the place that will tell you now to put that camera away. There are just too many people wanting to take a picture of paintings, sculpture, anything! Even the view out the museum window.]

I walk back slowly now. The day was full, but it had those gentle pauses and lovely moments that are nearly always here for me in Paris. 

For dinner, I booked a table at a place called Le Jardin Saint Germain. I dont remember how or why I chose this, though I'm sure proximity to the hotel (a seven minute stroll) played a role. 

(across the street from a high school)

It's good. Well prepared stuff. But I'm not likely to return. The restaurant is very tiny and the menu too is very tiny. That doesn't usually bother me. Rare is the day that I can't find something interesting to eat. And yet, here I am: a fish dish, duck confit, and two beefsteak main courses. Did they make the duck confit themselves? Many places dont bother. And if I scratch that off, what I have left is steaks or the fish dish. I like fish. But this one is served by a waiter who is hell bent on speaking English to me and he better be well trained for it, because the place is full of Americans. I expect that a good portion of seats would be taken up by my country men and women, but this one is just not making it in the neighborhood at all. No French to be heard at any table. And to really add insult to injury -- their four deserts are "brownie" "apple pie" "key lime pie" and "pain perdu." That's just painful. I take the pain perdu, which is very good, though it could be argued that this, too, is a glorified serving of "french toast." It's as if the place is trying to demonstrate a fine way to cook our American favorites. Too bad, it really is very close to the hotel. On the upside: the fish was very good, the pain perdu was good and the waiter speaks fine English if you need that in life. But then, is there a waiter or waitress these days in Paris who doesn't?

 

 

I'll end with this note on speaking English here. As you know, I try not to, at all. One reason I will always favor France over other European destinations is that I can try not to. And so when I popped into Les Nereides -- a tiny handmade jewelry store just a few steps from the Jardins, I once again launched into my French. This time the sales clerk knew pretty quickly that I was not from this country. Anytime I go beyond two or three sentences, they know. And so she asked where I'm from. Quebec? No? So maybe German or Dutch? It's back to that. For some reason, I speak French like a German or a Dutch person would! Or, is it that I look the part? Austere and Germanic? Dutch-tall? Certainly not! The funny thing is in all my years of travel to France, no one has ever, ever guessed Polish or American.

I am a woman from nowhere, I am a woman from everywhere.

Tomorrow, I leave Paris.