La Forêt de Brocéliande

There is a drastic change in the countryside as we leave the Armor, the Brittany of the sea, and approach the Argoat, the Brittany of the forests. Glancing outside, we no longer see green fields of corn and farmland, but rather rolling heaths of blooming, prickly heather. On this rainy morning, it is chilling to listen to the myths of Morgane la fée, Perceval, and Lancelot as we drive farther and farther away from all signs of city life. Soon the road bends, submitting to the unforgiving ruggedness of the earth, and in moments, we enter deep into the enchanted forest of the Arthurian Legend, Brocéliande. Shadows fill our bus, cooling the sun warmed windows, and although still early morning, there is a profound and eerie atmosphere that makes daytime feel like dusk in this looming, primeval forest.  

 I have waited to wander these woods since arriving here in Brittany. Last Fall, I took a French course on the Arthurian Legend where I first encountered the poetic verse of Chrétien de Troyes and Béroul. In the Spring I took another class on this medieval literature, finishing the entirety of Chretien de Troyes' Arthurian works. Now this Fall, my work will culminate in Senior Seminar with the study of the Arthurian Otherworld, Avalon. Even now, I still cannot believe that the magic of its very wood is as tangible as the books that once laid in front of me.

 Almost every arthurian tale opens with a "chasse," or hunt, after the ephemeral white stag. As its appearance signifies the beginning of extraordinary adventures, "chasseurs" are lured deep into the forest, wherein lie the boundaries of the Otherworld. "L'Arbre D'Or," or the Tree of Gold, which resembles the golden antlers of the white stag, thus beckons our entrance into the forest, or in particular, the Valley of No Return.

 "Le Val Sans Retour" gets its name from Morgane la fée, the sister of King Arthur who, abandoned by her lover, resides in the valley, awaiting all men who pass through it. Those men that enter though, who in both thought and action have been unfaithful to their lovers, are captured and held prisoners by Morgane forever.

  Once on the other side of le Val, however, we find what may have been my favorite place, "le Miroir aux Fées," a glistening lake engulfed by lush trees and steep surrounding cliffs.

   Hundreds of years ago, the fairies of Brocéliande made a pact to remain hidden from the eyes of men, emerging only at night to admire their reflections in the placid water of the lake. Yet when one of them fell in love with a knight that passed through the forest, breaking the pact with her sisters, a bitter battle ensued between them. Said to be dyed with the blood of these fairies, the ground throughout all the forest is henceforth a rich, deep red.

Even climbing to look out over the wood is an adventure, and we are warned that the first several hundred feet are dangerously steep, and today slippery from the mist. Yet the rain seems only to amplify the heady scent of the broom and heather that perfume the damp morning air, and the view from the top is worth the climb.

The town itself of Paimpont, which surrounds Brocéliande, is as little and mysterious as one would imagine it to be, its identity rooted entirely in the myths of the forest. Cafés are few and humbly decorated, their windows occupied by hand painted elves, sorcerers, and teacups from Quimper. In other places you can spot occasional pots of jam or caramel for sale, and almost always golden bottles of chouchen, a honeycomb alcohol that dates back to the Druids. It is considered the original mead, and symbolized for the Celts the strength and joy of life.

             

Next we stopped at the "Fontaine de Barenton," the same fountain I had read of in Yvain, le Chevalier au Lion. When the stones are dashed with water by a stranger, the fountain is capable of conjuring up a ferocious thunderstorm. It does in fact bubble at random moments...

"Then I spied a basin on the tree, of gold, the finest that ever sold in any fair. The spring did seem to boil. An emerald, bright green, shaped like a sieve, was the great stone, with small holes on a ruby throne." - Yvain

To prove his power as a knight, Yvain overpowers "Le Chevalier Noir," or the Knight of the Storm, becoming himself the Lord of Landuc. Yet before he can return to win the Lady of Landuc's love, he is forced to learn humility. He therefore devotes his life to her, proving he is not only the best fighter, but also the humblest. What I love about Chrétien's writing is that there is always an underlying message in his tales. In this case, he shows that power must be tempered by humility, or else it will become dangerous, just like a thunderstorm.

We end the day at Merlin's tomb, tucked away in a thickly wooded glen. When you see how it is splayed with roses, little gifts from visitors, written quotes from the many tales, it is clear that Arthurian Legend and its magic is still alive in the hearts of the Breton people. I have no doubt that it continues to touch them much in the same way it touches me.