Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Corseul - Roman remains

The dearth of large-scale Roman remains in Brittany makes for a patchy overview of this period of history on the Armorican peninsula and a limited impression of legacy. Corseul, however, offers both a wider sense of perspective and some fine individual details: the semblance of a street, the outline of a villa, a touching inscription, domestic finds. The town is referred to as Fanum Martis, the shrine of Mars, on the Tabula Peutingeriana (medieval version of an ancient map), although this may refer only to the related religious site nearby. The Roman foundation is from the time of Augustus, with significant Claudian growth and developments up to the 3rd century.
Corseul was the tribal capital of the Coriosolites, until dangerous times as the Empire broke up took them to Alet, near St Malo. The town was an opportunity for Gallic nobles to live the benefits of Roman rule, privately and commercially, as the area of Monterfil in the centre of the modern village shows. Here is preserved a stretch of Roman street, orientated east/west along the line of Roman roads entering and leaving the village. The lay-out, shaped to the sloping contour of the land, is edged by Tuscan colonnades and lined by the foundations of a basilica and shops on one side, with houses behind (including the hint of a hypocaust heating system), and a vast warehouse with a courtyard behind on the other. Originally most of the buildings would have been two-storeyed, as the helpful reconstruction drawings around the site indicate. Gutters line the street, with a large cistern for collecting rain water at the lower end. It is not hard to visual this thriving business centre in the early 1st century AD.
A smattering of column bases and half pillars are grouped together beside the mairie, including the so-called Jupiter column. Elsewhere in the village, a former school-house – standing on what was probably the ancient forum - holds a dedicated exhibition. This collection of finds contributes the fine brush-strokes to an image of life in the capital of the Coriosolites in the first three centuries AD. On the other side of the road, the villa of Clos Muton reveals its layout and evolution over time into a palaestra and bath-house.
Two inscriptions from the town record individuals, one a high-ranking religious official, the other revealing a more personal picture with a tombstone complete with faded Latin, now in the church. It was erected by the son (presumably a solider in the Roman army) of Silicia Namgidde, who followed him here – eximia pieta - from her home in Africa. She died aged 65 years.
Once visible from the town was the sanctuary of the Temple of Mars complex, on a hill-top 1.7km away. This was the religious ritual centre of the Coriosolites’ civitas. The lavish remains of the cella are impressive enough now, but once measured 22.5m in height, ensuring a dominant feature in a landscape criss-crossed by several Roman roads. The foundations of the main complex enclose an open internal sacred space of 5000²m surrounded by colonnades and all rooms needed for the paraphernalia of religious worship and festivities. A strong sense of ritual and processional activity still emerges from this elaborate sanctuary on its prominence. A footpath to the side of the cella leads directly towards the village of Corseul, visible in the distance after a hundred metres or so, and must have once been a straightish link, even if a more tortuous route is needed now to connect with the street remains of Monterfil.

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

Wild scraps

I've been thinking and writing a bit lately about the development of my relationship with landscape since childhood. The following post consists of related scraps I sent in to the project Lone Women in Flashes of Wilderness, a new work being created by a most interesting writer Clare Archibald (clarearchibald.wordpress.com).
 Mont St-Michel de Brasparts
My instinct for wild landscape and unbridled thought has always been at odds with a persistent childhood fear of the dark and an allied, equally instinctive concern for personal safety. I have always envied men their freedom of movement and the resulting luxury of unfettered reflection.

Early childhood encounters of wild brought the raw open landscape of the Brecon Beacons into my mental prospect, an eye-opening contrast to the manicured over-farmed environment where I lived. The (apparent) emptiness had a siren call for me, the lure of expanse and a powerful sense of freedom from physical restriction.

This has evolved over a life-time into deep-rooted emotional connection to heaths and moors, where wide views equate with security and my mind can fly out over the heather into unrelieved space. Solitude is essential to my true self and draws the stronger connection with nature that I need for replenishment. I like that no-one knows where I am and that my immediate relationship is only within the scope of my footsteps.  This to me is wild: immunity from control, an intimacy with my surroundings that frees mind and body. Here I can meet my inner wildness, sprawl or soar.

By contrast, in the forest where I now live I feel at a basic level of instinct uneasy with the shifting perspectives, narrow sightlines and plethora of tiny movements. You never know if you are alone. My body subconsciously acknowledges the potential for danger, and holds back other process. Phrases and words for my work come to me among the trees, boulders and hilly streams, but ideas and what I call long thoughts are elusive.

Perhaps I have cultivated my own wildness on a physical scale: the balance would shift in extreme landscapes of mountains and deserts where humans can only be outsiders and interlopers. Savage wilderness is a degree beyond wild and here the proportions scare me. Except for the sky, that ultimate wilderness, my black moor, lit by firefly stars, untouchable and beyond intimacy.
Monts d'Arrée

Friday, August 11, 2017


A.W.R.Thomas 1917-2010
My father was born on August 11th, 1917. Thinking of him deeply today with love and gratitude. We were estranged for the last few years of his life, but for one final meeting when one hour of connection dissolved all earlier issues. How lucky I was courageous enough to knock on his door that day. It was the last time I saw him, but he is in my heart every day, loved for his strengths and his weaknesses, held in sorrow for his struggles, and remembered in so many moments of my everyday life - all my interests and many of my beliefs derive from the time we shared and the things he taught me, all we discussed and read together and the many walks that bound me formatively to the landscape. Thanks, Dad.

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Zealous walker: St Yves, patron saint of Brittany

Iconography of St Yves - Quimper cathedral
Yves Helory (c1250-1303) was canonized in 1347 after due process in which 225 witnesses testified to miracles achieved in his name. He is the male patron saint of Brittany, his historicity in marked contrast to his female counterpart Ste Anne, a figure from the Apocrypha. No visitor to Brittany's chapels can have failed to observe the iconic image of St Yves, a figure in the garb of an ecclesiatical judge, between a rich man and a poor man, his head usually inclined towards the latter. He had the reputation of favouring the underdog in legal disputes and siding with have-nots, which makes his role as patron saint of lawyers who come from all over the world to his pardon on May 19th each year in Tréguier, a curious one.
St Yves passionately devoted his life to the sick and those living in abject poverty. He gave away all his own possessions and opened the family manor house at Kermartin in Minihy-Tréguier to unfortunates. But it is his physical presence in the landscape of the Trégor that is most memorable. All his formal education in law and theology at Paris and Orleans, his aptitude in French and Latin, did nothing to separate the man from his home territory. As well as his duties at the cathedral of St Tugdual in Tréguier, he was rector of Trédrez and Louannec. Sometimes he preached in seven different churches on a Sunday, walking many miles between them. He was said to take little rest or food on these excursions, leaving in the early morning and returning home exhausted late at night. