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.

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.