Sunday in France

Maybe it's all in my head, but to me, Sunday in France always feels special. Different. Notable. And this is true whether I'm in Paris or the countryside: I see things on this day that belong only to Sunday.

How so?

Well, so many people still do adhere to the middle of the day, family meal routine. The afternoon dejeuner where two, three generations sit down to eat. I have had one French woman scoff at this and tell me -- for us, it's like any other day. But she was in the States as she said this. Her family and her husband's family were in France, likely lamenting that their children have ruined the Sunday tradition for all of them.

Then there is the afternoon promenade en famille, or perhaps with your sweetie. I cannot tell you how many such walks I witnessed today. And here's something that is more common in this country than perhaps in any other place that I've been to: people hold hands. At all ages. a lot. You'll see this in my photos later on. And you may laugh at me for noting it. Isn't it just one of those irrelevant French things? Young people kiss in public, old people hold hands. Yawn.  But to me, it's so... life affirming. It's as if you're saying -- the world may come crashing at us from all sides, but I have you at my side and that is enough to get me through it all.

I write all this because I don't treat Sundays in France lightly. I am always aware of this special day, particularly at meal time. I recognize the importance of eating early, in a familial stting.

True, most Sundays I am here alone. My participation in any afternoon ritual is always from the perspective of an observer. I'm not one of those sitting with family and friends, I'm only watching others do so.

Still, I take great pleasure in knowing that this love of intimate connection is there and I don't run from it: I put myself right in the middle, so I can savor this aspect of French life, as the French live it.


So -- what to do, what to do on this second and last Sunday in France? I decide to go back to Roscoff. Saint Paul de Leon takes its action mostly home. Roscoff is much more public in her presentations, especially on a gorgeous day like today.

A quick honey cake breakfast...





...and I'm off. I catch the one bus that runs to Roscoff today. I'm somewhat in a hurry: I want to walk, my sore back notwithstanding (walking is good, sitting is okay, getting up from a sitting position is torture), but I want to cover new terrain: along the western shores of the Roscoff peninsula. I want to follow the coast far enough so that I can get to the sandy beaches that look out toward the ocean (and still have time enough to make it back for a big lunch in Roscoff).

And so I take the minibus along with one or two others and I begin my walk in Roscoff. And I must repeat this again and again: the day is absolutely brilliant. The tide is low now and I first walk along a small bay that is, therefore, almost without water.











But when I come to the long stretches of sand along the open seafront, I have my fill of ocean views. Not that I even consider getting wet. Only one person is swimming and he has a wetsuit. And a dog, wondering what the hell his master is up to.






At 90 minutes out, I have to turn around and head back (for the 90 minute return).


 


If I want my big Sunday meal, I must get to Roscoff by 1:30. I'll catch the tail end then of the grand repas.

I'm back at the place I ate in two days ago. It's small, intimate, crowded. It has freshness written all over its sweet white lace curtained face. Today, there are the families. Here's one right next to me. They were already eating when I arrive and they barely are at the dessert stage when I leave.






So what to order on this special day? It's time for my one sampling of the Breton seafood platter.  It is full of the shell fish of Brittany: oysters, small snails, large snails, shrimp, crab.





It takes forever to eat and you need to work hard to get out all the good stuff and typically Ed cleans up what I cannot get to, but it stands for all the good stuff the waters have to offer and it is served absolutely plain -- with only a vinaigrette at the side for oysters and a home made mayo in which to dip snails and crevettes, if you're so inclined.

It's at once a filling dish and a light dish. Seafood bare and simple. I'm enthusiastic, until I eat one too many snails and then I just count how many until the end. It is so satiating that I wont miss it for the next handful of years.


And now I still have another 90 minute segment -- the walk back to St Pol de Leon. And it is so sweetly satisfying now. I know the route, the bends, the farms along the way. The sun is in my face and I take off my glasses and close my eyes as I walk on.

In the Roscoff segment, I am, of course, surrounded by Sunday strollers.















All the way to the edges of town.

But after, I am mostly on my own.





















Except for the occasional passerby, equally enraptured by this perfect spring day (we all comment on it). Oh, and at one point I pass a picnic table by the fields. Two couples are at it, not eating, but listening while one person reads out loud from a book. Poems maybe?






As I approach St Pol de Leon I feel so much like I am coming home. My little house is just at the edge of town and I always see it there, by the fields, as one of the first markers of the town. The cabbage field belongs to a manor that is hidden in the forest to the side and as I come closer, I pass a group of four locals chatting at an intersection amicably. One of them has a plastic bag full of daffodils. And then I pass another woman and she, too, has a bag of daffodils. So I ask about them.
They're from the forest -- she sweeps her arm in the direction of the chateau.
Can I go in there? Is it allowed?
Well, it's part of the chateau, but if you enter over the stones at the end of this path, you can see the daffodils. Just stay to the edge of the property.
Can I pick one or two stems?
She laughs. Look how many I have!

Is it that there is a popular rebellion against the spoils of the chateau landowners? I don't think so. He (it is likely a he, no?) probably knows that the local folk come and pick the wildly spreading flowers and he probably looks the other way. I'd like to believe that I am here with tacit permission. But maybe not. And I've seen a dog run through these fields so I am sure not to overstay my (possible?) welcome.

Oh, but it is beautiful here! A mysterious forest, dappled by rays of the late sun, with endless patches of daffodils. Most are not blooming now (or, have they been gathered by the locals?) and still, it is a place where fairy surely play.






I do come across another woman, picking with her friend. We murmur greetings. The forest deserves a silent presence.






It is a beautiful moment.


 


They say there's an ocean fog rolling in tonight. No matter. I had my Sunday in Brittany. And it was sublime.

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.