Pink granite coast

Three hundred million years ago when the earth rumbled and magma flowed, hot matter bubbled up from the bowels of the earth and lay itself down to cool along the coast of Brittany. The rock that formed from that event is the loveliest pink granite, found only in a couple of places on earth. Feldspar, I think, might give it its colour. Here, the pink granite is reputed to still reach down to a depth of 5 or 6 kilometres, so, even though it is being used up rapidly, there seems to be enough of it that it is likely to be around for a long long time. 

Time and tides and tumbling are slowly eroding the surface of the granite until, today, there are patches of pink to be found all along a 20 kilometre stretch of the Brittany coast close to our summer home, from huge cartoon-style menhir-like boulders of soft pink granite, down to smaller pebbles of it on the beaches, to fine grains of pink sand permeating the bays and the waterways. This stretch of coast is named after it: la cote de granit rose, or the pink granite coast.

One of the most unusual sights along the pink granite coast as, oddly, it has its back to the sea, is the Pointe du Chateau, or Castel Meur. This is a home, built as close to the water as a building can get, but facing inland to a lagoon. It looks as though it has grown organically out of two rocks, or been caught and trapped tightly between them. A house on the edge: it appears strong and immovable, yet the tenacious sea is just a few creeping metres away. Time and tides.

Further along there an exclusive little village with a tastefully expensive hotel that has an exotic tree planted in its garden at Plage St-Guirec. 

Beyond the tree, and a little way along the sandy pink plage is a tiny rock Oratory dedicated to Saint Guirec, one of the mystical monks of Brittany who sailed across from Wales in order to start his monastery here in the 6th century. A little like Pol. So beloved was Guirec that by the 12th century a shrine was built here in his honour and it is maintained even today. Young women, seeking to get married, or pregnant, would make a pilgrimage to this spot and tweak Guirec's stone nose, demanding his intercession and prayers. Saint Guirec's nose has now completely worn away. Poor Guirec. Such are the trials of sainthood.

Over the point and down onto Tregastel Plage the granite rocks are giant, even theme-park in their monstrosity. 

A stunning statue in the local church is tinged pink.

Children over the decades have found names for the odd rock shapes along the coast: the pile of crepes, the skull, the great chasm, and the dice.

Even the summer beach cafe is decorated to maximise the pink theme.

While yellow buoys and blue seas come together on pink sands.

Eiffel House, Ploumanach

Perros Guirec - north of Trestraou beach, pink granite

Pointe de L'Arcouest-  white rock, pink beach

Castel Meur, Plougrescant

Hotel tree, Ploumanach

Oratory of St Guirec, Ploumanach

Pink rocks at Tregastel place

Tregastel church

Theme park rocks at Tregastel Plage

Tregastel - Plage Beach cafe

Primal - Tregastel buoys

Relics and miracles

On the feast of St John the Baptist, we were extraordinarily lucky to see a Pardon taking place in the village of St John du Doigt, just a stone's throw from our summer home. 

A 'Pardon' in Brittany, is a bit like a grand confession, followed by an even grander procession. And today, as in the Middle Ages, these are the biggest religious festivals of the year. Pilgrims gather from early morning till the last prayer is uttered, praying long and hard for indulgences to be granted by the saint whose feast it is.

This village takes its name from the saint's relic kept in the parish church. This particular relic in this particular village is the right index finger of St John the Baptist. Voila, the village is called St Jean's finger, or St Jean du Doigt. 

Mind you, this is not the only church in the world claiming to have the right index finger of St John the Baptist as its church relic. There are others. Nonetheless, the Pardon continues in this village, year after year, regardless of this anomaly.

St Jean's finger came to this village quite miraculously. Actually, many of the stories to do with this finger abound in miracles. 

After devoting his prayers to St Jean's finger almost to the point of exclusivity, a young medieval knight returned home to France after his crusade only to find as he neared his destination that the object of his adoration had miraculously attached itself to his person, lodging beneath his wrist cloths.  

Not a finger of blame was thought to be apportioned. This was immediately deemed a miracle. 

The finger relic found a home. Pilgrims came, miracles happened, its fame spread like wildfire. And over time, the finger became famous far and wide for healing eye afflictions. 

The English, at the time of Henry V11, even attempted to steal the famous finger, only to have it time and again be found returned to its niche in the village church. Unmoved and unmovable. 

Anne de Bretagne, hearing of its amazing powers, sent for the finger to heal an eye problem she was having. Her henchmen, though, were thwarted every time they attempted to move it further than the church door. From there, it simply flew from their grasp, returning itself back to its rightful abode. 

