The House Husband

Spent a lot of the day being damp and/or wet due to the rain which came and went. Worst weather day of the entire holiday…so far. Still, we never let that stop us.

Today was Isle de Brehat day. We took off up the main coast road to Paimpot and then out the other side towards the Pointe de l’Arcouest, from where the ferries leave. There is parking of various kinds; we took the 24 hour option and wandered down to the dock where we bought a ticket which includes a circumnavigation of the island before landing.

We managed to get a reasonable enough seat outside, on the top where we were entertained by the tannoy in French which we understood at the rate of about one word in 20. Made it very difficult so we gave up translating and made up our own version instead.

The Isle of Brehat at low tide, seen from the sea

It was very low tide so a lot of rocks were sticking up out of the water. They all disappear at high tide. The island is really two islands joined by a small bridge. When I say small, I mean very small. It’s about 15 metres and, while we were there, only crossed a load of mud.

We landed at the low tide dock which meant we had a long walk onto the island proper, along a winding dock where the high tide mark towers many metres above your head. The first thing you see is the Hotel Belle Vue so the first thing we did was sit down to lunch with the beautiful view looking back towards the mainland.

Lunch was lovely and the entertainment was pretty enthralling as well. A young couple were on the dock opposite having an argument. We couldn’t hear them so we had to make up most of the dialogue – actually ALL of the dialogue – but we could follow the action pretty closely from the body language. Not as closely as the two chaps standing about ten feet away from them who we should have quizzed. They’d have known what it was actually about.

Anyway, there was a lot of her with her arms crossed and him sitting, his legs hanging over the edge of the dock. Her feet were planted firmly on the ground and his hang dog expression was pitiful. And then he rose to his feet (he was at least twice her size) and the argument took on a more physical aspect. I don’t mean they started punching each other out! They just started waving their arms in the air.

At one stage he waved a load of objects at her that resembled cassette tapes. I can only assume he had made her a load of party tapes and she had left them behind and he was upset about it. Perhaps because she didn’t have a cassette player or didn’t know what a cassette player actually was. Then, having made the point about the party tapes, he deposited them in various places about his garments.

And then, just as we figured they had finished with each other for good and he was going to swim back to the mainland while she ended up working in the lighthouse at the bleak end of the island, they hugged. Then came the reconciliation. Lots of touching, hair brushing, kissing, hugging, lifting off the ground (he lifted her, she did not reciprocate) and, finally, they came over to the restaurant, sat near us and had lunch.

We finished our lunch, bemused and confused. We set off for the lighthouse via the bourg. The bourg in this case, is the centre of the island where the shops are. Interestingly the Isle de Brehat allows no cars. This is quite good as the island is not very big and the roads are minute. Sadly it means the locals take great joy in herding people off the small streets using their tractors. I don’t blame them. I think I would too. A lot of people visit this place and, apart from the people selling little for lots, it must drive the locals mad. Most of the ones I saw looked mad.

And I must not forget the bicycle riders. Millions of them. Like flies but far bigger. They fly all over the island, taking right of way unless surprised by a tractor, getting annoyed that some of us actually walk.

Just one of the annoying bike riders on the Isle of Brehat

I’m making it sound horrid but it wasn’t. The island is lovely and the walking fairly easy. It’s only small. It takes about an hour to walk the entire length! The houses are lovely and the absence of traffic is wonderful. The island is home to some beautiful wild flowers and tended gardens and lots of birds.

We walked all the way to the lighthouse Paon which looks like it was created as CGI for a Lord of the Rings film. It nestles into the pink granite like so much celluloid fakery. A wonderful structure, almost art nouveau in its design. To cap it all off, the rain started as we wandered around the base. Wind and rain lashing us from the sea, we fought to maintain our footing. Some less brave French tourists huddled under the only shelter on the lighthouse – the lintel over the door. It looked about as effective as a Kleenex.

Crazy tourists huddling for shelter under the lintel of the Paon Pharos

Damp and happy, we slowly wandered back, stopping for the smallest coffee I’ve ever had, in the smallest creperie just before the lighthouse. It was pretty strong just concentrated in a tiny cup – like an espresso – and took longer to wait for than to drink.

As we reached the dock for home we were greeted on our long march by the ticket collector from the ferry telling everyone to walk back, the dock had moved because of the rising tide. Mirinda was sure a sign would have worked better but I think this guy did a wonderful job pushing us all back. Besides the sign would get washed away twice a day.

