Lemon sherbet and violet cream

We thought we’d missed breakfast this morning. There is only a narrow window of an hour and we woke at the end of it. However, Madame kindly allowed us to have our petit dejuener late. I was very glad, given I’d not had a coffee for quite some time and we would have to drive into Trinite-sur-Mer for an emergency caffeine injection. We were saved this, however, and had a pleasant wake up rather than a growly navigator type wake up.

After fortification, we had to pack up and move. The room we are in has been booked by someone else so we are moving into the much bigger, with private terrace, kitchen and fridge, two doors down. We would have happily had this room for the full three days but it was booked by the banana custard couple from Farnham. Anyway, this is luxury and we are very pleased. Having a fridge for beer and milk is a bonus.

I should explain the banana custard reference. The couple have a sporty type car (obviously I have no idea what it is given I know nothing about cars) that is slightly yellower than the Lotus, mustard yellow. It reminded Mirinda of our verbascum banana custard and so the couple, clearly being named for the colour of their mode of transport, became the banana custard couple from Farnham. Sadly, if they did the same, we would be the grey couple from Farnham.

We decided today we would look at some dolmen and menhirs. Locmariaquer, which is just down the road, has heaps of them. It is also on the edge of the Gulf of Morbihan, which we cruised around during our first visit to Brittany.

We flew past the car park for the big stuff and ended up wandering around a point of land at the bottom (Pointe de Kerpenhir), looking out to sea, sweltering hot, searching for a single rock (Menhir Men Letionnec). As we gave up our fruitless search and headed back to the car, we spotted it in a hedge. It wasn’t as impressive as the map would have you believe. We then went to the proper place.

Searching for the missing rock at Pointe-de-Kerpenhir

The Locmariaquer Megaliths is simply amazing. A long barrow (longer than a football pitch), a table like dolmen covered with stones and an enormous monolith (over 20 metres high when erect and weighing more than a jumbo jet) collapsed on the ground, in three pieces. The whole thing is pretty much a mystery of how, why and for whom this whole place was built. No-one even knows if the big monolith was pushed over or if it fell from natural causes (earthquake, big wind, very heavy rain, gravity well, etc).

They were built around 6,000 years ago and most of the big rocks were transported both across land and water, several kilometres using pulleys, logs, some sort of boats and sheer man power. Archaeologists have found various areas of ground which seem to indicate a place were the large stones were dragged. It’s pretty amazing when you try and get your brain around the problems associated with such a massive endeavour. Try working out how you would move a jumbo jet, without wheels and the ability to fly, from one hill to another with water in between. Then turn it on its end.

The two burials have been reconstructed and you can walk into one which has rock carvings at the end which were present in the original. Being burial chambers means they would have been used for a dead person then the entrance filled in. The electric lights now installed would not have been necessary; the dead can see as much as they need in the pitch black.

Reconstructed burial chamber at Locmariaquer

Anyway, it was an amazing place and we enjoyed wandering around it. Mirinda particularly enjoyed the gold bracelet she bought which is a recreation of a find in one of the burial chambers. It is particularly beautiful and delightfully simple.

After sweltering in the sun without benefit of any liquid, we headed into the small town of Locmariaquer for lunch and a much needed drink (we really should take water everywhere with us, given that French sites rarely sell refreshments). Lunch was delicious and taken on the terrace of the Hotel D’Escales, overlooking the bay and the islands of the Gulf of Morbihan. It was about as perfect as you could possible get. I had a lovely grilled salmon and Mirinda had a salad which included scallops and langoustines. All delicious.

We then wandered back through the town (via the small seafarer’s church), stopping off at the Spar for tea, coffee, milk, coke zero, beer and a tuba, before heading back to the apartment.

It is truly amazing how many places around this part of Brittany begin with the letters ‘Ker’. In just the area where we drove this morning there is Kerpenhir, Kerere, Kerivaud, Kerhelle, Kerlogonan, Kerlaval, Kerhern, Kerveresse, and so on. I could keep listing but it’s going to get pretty annoying. Upon reading the Michelin guide, I have discovered that ‘Ker’ means village in the Breton language! Sort of like ‘ham’ means village or settlement in Anglo-Saxon and most big places in Australia are named after titled English people. Lots of houses are named ‘Kir’ something and not sure what that means unless it means house rather than village because the ‘e’ has been replaced by an ‘i’.

After a little rest at the apartment, we drove off to the Carnac Grande Plage (the big beach at Carnac) for a swim. Big crowds! Lots of family groups pottering around with sand castles, shovels and buckets. Kids with nets running hither and thither declaring they’ve caught a shark…actually that’s an assumption as my French isn’t very good and they could have been yelling “Look, mum, I’ve managed to net a handful of gravel!”

It’s nice the way the French seem to invite their entire family down to the beach. From the smallest children in caps, t-shirts and swimmers right up to the ancient grandparents who seem not long for this earth as they totter around the edges of the tide. It all feels very safe and pleasant. Of course, this could be because there’s no surf to speak of and not a lot to interest the young. The bars are also well back from the beach and not lining the beach. This clearly makes a difference here in Carnac.

One old couple I watched while Mirinda was snorkelling about, I called Lemon Sherbet (her) and Violet Cream (him). This was mostly because of the clothes they were wearing which were, strangely matching although different colours and patterns. While they were very, VERY old and pale and not used to being in the sun, it was obvious they loved spending time with the little ones. Violet Cream was particularly keen on digging a hole with one toddler’s shovel. In fact he kept digging even after the toddler had gone in for a swim. Lemon Sherbet, definitely a bit more sprightly, was having a fine old time helping in sand castle erection. It was all very sweet.

Back at the apartment we showered, changed and set off for our last dinner in this part of Brittany. We liked Locmariaquer so much, we decided we’d eat there again. And what an excellent choice. The food was superb, again. Very confusing, however, was the Irish waiter who started speaking to us in French then switched to English. Disconcerting to say the least!

Following a very fine dinner, we wandered the streets for a bit, amazed that the carousel was attracting children to ride at 9:30, then drove back to the apartment. A marvellous day. Tomorrow we’re off to Pordic.

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And then came the night of the strange visitation. I was fast, deeply, asleep, immersed in some wonderful place where the archaeology lies scattered on the ground, ready for me to pick up rather than dig for. Suddenly something moved in my t-shirt. This woke me up quick smart! I thought it was a moth or some other night time bug. I patted the back of my shirt, trying to rid myself of it. I couldn’t feel it anymore and assumed it had gone. I once more closed my eyes, eager to rejoin the weasels in this easiest of digs.

Something furry brushed against my face and I leapt up, narrowly missing the low sloping ceiling. Running across the back of the bed was a grey furry mass, determined to reach Mirinda, sleeping soundly next to me. I reached out and grabbed it, swinging myself out of bed at the same time.

I found myself holding a wiggling, squirming mass, teeth and claws trying to find purchase. Madame has a new kitten. She has been ‘training’ it not to enter the guest rooms. Clearly it hasn’t learnt much so far. We had the terrace window open (it was too hot to have it closed) and the kitten must have invaded that way. It wasn’t that keen on being chucked out but chucked out it was.

I stood guard at the terrace window for a bit, sitting at the small table. My eyes were not keen on remaining open so I soon went back to bed. The cat was not seen again and sleep soon returned.