Wild Brittany – Inspiration of the Great Painters

But we have to move on, a journey through Brittany awaits. The change of scene is abrupt. Only a few kilometres from peaceful Saint-Marc we cross the fashionable seaside resort of La Baule. Its beach promenade also resembles a film set, though one geared to a completely different script. Here, along the longest sandy beach in Europe, gigantic apartment blocks, luxury villas and chic beach bars bear witness to a desire for exuberant holiday fun. Yet it is precisely this juxtaposition of elegant seaside resorts, small port towns and rugged fishing harbours that makes up the charm of Brittany. Along the 2,700-kilometre coast there are countless sandy beaches, small coves and wild cliffs. “It will rain soon,” salt harvester Anthony Brochard greets us, although there is not a cloud in the sky. Which means that the sturdily built man with the friendly Viking face has little time for a chat. Because if it rains, the 29-year-old's work literally floats away. We are in the hinterland of La Baule, in the middle of the Guérande salt marshes.

In their mosaic-like water basins, evaporation leaves behind the fleur de sel prized by gourmets the world over – or the coarse-grained but no less valuable gros sel. Anthony Brochard is one of those “paludiers” who have been harvesting white gold with wooden rakes and shovels for centuries. Our interest in his work matters to him after all, so he briefly interrupts what he is doing: “Our salt is a pure natural product,” Anthony Brochard explains proudly: “It is not only special in taste, thanks to the algae and suspended particles in the seawater. It also contains more trace elements and minerals than other salts.” Then he grabs the fully loaded wheelbarrow and balances the cargo of a good 100 kilograms between the basins over the narrow dividing walls and takes the salt to the collection point, where it is protected from rain under a tarpaulin. The Breton seems to be right with his weather forecast. As we cross the border into Morbihan on our onward journey, the wind from the Atlantic picks up and drives dark clouds across the land. Morbihan is the southernmost and therefore sunniest département of Brittany, with a mild, almost Mediterranean climate. We set course for Carnac, a small and unassuming village. Spectacular Stone Age monuments have made it the capital of megalithic culture. These include a huge burial mound in which valuable grave goods were found. Above all, though, the almost 3,000 menhirs fascinate the people who travel here. They are up to four metres high, and settlers erected them 7,000 years ago in several precisely aligned rows. 

Why did the Breton ancestors take the trouble to heave the tonne-heavy standing stones into rank and file? On this question there are so far only speculations, but no scientifically sound answer, as we learn in the informative Musée de Préhistoire. This uncertainty does the silent stone giants no harm. On the contrary. It heightens the aura of the place, which once held special significance for its creators and perhaps was even meant to convey a message to posterity. Standing before them, you freeze in reverent wonder. 

Sea bream, lobster and gilt-head bream 

The Celts once called Brittany Armor, land by the sea, and Argoat, land of the forest. What this means can be discovered with all the senses 50 kilometres further west in the Halles de Merville market hall in the port city of Lorient. Here at the stalls the sea bream, lobsters and gilt-head bream lie cheek by jowl – all freshly caught, as fishmonger Jean-Luc Marcadet assures me, holding the receipt with the day's stamp from the fish auction held in the local harbour under my nose as proof. Before sunrise the fishermen return from their nightly “hunt”. Then a well-rehearsed, but to outsiders chaotic, ballet begins. In great haste the wriggling cargo is brought out of the ships' holds, auctioned and carried off in all directions.

Calm returns abruptly, and all that can be heard is the greedy screeching of the gulls. In the market hall, mountains of fruit and vegetables also rise up: artichokes as big as a child's head, sweet-smelling strawberries, freshly harvested salads. Just as harmoniously as fish and vegetables lie side by side here, so closely are “mer et terre”, the sea and the land, bound together. The Atlantic, and the Gulf Stream in particular, provide a balanced climate. The land seems to thank it for this with a wealth of accompaniments to fish dishes. A land of plenty for the many gourmets to whom the quality of the ingredients matters. Joël Bruché is one of them. He is heading home with a sack full of mussels. “They taste best with just garlic and olive oil,” the tall 80-year-old reveals his simple recipe. 