We were a big throng, waiting to board the 5 o’clock ferry back to the mainland. Most of the throng was related to Stefan, who was nowhere to be found. Judging from the people who were very concerned about his whereabouts, I think he probably stayed on the island to escape them all.

We had our doubts we’d fit on the ferry but fit we did and we were soon chugging back to where the water had risen so much that the gangplank was almost vertical when we left the boat.

The dock at Pointe de l’Accouest at low tide, returning from the Isle of Brehat

Walking up to the car park was a bit of an adventure. I didn’t think walking up the road was a good idea so I followed a sign that pointed the way for pedestrians. When we reached a fork in this path with an arrow pointing right, Mirinda dismissed this vital bit of information, demanding that we go left. Left we went and the nicely laid path ended in a dead end. Clearly we were not the first stupid people who thought the path that headed towards the car park was, in fact, a path to the car park and not to a large metal shutter over an opening in the hill, because we found a path worn in the mud and between the trees leading us on, into the foliage around the car park. We slid down the final hill and found ourselves where we needed to be. As we reached the car, the rain started again.

As we pulled up by the car park kid to pay him, the rain came down harder than any rain I’ve ever seen in Europe. The car was slowly filling up with water as the kid counted out my change by the cent.

Only one slightly bizarre incident marred an otherwise uneventful drive home. At one stage a wood pigeon dive bombed the car. According to Mirinda, it suddenly dropped from a tree. I figure it must have been commiting suicide. It hit the side of the car, leaving traces of the white powder that birds lose from their wings when they run into windows, on the side of the car. Otherwise there was no other damage.

We had a rather disappointing dinner tonight. We had spotted an Italian restaurant on our first visit to Binic so we thought we might try it out tonight as a change from Breton food. I really, really wish we hadn’t. It was pretty bad. Mirinda had ravioli – the sauce wasn’t bad but the pasta and filling was not in the last tasty. I had saltimbocca, a favourite dish which I also cook. It wasn’t saltimbocca. Although it was veal, it was a different dish that the waiter had clearly taken down incorrectly, and it was tough. The sauce was not very nice. All round, the meal was ghastly. We didn’t bother with dessert, coffee or a tip.

We went to the ice cream place instead where Mirinda had white chocolate and Ferrera Rocher flavours and I had pink bubble gum and popcorn. Fabulous. I am SO going to miss the ice cream place at Binic.

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Sleep was disturbed! Mirinda woke in the middle of the night firmly believing there was a bush fire in the woods next to the chateau. It was not a bush fire, however, it was a bunch of mischievous cows out for a night on the razz. And, no, they weren’t trying to light cigarettes under the shelter of the trees. The flickering light was caused by loads of fishing boats out at sea. The bush fire noise was the cow’s hooves through the undergrowth as they walked deeper into the woods. This place is so ridiculously quiet that Mirinda was disturbed by their breathing. Needless to say, I slept through it all.

Actually I had a great idea for the first episode of a sitcom but I shall not write about it here!

Rain! Outside, through the window, we can no longer see the sea. All we can see is the rain. It is only light but there is a lot of it. How depressing! It didn’t last too long. We had breakfast, sat in our room for a bit studying and then it stopped. We went out.

Today we saw something that Mirinda has wanted to see for years. The chapel at Kermaria-an-Isquit, dedicated to Itron Varia an Iskuit, which is Breton for St Mary of Healing. I had no idea. The thing that makes this little place famous – and the village is very little though the car park is quite large – is the frescos on the walls of the church. They depict the dance of death; the danse macabre. A long line of people holding hands with cadavers as they all dance a jig. The paintings are high up the walls of the church. Originally, each picture would have had text beneath it and the rest of the walls would have been brightly patterned. At some stage, the walls were covered in whitewash and it wasn’t until 1856 that someone found them and, by doing so, saved the church from destruction by an overzealous parish priest who’d rather have a new one.

Part of the Danse Macabre fresco at Kermaria-an-Isquit

What is left of the fresco is amazing. You can clearly see the skeletons between each type of person (the king, the bishop, the beggar, the lady, etc), all of them holding hands. The idea is that we are all equal when it comes to mortality. You can be the pope or you can be a rope maker but we are all going to die sometime and will wind up dancing a polka with a skeleton sooner or later. It really is fascinating.

