Long table Sunday lunch

Our stay in Brittany was enhanced by our spacious home exchange which was set, along with a pair of detached studio apartments also available for our use, in a couple of acres complete with a large swimming pool, BBQ cabana, vegetable plot, orchard and cider press. 

The living areas comfortably fitted our steady stream of visitors and the wonderful Lannion markets ensured our kitchen was always well stocked with locally prepared dishes of succulent pork cassoulet and paella, great chunks of meat from the rotisserie, not to mention giant slabs of confectioner's nougat for the sweet-toothed among us.

So the food for even everyday meals was memorable. 

But one long lunch at Mr and Mme Doyen's restaurant in a little nondescript building, barely identifiable as a restaurant, in the tiny village of Ploumilliou, was worth a standing ovation. 

Following the advice of our hosts we'd attempted to eat here several times previously, but were thwarted by mishaps in communication and timing. Finally we secured a booking. Understanding, only, that our meal was to involve "fruits du mer" we arrived at midday for Sunday lunch and sat down to a long table preset for our reservation of seven, already holding aloft two giant platters piled high with the freshest Brittany seafood available: crab, oysters, prawns, langoustines. 

This seafood feast took us, and everyone else in the restaurant who was fortunate enough to make a reservation for it, well over an hour to crack, pick and probe, and when, finally, we polished off the last morsel we fully expected to be handed our bill, and to head off home. 

We'd had elegant sufficiency. We were replete. We thought we had finished, in truth. 

Instead, another course was placed in front of each of us: a sublime skewer of fat white scallops, strips of smokey bacon and charred red peppers over a mound of fragrant rice, topped with champagne sauce, and slivers and squares of blanched vegetables as garnish. Too perfect not to touch. We all dug in, moaning with delight, but groaning that we, literally, had no room to spare. 

By now some of us had cottoned on that this was only the fish course, so, when a meat course inevitably arrived at our table, a jog around the restaurant block was never going to create enough room for it. Sadly most of us just looked at this delicious plate of perfectly cooked pork and mushrooms and wept. It looked sublime. It smelt sublime. We simply had no space. 

By now we were used to the Bretagne tradition of a madly generous cheese board served with beautifully dressed green salad leaves tangy with mustard, which typically follows the main course. When this arrived at our table some of us recalled the previous Sunday in another restaurant in another village, when a couple at a table beside us, finding they couldn't manage their cheeses, came prepared with plastic takeaway doggy bags and a large capacious purse. Those two are likely still eating their Sunday cheese selections. No doubt, superb. 

Finally, dessert. Not a wee slice, not a small dab of a little something sweet, but a mountain of a dessert, individually prepared, and presented as a choice among many: each sufficient as a meal in and of itself. Around four o'clock we settled into rich serves of dark coffee and a side of luscious chocolate, and in a state of stupefied satiation chatted with our fellow diners at La Doyen, one of whom happened to be celebrating his 96th birthday. So, in fine spirit, we amped up the Aussie noise, birthday wishes and kisses, ensuring the day remained memorable for him always. 

An amazing lunch. Made even more amazing given that we had no notion what was on offer, what was coming next, or even what it might cost in the end. As it panned out, even adding in four bottles of red and four of white, the bill, per person, barely pushed $AUD40, including the tip. 

Bravo, La Doyen! 

Our exchange home

The hub of the house

You could smell the pork crackle

Nougat the size of cheese wheels

Seafood platter

Scallops en brochette

Pork main

Cheese board and green tangy leaves

Sinful dessert

Gibbets, dungeons and disillusion

One of the prettiest villages we visited in the western Finistere was Guerlesquin (gair-less-ken) which today is noteworthy as a petite cite de caractère and well deserves its classification.

Guerlesquin historic centre harks back to the ancient regime operating in France until it was overthrown by the French Revolution. The square held the functions of the manorial administration and justice was meted out on Mondays.

Offenders heading for the hereafter were promptly directed to the gibbet in the Place de la Liberte: off with their heads.

While offenders to be imprisoned were thrown into the icy dungeons in the dark basement of the Seigneuriale prison called the Presidial, built in the heart of the square in 1640 by the Lord of Guerlesquin, a commander of Richelieu's guards.

This prison, today, is a very pretty square fortress-like building with circular watchtowers, called bartizans, sited on each corner of the building. It was saved from destruction, classified as an historical monument, then set to function as the town hall as late as 1965.

There were market days aplenty in Guerlesquin, and the little granite town became famous far and wide for its horse fairs. A stone corn measure dating from 1539 is all that remains of the original market hall, this to measure local grains for taxes paid to the local seigneur. The hollowed-out measures were supposed to represent portions of a bushel, but the measuring stone came to be called Ar Men Gaou, the Liar Stone--as it measured too generously, of course, in favour of the tax collector.

Which was just another trigger, another of the disillusions, that lead to the revolution by the people, of the people. for the people.

Ninety lime trees were planted in the park called the Champ de Bataille, the Battlefield, and here, though no battles have ever been recorded, local lords were trained in the militia. Today, an old stone fountain of Saint Ener has been re-sited in the gardens of the park.

The church of St Tenenan replaced one to St Ener in the 16th century and its pretty bellower is all that remains of the original. Beams on the walls of the porch bear remarkable wooden statues of the twelve apostles, saved from the earlier chapel to St Ener.

An historic little village, Guerlesquin, filled with bits of history that have not yet been lost. 

Guerlesquin, petite cite de caractère

Seigneurial prison, Guerlesquin

Ar Men Gaou, the Liar Stone, corn measure

  

Lime trees all in a row

Saint Ener fountain

Wooden statues of the Twelve Apostles 

  

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