Moody as a diva

Brittany is a moody diva. Yesterday still mild-tempered, today she seems gloomy. Thick clouds hang over the coast, and the wind blows a fine drizzle ahead of it. But moodiness also means variety, and there is plenty of that around every corner. It is enough, therefore, to sit on the beach and watch how the weather, the sun and the tides constantly paint new pictures. Brittany is therefore not a place for holidaymakers who want to book reliably sunny days. Rather, it is for people who take their moods calmly and see rain not as bad weather, but as different weather. In the wide bay of the Fort de Keragan, also called Fort Bloqué, our next stop, there is therefore almost more activity on dull days than in sunshine. Young and old stroll barefoot and armed with windcheaters across the sandy beach. The sky is mirrored in its wet sheen, you draw the fresh sea air deep into your lungs and enjoy the tingle of salt on your skin. Your gaze relaxes in the infinite expanse of the horizon. Wind and waves underscore the scene with their soothing soundtrack, and for anyone for whom this is not enough, there are the kitesurfers, who let themselves be carried into daring jumps high in the air.

Days like these are pure relaxation and better than any spa treatment. Of all places, in the Finistère département the sky clears the next day. The western tip of Brittany is considered particularly wild. Its name already points to this, derived from the Latin “finis terrae” and announcing the end of the world. Most people know mainly pictures of rugged rocks lashed by the sea. But here too it becomes clear that such clichés show only part of the peninsula. Like pearls, pretty little fishing villages are strung along the coastal road. Their harbour basins have become popular moorings for the sailing community. The southern vegetation and the lovely hinterland of this coastal strip attracted world-famous painters such as Paul Gauguin in the 19th century. Concarneau, made famous as the seat of the police headquarters in Jean-Luc Bannalec's Brittany crime novels, impresses as the third-largest fishing port in France and at the same time with its picturesque old town, which was built impregnably on an island behind massive fortress walls. Typically French, you think, that the construction made provision for a “Porte au Vin”: for the delivery of wine barrels.

The real end of the world lies at the Pointe du Raz, regarded as the wildest cape in Brittany. Today, however, it is behaving harmlessly. The white, foaming eddies between the rocky tips lying offshore reveal that a passage is treacherous even in mild weather. On the outermost rock, facing America, stands a lighthouse that seems lonely and fragile in the infinite expanse. And yet these “slender cathedrals of the seas”, as the Bretons call these signal towers, have reliably shown ships their course for decades, even when in a storm the monster waves lash furiously against the rocky coast. This makes me think of the plaques in the local cemeteries bearing the names of entire ship crews. All of them were lost at sea. 
 

King Arthur will ride up any moment

Anyone who knows only the coastal towns, where blue-and-white sailor shirts have become the prevailing fashion, quickly forgets that for a long time the Bretons wanted nothing to do with fishing. They stayed in the Argoat, the “land of the forest”, grew potatoes, kept sheep and drank their cider, the wine of the common people, which comes from the apple tree behind the house. The drive through this area shows a different Brittany from that of the busy coastal towns. It becomes quiet here, above all in the hills and dense forests that stretch as a broad band across the interior from west to east. Here you can still feel it, the mysterious and primeval Armorica, as the Celts called the land. The enchanted landscape with its lonely valleys, dreamy ponds and picturesque rivers recalls medieval legends, and nobody would be surprised if King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table came riding along in search of the Holy Grail. We, however, are merely in search of the best cider, and that is said to be found near the coast of the English Channel in Guimaëc. Cattle pastures behind tall hedges and sprawling fields of maize and grain pass us by, then we reach Guimaëc. On the wide through road lie the squat church with a plain calvary, a bar, the bakery and the hairdresser, typical of the simple villages of the region. Signposts guide us to the Domaine de Kervéguen, a 16th-century manor house with a cider cellar in the stables and a dovecote. Éric Baron, head of the cidrerie, is of lanky build, with a striking head and face. A French magazine therefore called him the “Bruce Willis of apples”. “We use a champagne press and control the sweetness of our cider, as with wine, by blending different apple varieties,” explains Éric Baron of the particularity of his cider. It differs clearly from the cider from the supermarket. 

