Dinan and the River Rance

The last day in Brittany. Monday. Clear and sunny. But the winter frost has settled in during the night. Nothing serious, mind you. Nice to look at.





I step outside into the garden and note that some flowers are still holding their own. Not many, but some. (I have to say, we could not be, in the end, happier with our Dinan apartment rental. I don’t really want you there at times when I’d like to return, but for those other months, ask about the place where Nina stayed, at this site.)

But how should we tackle this day? Here’s s a challenge: do we look for breakfast (late as ever)? Do we eat dessert crepes with jam, just across the river? Or do we climb up the hill and forget that it’s breakfast? We're remembering our one and only lunch on our first day here: buckwheat crepes with scallops. Or maybe we should climb up and hike over to the bakery and the hip café that we grew to love in the course of our stay?

Well of course. The latter. So, up the hill we go. Ed pauses halfway. See this alley? Don’t you wonder where it leads? So many times we climbed here and we never noticed it! We’re rewarded now with views of the river port below, and of the old town up the hill.








And now we’re at the bakery. Bonjour Monsieur-dames (a French shortcut: greeting for the man and woman who walk in together)! Qu’est-ce-que vous desirez?

What do I desire? Another week in Brittany. A summer in Brittany. The moon. But a baguette traditionel and a pepite (flaky pastry with chocolate and crème patisserie) will please me as well.



At the café, it’s lunch hour and we hesitate about taking space for a coffee and our own bakery treats. But the waiters here are superb and they encourage us to come in and sit at our old table. Ed “reads” and I watch, transfixed by the utter professionalism of these men.









Still, the afternoon is quickly speeding away from me. One last sip, one last glance. And now we’re moving briskly. Down the hill...




...where we retrieve our Smart little car. The idea was to hike the coast of the River Rance. It's interesting that we are so close to the sea and yet we have settled into river life, being loath now to leave it.

We drive up to Langolay-sur-Rance (maybe fifteen kilometers up from Dinan). We want to pick up the hiking trail there, but it’s hard. We don’t have good maps and the trail’s intersection with the road is not well marked.

Still, there is a lovely view of the wide at this point River Rance. Like in the Finistere, the tide works its way several miles down into the river basin. It’s low tide now.





...And still we cannot figure out where to start our walk.

Tick tock...

I suggest we stop looking and drive to the next village. By our most general map, the road goes down to the water and so does the trail. We can’t not find it.




Indeed, not only do we locate the trail, but we also encounter a group of hikers. Seniors, actually. Maybe a dozen. Where are you from? – I ask, curious about who would choose to straddle these coastal hills on a cold (it’s midthirties at best) December afternoon. From St Malo! Just across the river. There you go – it’s for the sport, isn’t it? I don’t ask what is their average daily consumption of le tele, or of frites for that matter. It’ll be less than mine and I’m not a big tele person.

They’re heading south, we’re heading north and so we bid au revoir by the heels of the Virgin Mary (at least I think it’s the Virgin Mary) and set out.




I can’t say that it is a warm trudge. The trail cuts through the woodlands midway up the bluff and we are on the western shore. Translation: there’s not much light, let alone sunlight here. The views are pretty, but the night’s frost hasn’t entirely melted away.




The trail moves away from the water for a few miles and now we do have the low sun on our backs as we admire the shapely trees and the... what? Fields of cauliflower? Collards?








Back to the river’s edge and onto another village...

...and the next one. The river is in the shadows of dusk now.

Tick tock....




It’s time to turn back. It’s past 4 and the sun does its disappearing act between 5 and 5:30, which gives us just a little over an hour of good walking light. If we swallow our pride and take the auto road rather than the coastal path, we should make it back to the car in good time.

I’m thinking -- it’s been a glorious week. Sigh... Ah well... Tomorrow, I’ll still have Paris.

But I should insert one caveat here: just after we passed the Virgin Mary some hours back, I asked Ed – did you take the map?
No... did you?
No...
I suppose we don’t need it. It’s not much good. Too general. Just lists the villages...

Alright. And now we walk along the road, in the silence of deep satisfaction. Another good day.
















We reach the first houses along the road. We go left, then right, then left again. Toward the river bank, past one set of houses, past another. Down the bluff, to the river.

So why isn’t there a Virgin Mary at the point where the road meets the river?

We look around. Strange – none of it is familiar. Where the hell are we?

