The Menhirs of Morbihan

Morbihan is the southernmost department of Brittany meaning "the little sea," or Ar Mor Bihan. It has some of the deepest, most prehistoric roots in France, marked by granite menhirs that have existed thousands of years before the Gauls even set foot here. Our day begins in Carnac, the home of over 3,000 megaliths, the oldest dating back to 4,600 B.C. It is still a mystery whether or not they were used for solar calendars, astronomic systems, or pathways of a sun cult, but nonetheless, they nurture the imagination and continually contribute to the legendary spirit of Brittany. These stones are as solidly in place as they were when they first greeted the Gauls in the first millennium, and today they greet us too, as we climb through the thistle fields and take in breaths of the most mild air we have tasted in weeks.

The climate and land down in Morbihan is vastly different than that of northern Brittany.The temperature is mild, the wind is strong but not overpowering, and the land pricks your ankles with thistle and heather. Houses that rest among the "alignements" seem as old and rugged as the stones themselves. Some are abandoned, some still inhabited, and the expanse of the menhirs is so great, that we are told it would take an entire day to see them all.  

  

This particular section of Brittany is deeply inspired by Druid legacy, Celtic heritage, and logistic isolation, and as so is rife with superstition and myth. Good and evil spirits, gnomes, fairies, and phantoms populate the lore of this countryside, among the multitude of wee folk are korrigans, farfadets, korils, and poulpiquets, who supposedly dwell within the dolmens. Though they are said to be mostly gentle, they can also be capricious and capable of inflicting terrible vengeance. We are told that they can occasionally be glimpsed dancing and joking by the light of the moon.    

But dealing with these little beings involves, of course, tradition and savviness. One should never dance with a korrigan because he will make you lose track of time, and you will awaken in twenty years with a white beard. Plug your ears when you hear a distant fiddle or whistle, as it is a sign of the farfadets taming a wolf or charming the birds. It is always a good measure to leave a crêpe and glass of milk out at night for the fairies who drop down the chimney to help with the housework. But most of all, it is best to get on the good side of korrigans, as they fabricate gold with their hands and have enormous riches.   

 After leaving Carnac, we have lunch at the home of one of our director's friends. They haul out a rustic wooden table and set it with cheeses, meats, butter and wine, and afterwards make coffee with sugar cubes for everyone before we leave.  

            

 

A typical moment with Anna and me.  

To end the afternoon, we stop in Locmariaquer and Port Louis to see the southern ocean. This is the first warm beach we have been on our entire trip, and we are all in a slight euphoric state just to be able to put our feet in the sand and lay in the sun.   

Even the beaches down here are unique; they are full of shells and the sand is so thick, it is almost painful to walk on. It is still as full of history and legend here though as any place in Brittany. Men (half) joke that falling into this sea is a life-or-death race between hypothermia and the Mari Morgans (Celtic mermaids) who lurk in the waters, waiting for the chance to kidnap drowning men, and that during storms, a great phantom ship appears through the fog at dawn as an omen of an imminent shipwreck.

 That being said, my spot on the beach is good enough for me.

  

Le Mont Saint Michel, "La Merveille"

It is six a.m., and the sun has not yet risen. The windows of our bus are fogged with the mist of morning, the roads are empty, and we are stirred by hearing, "Alors on entre Normandie." Outside, the land that just moments ago rolled with fields, has now become flat and desolate, glistening with dawn and the water of the haute marée. I will never forget what it felt like to first see Mont Saint Michel. From a distance, it could be an illusion, a ghost amidst the sea and sky. The moment it captures you, you cannot look away. Overwhelming is the only way I can put it. The indomitable silhouette of the abbey rises towards the sky, and in these quiet hours, one can only give silent homage to this divine place built by human hands. In the words of Guy de Maupassant, "The nearer I approached, the greater my admiration grew, for nothing in the world could be more wondrous or more perfect."  

The achromatic scale of the bay puts the blue of the sky and the green of the water into high relief, and from above, one can see the swirling and irregular tide sweep out across the expanse. Close up, it is a textural tapestry of granite, slate, wood, and brick that towers so high above you that you have to crane your neck far back in order to see it entirely. All around me though, there is nothing, and one cannot help but feel small and powerless out here. 

 

In 708, the archangel Michael appeared three times to the bishop of Avranches, commanding that a sanctuary be built and dedicated to Saint Michael on the place of Mont Tombe, a nearby Druid worship site. So rock by rock, year by year, the early Benedictine oratory took form, and today on the tip of the abbey stands a pure gold statue of Michael, shining in both the sun and the moonlight, watching over the Mont.

The inside of the abbey is cool and flooded with light. We are told that the monks intended it to be this way, so that the light dictated the movements of their day. When they would eat together, it would be only using natural light, and while they ate, one of their brothers would read Scripture aloud. This way, they nourished their bodies while also nourishing their souls, and all would be done according to the light they were given each day.     

    

Throughout the day, the monks would break up their work by reciting the Divine Office, but since not all could constantly leave their work from below to be upstairs, grates were built to allow their voices to rise up to the chapel to meet their brothers'. In doing do, they prayed together, though in separate parts of the abbey. 

In the 13th century, a Gothic garden cloister was created on the north side of the abbey. It has more than 200 red granite columns that support the white limestone passageway, and it is here where the monks once meditated and prayed among the sweet smelling garden of herbs and flowers.

You can hear the howl of the wind from this high above and smell the sharp but fragrant boxwood growing throughout the cloister. Though there is solitude in this place, it is not lonely. 

On my way back down, the tide has washed out and the water is now at basse marée. The wind is so strong I have to constantly hold onto my hat, or else it will be lost to the bay forever.  

           The latter half of the afternoon is spent in Cancale, a small fishing village that looks out to the Mont. It is known for its oysters, and we can see men driving their oyster trucks out to marshlands for harvesting.     

Walking out to the marsh is disorienting and strenuous as we walk not through sand, but thick, mineral-rich mud. It is slick and strong with suction, and we all have to be careful not to fall. 

 

Out in the grass, Pré-salé lambs graze and dot the landscape. Their meat is a delicacy out here because its flavor is so distinct and rich from the salt grasses of these coastal marshlands. When they are not here, the water rushes up and covers the grass, and when it washes out, it leaves its salty remnants, which they love to eat. They roam just within view of the Mont.  

It is bittersweet to leave today, and I am in complete awe of having experienced such a place that I never thought I ever would. As I watch the island grow smaller and smaller until it disappears into the horizon, I try to dust off the "vase" mud from my feet. There are spots of it left on my backpack, which I almost want to leave there. This was by far the most special day of this trip, and I will remember it all my life. 

"I saw it from Cancale, a gray shadow outlined against a misty sky, like a dream palace strange and beautiful--it alone remained in the crimson light of the dying day."

Des Plaisirs Aléatoires

A few of my favorite memories in Rennes:

Tartines

One night my friend Anna and I went to a tiny restaurant Yseult recommended called "le Bistrot à Tartines" where we got one tartine with chèvre and honey, and the other with fontina, gruyère and pear. It had be a rough day of classes, but when we took a bite of these, all was right with the world. There is a spunky group that runs this quirky little place, but whatever they do with toasted bread and cheese is borderline magical. They make only tartines, homemade pies, and tarts, and you can smell the sweetness in the air from down the street. This was one of the best meals out in Rennes.

              

 

La Braderie 

The biannual sales, or "soldes," happen in France every winter and summer, and the biggest bazar where stores sell all of their older merchandise is the "Grande Braderie." Stores open up stands outside and leave their doors wide open for everyone to pass through. By noon, all streets are blockaded by people and vendors. I loved finding the tapestry and antique stands next to Place du Parlement where there were rugs spread with keepsakes back from World War I and II, Breton heirlooms, and my favorite, vintage hats.   

                    

                                         

Wine and Cheese Tasting

One of our group excursions was a wine and cheese tasting night when we tried three cheeses and two wines from the Loire Valley and the Jura. The left was a Compté, the middle a Chèvre, and the right a Morbier. When Morbier is made, the first layer of curd is dusted with ashes to properly preserve the cheese, and then when the second layer is added, it leaves a thin line of ash in the center, but without any residual taste. It is smooth and delicious and definitely a favorite. I had never done a real wine and cheese pairing before though, so these combinations were especially memorable for me.

          

 Le Parc du Thabor

 The Park Thabor is a sprawling, lush garden not far from the center of town that is quiet, peaceful and filled with flowers. Whenever I had time, I came here, sometimes to do homework, other times to write postcards, but most often simply to walk around and decompress. It easily became my favorite place in Rennes. You can hear the bells of the Saint Melaine Abbey toll every few hours, and the paths are lined only with thick gravel, making you walk slower, almost as if the park deliberately wants you to stay a while.     

       

Thabor Rose Garden 

There is a long wooded pathway off the main walkway of the Thabor that lures people to walk through it. At the other end of it lies a garden, filled with roses of every color and genus, each given its own name. The first time I walked through, I had to stop several times just to take in the fragrance. It is everywhere, and with the habitual mist of Brittany becomes only more intense with the rain.  

Breton Music in the Park 

A final, sweet memory of Rennes was an evening in the Park, listening to Breton music and watching Breton folk dancing. It was a rare day, filled with crystal clear sun, and everyone from grandparents to toddlers came to listen to the music of their heritage. One man and his son performed a tune that had been played and sung in their family for five generations. The sound of bombards, fiddles, drums, and even bagpipes filled the Park, and when I took a moment to look away from the stage, I saw the entire first row of spectators unknowingly tapping their feet in unison with the rhythm. Some women from the crowd even took hands and began traditional Breton dances, all smiling without affectation and motioning for others to join in.  