The apple champagne, matured in oak barrels, tastes intensely of ripe fruit, with a pleasant acidity and a slight note of wood. Are the Bretons, as a seafaring people, rather cosmopolitan and, as landlubbers, rather reserved? “We are basically friendly, but can also be stubborn ” says Éric Baron with a laugh. That this also applies to the likeable 47-year-old can be guessed. After all, his cider is served not only in the Élysée Palace in Paris, but also in top restaurants in the USA and in Japan. And that can only be achieved with openness and stubbornness. It is these qualities that have helped the Bretons time and again to overcome economic crises. These were euphemistically called structural change, but for the region they each meant a catastrophe. They include the decline of the cloth trade in the 15th century, the end of overseas trade in the 17th century, the failure of the sardine shoals and the closure of the canning factories at the beginning of the 20th century. These upheavals were the reason for the Bretons' backwardness and poverty. For a few years now, however, thanks to agriculture, the food industry, tourism and not least the settlement of companies, Brittany has been among the regions of France that have developed most strongly. Without forgetting the “patrimoine”, the natural heritage, in the process. Large areas in the départements have been consistently placed under protection, and visitor flows at tourist hotspots such as the Pointe du Raz or the Côte de Granit Rose channelled, so that there once again the violet of heather, the golden tones of broom and the white of buttercup compete in radiance. 

Moules-frites for eternity 

A detour to nearby Locquirec, for a long time the setting of my drop-out dreams, is a must. Here everything has a reassuring constancy, in a setting that could have been made for a 1950s film. We sit in the midday sun at the small harbour. At the Brasserie de la Plage they still serve the best moules-frites. As for years, the somewhat stiff waiter with the gelled hair notes down our order and promptly brings the wrong food. The sun shines, the waves roll calmly onto the shore, we take it in our stride. Nothing here is staged, not even the wonderful natural spectacle on the CÔte de Granit Rose. This lies about an hour's drive from Locquirec. The weather alone sets the huge rock blocks, sculpted by wind and water, in scene, so that depending on the light they glow red, then turn brown or suddenly look dull grey. Always along the sea we continue eastwards, a constant up and down over high cliffs and flat bathing bays. In Dinard and Saint-Malo, grandiose, more or less stylish hotel palaces and villas proclaim that here in the 19th century the Parisian bohemians and the moneyed aristocracy spent their summer retreats. The coast drops to sea level, with dykes in front of which, at low tide, the oysters and mussel farms emerge from the water.

Along the dyke road are the bars and stands, where you can enjoy the molluscs with a dry Muscadet almost as soon as they are lifted from the sea. And then Mont-Saint-Michel rises from the plain like a fantasy image, this fortress daringly built on a narrow rock with the abbey church at the very top. I remember how years ago I spent a night behind the fortress walls with my wife. It was like a journey back in time to the Middle Ages as we climbed the narrow lanes to the abbey church in the dark, past the old towers and gates. An unforgettable moment, when organ music then rang out in the church while the moon rose over the bay. 

A metropolis shining in new splendour

We spend the last evening of our trip in Rennes. The Breton capital, once a gloomy provincial backwater that many tourists ignored for years, has visibly turned itself into a lively metropolis. We walk through the winding old town with its carefully renovated half-timbered houses, eat moules-frites one last time at the likeable restaurant Au P’tit Grenier, a street singer sings chansons by Georges Brassens. It will be a while until the next reunion with the “grand large”, the white fishermen's cottages with the sea-blue shutters and the granite-grey villages that huddle for shelter around unassuming little churches. I will miss the platters full of mussels and seafood that hide the person opposite from view. Until the next trip to Brittany, the fleur de sel and the cider in our luggage will have to ease the longing.