Another amazing thing about this church is the porch. The Rough Guide reckons it is the best preserved in all of Brittany and, from the ones I’ve seen, I’d agree. It is rare to find a porch which retains its statues but this one does. It is very impressive.

After a long stay at Kermaria, we drove on a little further up the D786 to the small village of Kerity where the ruined Abbaye-de-Beauport is located. Fantastic place. A little like Tintern Abbey in that it was an abbey and it’s now a ruin. Very similar bits left.

Interestingly, Beauport was established as a way-point for pilgrims on their way to Spain from England. Because of this, the abbey received regular payments from four parishes in Lincolnshire. When the monasteries were dissolved, this cash instantly dried up and the Abbey had to survive on its own wits. It doesn’t appear to have had many. It soon fell into disrepair – the sea wall collapsed a number of times because they did a lousy job fixing it.

Cloister in the Abbaye-du-Beauport

What is left is a lovely romantic ruin with lots of wildflowers, bushes and wildlife invading it. We spent an age wandering from room to room and managed to work up two big appetites. Luckily, just across the road, is the Abbaye Creperie. What a coincidence. We had galettes and coffee. The creperie is memorable for more than its food. I’m ignoring the woman in the strange red shorts and the long wait to have our order taken.

More memorable is the fact that the light in the toilet is somehow connected to the lock on the toilet door. This means you enter the toilet, shut the door and, in complete darkness, lock it before the light will come on. Classic. I like the originality of the arrangement and would like to try something similar but, it does occur to me that if one could connect the light switch to the lock, one could just as easily connect it to the door handle.

Full, happy and slightly bemused, we drove on, still following the D786, to the small town of Treguier. It has a lovely medieval square and a pretty sizeable cathedral. The beauty of this cathedral is that it has the tomb of St Yves who died there in 1303. He was so trustworthy, he became the patron saint of lawyers. His skull is still there. On display. He had quite a small head. The jokes about him are far too obvious so I’ll not indulge.

The other thing about Treguier is the statue of Ernest Renan who was born in the town in 1823. He was a writer and philosopher who worked tirelessly trying to marry the dual concepts of religion and science. He became quite famous so at the beginning of the twentieth century, the local townsfolk erected a rather interesting statue of him – it looks like he’s walked up the steep streets from the quay and collapsed exhausted on a bench, a beer bottle having been added quite recently. Incensed that such a heathen should get a statue outside the cathedral, the Catholics of the town put their cash together and, in retaliation, erected a Calvary of Reparation, which seems to have made them feel a lot better. I really hope the same person made both statues. What a great job.

The statue of Ernest Renan in the centre of Treguier

We had a lovely wander around the twisty streets, admiring the half timbered houses with the impossibly sloping floors. We admired the art class, dabbing at their easels being watched over by a clapping art teacher. We walked back to the car and drove off. All the way back to Pordic and the apartment for a bit of a rest before we going out to dinner.

Happily rested we bound down to Binic, eager to once more savour the offerings to be had at Margot’s Table. Imagine our horror when we found that it was not open on Sunday nights! But it gets worse. They are also closed on Monday nights which means we will probably never eat at Margot’s Table again! Unless we find ourselves near to Binic one day at dinner time. Not likely but possible.

So we ate at Le Grande Large which, to my limited French, appears to be called The Big Big. Anyway, the food was good, like most French places (though not quite like Margot’s) and we supped well, before heading to the giant ice cream parlour for an after dinner glace. I had Smurf and Crème Brulee while Mirinda had Snickers and Violet. All of it was truly odd but delicious in that way that only ice cream knows how.

I’m not one to generally moan about the cost of things. I figure you can afford them or you can’t and if you can’t then you don’t buy them. Simple philosophy. However, sometimes the sheer audacity of some people gets right up my goat. Take the small sandwich shop along the main road in Pontivy. Today there was a market – a lot-of-tat type market not fruit, veg and all things yummy – and it was very hot (33° at one point). People were milling in their thousands (or at least it felt like it). Mirinda wanted a diet Coke so she went into a Tabac and was told to go to the sandwich shop across the road.