Duchess Anne quickly deduced from this that if she wished to be healed she would need to be the one to make the move. This she did, taking herself on a pilgrimage to St Jean du Doigt, and, on finding a cure thanks to the finger, showered many gifts on the church and its parish in gratitude. 

St Jean du Doigt's Pardon is a Pardon of Fire. After mass, hymns and prayers, the pilgrims and participants gather high on the hill overlooking the village on one side and the bay on the other. Here, they light a massive bonfire that acts like a beacon far out to sea. These last few years we have seen St Jean feast day bonfires on hills as far south as Portugal. 

A procession follows, winding down to the pretty enclos paroissial in the valley below. Followers carry gilded crosses and colourful banners with decorative insignia. Taking pride of place in the middle of the cluster is the relic of St Jean's finger in its precious glass casket. 

Several of the stronger members of the crowd carry a large ship, accompanied by heartfelt prayers seeking to avoid shipwrecks along this dangerous coast. Statues, candles, smaller relics and other intercessions follow step by step down the hill to the church. Many of the celebrants are wearing traditional Breton festival gear. There are ladies in lovely lace bonnets aplenty. 

Inside the church as the followers congregate, a queue forms down the aisle of the nave ready to receive the very special blessing so many have specifically come for. A priest carefully takes the ancient relic of St Jean from its place of repose and gently touches it to the eye of each pilgrim needing relief. He stays, offering the cure, as long as his blessing is needed. On, into the night, if necessary.

Outside, after the Pardon, the village streets, inn and bar are beginning to fill with those who have a reason to celebrate. The night is still young when we head for home. 

Contemplating: that this has been happening in this village for over 600 years. Year after year after year.

Pardon of Fire

St Jean's finger relic in glass casket

Processing a ship accompanied by prayers to avoid shipwrecks

  

L'eglise de St Jean du Doigt

L'eglise de St Jean du Doigt

Gentle touch to relieve each pilgrim

On weighty issues

Not far from our house, through the village of Ploubezre (plew bear), where we buy our daily bread and frequently stop for morning coffee in a little Bar-Tabac, then on about a kilometre or so, at the intersection heading for Tonquedec, is a Calvary of Five Crosses. 

Throughout rural Brittany on even the most remote crossroads you can find similar lichen encrusted crucifixes. It is not often you see a calvary. And you rarely see five crosses together. 

This set is really interesting. There is a high cross in the centre and the other squatter crosses are set into a platform making a calvary of crosses. One of the crosses is ancient, dating from the 10c. It also has the date 1728 inscribed on the back. This date is generally believed by most to be when the five crosses were assembled into the calvary.  

Notwithstanding.  Noted Anglican theologian Ethelbert William Bullinger, early in the 20th century, wishing to argue a specific point about the number of those who were crucified with the Lord, in his Companion to the Bible, took photos of these very crosses, in situ, on one of his many visits to Brittany.  

Using the photos, and the existence of five crosses together, as 'weighty' evidence, Bullinger wrote:

"Mislead by tradition and the ignorance of Scripture on the part of medieval painters, it is the general belief that only two were crucified with the Lord. 

But Scripture does not say so...it is clear…that there were four "others" crucified with the Lord...

To show that we are not without evidence, even from tradition, we may state that there is a "Calvary" to be seen at Ploubezre near Lannion, in the Cotes-du-Nord, Brittany, known as Les Cinq Croix ("The Five Crosses")."

So, it seems that there is evidence and there is 'evidence'. And if you are wanting to make a 'Bullinger point' in an argument you simply set about pursuading others using such 'evidence'. 

Les Cinq Croix

The Celtic connection

Where we have been living is a rural part of Brittany called the Cote d'Armor, where, in isolated towns close to the coast, signs are more oft than not written in Celtic than French. Which frequently reminds us of the remoter parts of the west coast of Wales and Ireland where we've seen similar things. 

The Celts started moving into this part of the world as early as 800BC. Most likely their early involvement revolved around the tin mining trade that was becoming lucrative all around the Mediterranean as the Bronze Age evolved: tin was vital in the manufacture of bronze. 

The Romans started moving their muscle about around 50 BC, and took no time taking control over this little corner of the world, naming it Armorica, from 'are' meaning on or at, and 'mori' meaning the sea. Which is how this part of Brittany eventually became known as Cote d'Armor. Near the sea. 

As the Roman power waned then, around 450AD, wealthy Britons, escaping troubles at home with burly Anglo-Saxon invaders, chose to come and settle here. More and more came as the decades and centuries passed. Which is how this part of the world came to be called Brittany.