Three old women are strolling along where the water sends wavelets onto the shore. What should I ask? I don’t know the name of the village or road where we parked. I don’t know anything at all, except that we are by the River Rance – a river that flows in an uncomplicated fashion so that, walking along its edge you cannot get lost. It is logically impossible to get lost.

Except that we are terribly lost. And the sun is touching the horizon.



Tick tock...

I ask one of the three – the oldest one actually, the one with pink cheeks and deep lines of maturity -- the trail is here, no? I see the markings. But where is the statute? You know, of the Virgin Mary. The one at the bottom of the road with the red lamp posts?
The Virgin Mary? Of, yes, I know. Yes. But really, it is far away!
So we can get there by taking this path?
Yes, I believe so...

We pick up the trail. The sun is gone. There are no more shadow. Ten minutes – Ed says – and we turn around.

Neither of us understands how it is that we could be in completely unfamiliar territory. But if we overshot the village by a great distance, we should not be out on a path that cuts through a steep bluff by the river. We should be back on the road, flagging cars, asking for directions... to somewhere with red lamp posts and the Virgin Mary.

Twenty minutes later and we still see nothing that is familiar. No road, no village. Ed says – let’s turn back.
I hesitate. I know we will not die by the River Rance. But we may well have to claw and grope our way back on all fours if we don't soon get ourselves into recognizable terrain.

But I believe the old ladies. We move forward, careful not to trip in the dimming light.

And finally, around the bend, we see it: village lights. The road leading to the river’s age. The faint outline of the statue.



Of course, logic wins every time. We simply took the wrong turn. At a place where the land juts out in a sweeping stretch away from the village itself. We could see that on the map. Once we found the car and looked at the map. (The car was right by this house:)



We drive back in the dark Brittany night. It’s getting close to seven. Stores will be closing soon. Dinan will become very quiet.

We’ll be eating crepes tonight – up there, at the top of the cobbled way. We stroll with the relief of being safe, on streets where we don’t need maps anymore.

What dessert do you want? Ed asks suddenly.
Dessert?
I was thinking maybe we could go down to the bakery and see if they had those mille feuilles we had the other day in Dinard.

Down to the other side of town, Stores are closing, but our bakery stays open. 7:30. We close at 7:30. No, they don’t have the mille feuille. Days don’t end in perfect bundles.

But, there are lemon tarts still on the shelf and really, we could use a baguette traditionel for the car ride to Paris tomorrow.

We’ve utterly strange pests at the bakery – me, waving my camera, Ed, stuffing the baguette each day into my pack. And then, suddenly, we will not show up anymore. I say good bye, but I skip the a bientot (see you soon). The ladies there who sometimes crack a smile (but often do not) will not see us again, nor we them.

The creperie we choose for the last evening meal...



... comes highly recommended, but we’re not smitten with it. We had our own favorite.

We do our final walk down the cobbled hill.




For a week we lived in Brittany. It’s time to return home.

and suddenly...

Perhaps you worried that the Ocean author had disappeared into the now thin and crispy Brittany air? (It is crispy now. It is at its crispest. In the morning, we awoke to a thin layer of frost.)

No, not that. But I’ll say this for now: life seemed pretty easy up there, in Brittany, until the travel gods decided to stir things up a bit for us. Suddenly, it all became rather tricky. Truly, were it not for the lovely old ladies (and I mean old: many decades older than Ed or myself) on the water’s edge outside of Dinan, and were it not for the angelic somewhat younger woman outside the Gare Montparnasse in Paris, Ed and I would not have had the good outcome that we can, in fact, boast of now, at the end of out trip here.

I cannot write about it at the moment. I am in a lovely albeit tiny hotel in Paris and the Eiffel Tower is just minutes away and all is (finally) calm, all is bright, or so they say. But I haven’t the spare minutes to even look at the Tower. I am catching my breath and packing my bag so that we can pick up our flights out of here soon. (Ed is sleeping. Adventure or not, a day, for him, cannot end without a decent spell of sleep.)

I’ll resume tomorrow. Come back then. I’ll explain why it is that you should always be prepared for mishaps. And you should, when traveling, take them with a smile. They are, after all, what you remember years from now when you think about that December trip to Brittany....



night comes quickly by the River Rance


...followed by a few hours in Paris...



driving in at dawn

More later.

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.