One of the things we have a bit of difficulty with in France is numbers. Up to ten is usually ok but after that you really depend on any shop signs or the cash register. This sandwich shop had neither, just a cheery French girl who spoke rapidly. Now, a can of Coke in Britain would normally cost under 50p (unless you’re stupid enough to buy it at Waterloo station), 75p tops. At the present exchange rate, that’s pretty equal to the Euro. For people in Australia, remember the cans are quite small (33cl) and not the normal size.

I handed the girl a €1 coin. She inspected it, wrinkled her nose and said something which clearly meant this was not enough. I gave her 50c more and still her nose wrinkled. By this stage I was pretty shocked and amazed her nose could wrinkle quite that much without twisting off. This wasn’t a gold plated can I was buying and I wasn’t in Harrods. I decided to just give her a €2 coin and hope it wasn’t more than that. She handed back the shrapnel and some change. The small can of coke had cost €1.60! Unbelievable. And it didn’t even have any sugar in it. I fancy it was because they are the only shop selling cold drinks and the temperature was above 30.

So, dear traveller, be warned, when buying a diet coke in Pontlivy, don’t. It’ better to take your own from somewhere outside of town. Sadly, I discovered that this is the standard price for Coke Light in Brittany. When you can get it. Some places they’ve never even heard of it.

Apart from the little episode above, we had a lovely day. After breakfast we both worked on our separate assignments in the room overlooking the oyster farm (Madame said it was okay for us to hang about till noon as the cleaner wouldn’t be getting there till late) and then slowly packed and left.

On the way to Pontlivy, we thought we’d drop in and see the famous Venus of Quinipily near Baud. It gets a big mention in both the Michelin and Rough Guides. Sadly the sign pointing to it is very well hidden and we didn’t see it until we were about three miles further down the road. The traffic through Baud was pretty tight and crowded as well so we weren’t about to turn around and go back. Next time, maybe, we shall see the famous Venus of Quinipily. She is apparently something to see.

Baud was pretty much a blur of traffic and tight Breton roads, winding in and out of pretty Breton houses and then, we were out in the open again. Most of the driving throughout today was through open countryside or forest. Both could have been anywhere in England. It’s remarkable how similar the landscape is…though not so remarkable when you realise that the land was joined once and was all part of the same mass. Though, of course, there was no-one building houses or selling Coke then.

We continued up to Pontivy and parked in the huge square at the bottom of the very big market. We love the way that in Brittany parking is designated either white or blue. If it’s blue, it tends to require payment, if it’s white, it’s free. Both colours are generally together except the white is always further away. Not a problem for us. Fantastic. So, of course, we parked for free and set off in search of some lunch.

Pontivy on market day

We fought our way up the street, passing the covered stands full of over-coloured lingerie, kids’ t-shirts, weird labour-saving devices for the kitchen that take longer to wash than anything else in the kitchen, and the general rubbish you find you just have to have, until we reached the top of the street and a restaurant. Exhausted we were shown to a table.

We were served very quickly and our drinks arrived but then the long wait. Two weeks later, our lunch arrived. It was lovely, it just took a looooooong time. We ate, we paid, we left. It was then time to find the Chateau de Rohan.

The chateau was built by the Rohan family, who also built the fairy tale chateau at Josselin (see our previous trip to Brittany) and it looks very similar from the outside. Inside, however, it is just a shell. A nice shell, though. I remember Josselin and having to be taken around with a guide. This place is much better. You just roam around. Excellent. Not that there’s a LOT to see. The biggest surprise was the impressive fireplace that came from somewhere else and was installed in the Chateau in 1960! The art installation by Koki Watanabe is worth noting as well. He has a big thing for water, clearly.

Chateau de Rohan, Pontivy

We had a jolly good wander around and then wandered back to the car. Getting out of Pontivy was a bit of argy bargy but eventually we were on the open road once more and headed for Pordic, our home for the next three nights. This meant going around the massive city of St-Brieuc. Thank the gods for the by-pass! What a hot and snarling mess of cars, trucks and motorbikes. The most traffic we’ve seen all trip. And a traffic jam! Our first in France. But it all ended soon enough and we arrived in the delightful little village of Pordic.

We had some very detailed instructions on how to find the place we’re staying in, for which I’m eternally grateful. We didn’t have much of a signal so Mirinda’s little friend was of limited use.

Tonight we had one of the best meals we’ve ever had. At a restaurant in Binic, a port about 10km from Pordic. The restaurant is called A la Table de Margot. Unbelievable. We will probably go there again.