The very roots of the Celtic language still spoken in parts of Brittany stem from these aristocrats. They brought their language and culture with them; their myths and legends, including a version of King Arthur's tale; and their bards and beverages: there are at least as many varieties of apple cider in Brittany as there are in Cornwall. 

Even their holy men came, Saint Pol being one of them. 

All of which has left Brittany rich in Celtic history and folklore. 

Breton signs

Breton merchant medallion decorating a house 

Traditional Breton woman medallion on the same house in Pontrieux

Breton house with decorated arch at Le Yaudet 

Pilgrims and enclos paroissiaux

Having received so many earthly riches from the linen trade the wealthy merchants of Brittany, particularly those in the villages behind the major linen port of Morlaix, sought to gain good graces from the heavenly sphere as well.  They set about building grand enclos paroissiaux - or Parish Closes, which they embellished as abundantly as their deep purses would stretch. 

We hunted these parishes down, visiting as many as we could, one fine day. 

As the linen money kept rolling in the Breton parish enclosures became decorated to the point of flamboyant. Gothic flamboyant is the most common style. Stone is curlicued, steeples and belfries tower to near-toppling over the parish, holy structures groan under the weight of figurative and elaborate stone dressing. 

A Parish Close in Brittany has some particular, even distinctive, features. The village church and cemetery and all the holy buildings set aside as places of worship are typically walled.

This need for an enclosure might have its origins in the Celtic notion of keeping sacred things defined. Bretons stem from the Celts. The churches are often the plainest part of the complex, though quite frequently the ceiling of the nave is painted as blue as the sky and encrusted with golden stars, and individual and separate carved figures of all twelve apostles appear somewhere in the church. 

The walled enclosure usually has openings. Often, in these Breton villages, there is an august triumphal arch for truly magnificent occasions like weddings and funerals and pardon ceremonies. 

Behind the arch, in the sacred ground, stands either a single stone cross or a more complex stone calvaire, or calvary. If it is a single stone cross then typically the figure displayed is that of Jesus. More often an Enclos Paroissial displays a calvary, with many crosses, and women, particularly the Marys, seen present as witnesses to the crucifixions. 

Finally, there is an ossuary, a charnel house, a bone house. In this building relics of the dead were often kept. At the very minimum, two long bones and a skull, from which the skull and crossbones stems, were stored: the symbol of man's mortality. Sometimes, too, the ossuary is more like a crypt, or a funerary chapel, deep in the bowels of the church. 

These were the times of the touring Pilgrims. From church to church they traipsed all over the continent. Somewhat like modern day tourists, scores of pilgrims would have been seeking a bed, an ale, and a banquet at the very least. Each evening. 

There would have been large numbers of pilgrims and each parish would have been very keen to compete for their custom, for while the linen money built these extraordinary closes, attracting pilgrims would surely have helped defray the ongoing costs. For such small villages, in such tiny parishes, to have built such extraordinary pieces of work was an amazing thing in that pocket of time in history. 

We spent the day agape. But finished off wondering: where did all the pilgrims go?

St Thegonnec pulpit still demands attention

Enclos Paroissial - St Thegonnec

Tredrez church

St Thegonnec-a triumphal arch that many of the churches in Paris would be proud to claim 

St Thegonnec Calvaire--a collection of crosses

The crypt at St Thegonnec:one of the most beautiful pieces of church art I have ever seen

Amazing stonework in the Calvaire at Plougonven

Age-spotted stone on St Thegonnec Calvaire still shows exquisite work

Once there was linen

I think flax is still the oldest domesticated plant yet found in recorded history. The earliest fibres of it were unearthed, millennia ago, in ancient Georgia. In more modern times, villagers in Brittany grew very rich growing the flax plant in the 17th-19th centuries. They mainly sought to use the flax fibres for fabric. Not the seed so much--which is popular now as linseed oil. 

Brittany flax farmers grew metre-tall, fine-stemmed flax plants topped with blue flowers. When ready for extraction Brittany harvesters would take the long plant stems and remove the seeds by rippling them. Or winnowing.

These longs stalks would then go into tanks or pools of moisture for retting, to gradually destroy the glue, or pectin, holding the stem fibres together. 

Following this the villagers began the process of scutching whereby they took handfuls of the weakened plant fibre lengths to beat and crush so that the remnant stalks fell away and the soft filament fibres were exposed. 

Finally, the villagers took chunks of the rough fibres and heckled or combed them, until they were long strands of shiny soft flax fibre, just like hair. Flaxen hair. 

The villagers took these long lengths of flaxen fibres spun them into yarn, then wove them into fabric, called linen, and bleached, or dyed it, if needed.

For over two centuries linen was whitened all over Brittany in water that had been warmed over oak chips. From the bridge over the river Trieux, which gives its name to the town -- Pontrieux, the river is literally lined with remnant troughs for linen washing.