                                   

The Rennais Love the Rain

Rennes is one of the most peculiar cities I have ever visited. There is a striking contrast between the new and the old, its architecture echoing a handsome modernity as well as a bittersweet history. It is split from east to west by the Vilaine River, which divides "le Vieux Rennes" to the north and "le Nouveau Rennes" to the south. Lined with half-timbered houses throughout its medieval streets, the Old Rennes is the heart of the city. Its 15th and 16th century identity is unmistakable in everything from the Saint Pierre Cathedral to the Gaelic pubs that dot the Rue du Chapitre, and I find that is ideal for getting lost, which by now, I have done many times. There is only one caution: never wander around without an umbrella. I have learned the hard way that the rain is as integral a part of the identity of Rennes as the architecture is, and the sky can open up at any time. This is just another daily occurrence for the Rennais, however, so despite the cold, white sky and slippery cobblestones, they venture out, and so do I.  

So what else can a girl do in the rain, but shop? I like finding different Breton specialty shops, which are all over the place selling cider, caramels, flags, etc. I have even found one store selling Breton musical instruments, like bombards. My favorite finds though are the small, hand painted "bols." Most have Breton names written on them, so you have to look carefully to find your own. This one is coming home with me.

There are three languages spoken in Brittany: French, Breton, and Gallo. Breton is the language first brought to Brittany by the Celts that is a mix of Gaelic, Cornish and Welsh. It is highly respected and preserved, whereas Gallo is more of an underground, less well regarded language, which is only spoken in eastern Brittany. It is never seen on storefronts the way Breton is. So the farther west you go in the region, the more heavily Breton is spoken and intertwined with French. 

"Ti Breiz" translates to "La Maison Breton," or "the Breton House."

One of my favorite things to do when it is raining is read, so out of the many scattered bookstores, I found "The Ink of Brittany," which is filled with books in French, Breton, and even Gaelic that are beautiful and fascinating to go through.  

It also feels good to be alone though and walk through side streets where there are no crowds. The day might not be bright out, but the rain seems to bring out a subdued, natural beauty of the city, which I grow accustomed to the more I am here.   

Notre Dame-en-Saint-Melaine

One of my favorite spots though, which I found by accident, is the Porte Mordelaise, a 15th century old fortress gate that leads into a quiet alley painted with Breton flags and tea shops. On the other side of the drawbridge are now just the crumbling remnants of its surrounding walls, lined by overgrown verdure and wildflowers.     

The style here is rustic and worn, and to walk down any random street feels like walking in the Middle Ages. In the 18th century, massive fires threatened to destroy almost all of the city. Sparks ignited easily on the wood, and flames raged furiously from house to house, even across streets. So today, style seems to be built based on practicality and durability, and the preservation of what remains of the half-timbered homes is a vital part of the city's upkeep. Many are still in their original wooden form, but now are used as restaurants and pubs.     

       

"Ti Koz" has stood here since 1505, and next door, "Lion Rampants" loom over the door frame, symbolizing nobility and virtue. Such coats of arms were normally created by the families that once lived within these houses to symbolize high status.  

                                                                                      

History is mixed with modernity almost everywhere, even the post office and métro stop at Place de la République. Right here in August 1944, General Patton and his forces passed through Rennes after liberating it from German occupation. Bretons still talk about how their families remember everyone flooding the streets to welcome the American troops, the French women kissing the cheeks of the American soldiers.
    

There really seems to be a celebratory spirit in Rennes, which comes through the Rennais' memories of history and the way they go about their daily life. In the summer, the festivals of "Fête de la Musique" and "Tombées de la Nuit" start up, where musicians set up all over the city and play. Even today with the dark weather, I can still hear violins and drums from down in the metro station. I guess a little music in the rain never hurt anybody, right?  

In France, cotton candy is called "Barbe à Papa," or "Father's Beard," which I find to sound both slightly unappetizing and yet very funny. 

    

At almost every venue, people are either dancing, singing, or drinking beer, all just happy to be out listening to music. Some musicians sound Middle Eastern, others Maghrebin, some put on small rock concerts, others play classical pieces. All are informal, but comfortable and enjoyable, and reveal the characteristic simplicity of the Rennais. 

 

But it does get to a point when the cold rain will dictate the evening, and when it started to really come down, it was time to find a crêperie for a hot galette and cider. Like I said, Bretons thrive on simplicity and durability, and their food clearly reflects that. Galettes filled with gruyère, ham, and leeks are enough to keep anyone warm and deeply satisfied, and tonight are a perfect way to end a good, rainy day in Rennes.