Today they are filled with flowers, testament to the state of the trade nowadays. 

The yarn would have been washed in these troughs, the skeins laid out to dry in the sun, in and out, in and out, for three long months of whitening until it was ready to be made into fabric. 

The linen cloth made in Bretagne was used mostly for sails so needed in the constant wars that were being waged and the trade that was being conducted across the seas. For over two centuries its production made the ports along the coast, and in many of the small inland villages, as wealthy as they had ever been.

Or were ever likely to be. 

Lavoirs along the River Trieux, today filled with flowers

Linen from Brittany villages was used mainly for sails

Bollards, birds and barbary

On  another fine day we found a boat to take us out to the Sept Isles, off Perros Guirrec, a bird watcher's paradise.

Our attention was first drawn to the knitted bollards on the dock as we headed towards the Gare Maritime to buy tickets. The bollards had been covered in long cylinders of beautifully knitted 'jackets' -- all in a bright and cheerful patchwork of different colours, textures and patterns.

This knitting graffiti, we soon discovered, was a bit of 'yarn bombing' by followers of the Knitta Please movement. Knitta Please was started in 2005 by an American whose pseudonym was PolyCottN, who teamed up with like-minded others: AKrylik, SonOfaStitch and PKnitty, knitting up a street art storm: giving signposts, lampposts, fire hydrants and other urban targets knitted graffiti kit, in order to beautify public spaces.

Knitta Please spread quickly with internet publicity finding keen followers in Australia, Japan, South Africa and Scandinavia, and now,  a member has decorated this corner of the world in Brittany: on the docks of the port of Perros Guirrec.

We head off to board the boat that was to take us tripping around the Sept Isles, a group of tiny islands and reefs which form a small archipelago not far out to sea. Since 1912 these islands have been protected as a special habitat for migratory and mating birds.

The first island we viewed was the Isle Rouzic where Northern Gannets breed. This is the only place in France where they do breed. At any one time 20,000 pairs of mating gannets can be seen on this rocky crest and from a distance its top appears thick with a covering that looks like white snow. The white is all gannet nests. These are so precisely, so mathematically, spaced at such an acceptable social distance apart that you would think they had taken a tape measure before setting up each nest. Gannets, we learned, are incredibly faithful and nest year after year with the same partner, often finding the same nesting space this year as last.

The hunter-gatherers amongst them whizzed past our boat with rockets on their feet, small spherical flashes of black and white bombs diving beak first into the sea for their evening meal. Down six metres and up with a catch.

Near another island we came across a tiny colony of puffins floating on the sea. Some 120 couples of puffins are here at the height of the season, but they usually head south about now so this was an opportune sighting. Lucky to see any at all, in truth, as until 1912 puffins were slaughtered in this part of the world, but, thankfully, the League for the Protection of Birds which runs these boat tours and looks out for these islands, put paid to that.

We first saw puffins in Newfoundland years ago, and then, as now, they appeared as funny little fat bundles of black and white feathers with snappy bright flashes of orange, yellow and blue on their beaks, that, together with their movements, make them appear to be playing 'the clown' with other birds about.  So I tend to think 'sea clown' whenever I see a puffin now.

We paused to watch a couple of lone grey seals lounging on rocks. One rested on his side on a jagged tip of rock sticking out of the sea. As we watched he lazily twisted over and around, completing his evening exercise regime, preening, as he placidly allowed us to take our many photos.

Further on, past guillemots and gulls we came to the forbidding Isle aux Moines. This is called the Monks Island because, in the fifteenth century monks from a strict order of observance chose to live here. Their mission in doing so was to find a place on earth to live where their living conditions were so hard that they might earn indulgences that would grant them a better place once they reached heaven.

I remember this thesis from primary school. I remember every Catholic nun and priest I ever knew, but particularly the fire and brimstone missionaries who were sent to us from Africa, attempted to imbue, or indoctrinate, us with exactly this philosophy.  I remember asking wasn't everywhere in Heaven perfect? Why would you need to earn a better place? So, I learned early in primary school, that there are rotten places to go in Heaven, too: places that people on earth worked really hard to avoid ending up in.  The message didn't quite work with me.

It didn't quite work with the monks either. They came. It was cold. It was wet. It was way too hard out on these wind-lashed rocks. Added to which they were terrible sailors. So many shipwrecks did they have coming to and from the island that one day they simply chose not to return.

In their stead came pirates. Then a few centuries later some hemp smugglers. Neither of whom stayed too long either. A lighthouse was built in the nineteenth century, and bombed in the twentieth. And though rebuilt it now stands alone and untenanted.

The island has been left for the birds, who are entirely happy here.  And that seems to me the way nature wants it to be. For the birds.

Knitted bollards

Precise positioning of gannet's nests

Puffins at play 

Funny face

Grey seal frolicking on a rock

Monks' mission island

The dragon slayer

One of our lovely lazy days was spent visiting the Isle de Batz, a short boat ride from Roscoff. This Isle is famous for its unspoilt character. Its peace and serenity soaks into your bones as you climb the little port street curving around the boat-strewn Baie de Kernoc'h.

In days long past it was not all quiet on the island of Batz. Legend has it that Batz was once beset by a dragon. Luckily a young holy man named Pol, who arrived on the island from the mainland, had miraculously cured several islanders who were deaf, paralysed and mute, so was the obvious choice 

Dressed in his full ceremonial regalia and accompanied by a warrior Pol set off to the island's distant shores to slay the dragon. But there was hardly a need. So overcome by Pol's mesmerising presence was the dragon, that he meekly succumbed. And in one version of the tale Pol simply lay his stole around the dragon's bowed neck like a rein, led it to the rocky shore, and ordered him into the foaming seas. He went, never to be seen again. 

We found the spot, Trou de Serpent, on the wild west coast where legend has it the dragon disappeared. All around is soft spongy grass, covered in pretty pink flowers, quite idyllic now. Atop the next hill overlooking the sea sits a remote stone hut, moody in its setting, a likely resting place for Pol and his warrior after their legendary tussle with the dragon. 

Like Pol we found a quite spot, just under the 19th century lighthouse where we rested our weary bones and ate a memorable Breton crepe luncheon accompanied by delicious cider served in small round ceramic mugs. Utterly delicious and cool. 

As the clouds above blew hither and yon, locals, on their hands and knees in their vegetable plot, were pulling potatoes from the ground by hand. Some five hundred folk live on Batz year round and most of these now work the land growing potatoes and cauliflower. Ile de Batz potatoes are sought after and sold at the marche in Paris.

As we wound our way back to the ferry we could see the thousand year old ruins of the Chapelle Ste-Anne silhouetted against the sky in the east, the patron saint of the island's fishermen, for whom a pardon, a pilgrimage, is held here among the ruins, every July. 

ts foundations, it is believed, may have been built over the site of the monastery that Pol built after slaying his dragon. Pol found peace here, too, it seems.

Trou de Serpent, Isle de Batz

The tide is out in the Baie de Kernoc'h

Soft grass and flowers where Pol met the dragon

Remote cottage on Isle de Batz

Potatoes headed for Paris markets 

Chapelle Saint Anne 

Crepe and cider for lunch

It's not easy being green

While we were in Brittany some of the beaches were covered with a spongy green that we thought initially must be a soft marshy grass growing across the sand. We explored, only to discover it was deposits of argues verte, sea lettuce or seaweed. Or kelp. 

When times are right, as now, when the temperatures are mild and the seas slow, shallow and incubator-warm, when there is nitrogen and phosphorus present, conditions are prime for the appearance and rapid growth of sea lettuce. Tons of it.

At places it lies over the sand as thick and mounded as green rocks and is often called the 'green tide'.  

When conditions are wrong, when temperatures rise and the seaweed dries out, crusts up, decomposes, and is disturbed, it can be lethal. People and animals have died from the ammonia and hydrogen sulphide that is released when the beds are turned in its toxic state. 

Since prehistoric times seaweed has been used as a fuel, then it was hand-harvested along the Brittany coast. Over time gatherers loaded their horse drawn carts with it, as they carried it off as a free fertiliser -- given its high potassium content. Harvesters dried it out, lay it on the sand, then burned it in long shallow stone-ovens along the beaches. 

Even Napolean found it incredibly useful. Iodine as an antiseptic had not long been discovered, and when his wars were being waged there was a need for large quantities of antiseptic for injuries. So Napolean found it beneficial to build factories in Brittany to extract iodine from the harvested seaweed. Some 25 tons of seaweed were needed to make just 15kg of iodine. 

Machines have taken over and now move masses of it by the ton. Seaweed is now used in all sorts of applications including glass manufacture, face masks in beauty therapy, as a setting agent in food technology such as desserts, jellies and custards, and even as a jell in toothpaste. 

Some 80,000 tons of seaweed are collected from the coast of Brittany each year and over 500 people are employed in its collection and associated industries.

It has been called the 'green gold of Brittany', and given how much there is, that is not surprising.

'Green tide' at Saint Michel sur Greves

Thick sea lettuce 

Harvesting Brittany's sea lettuce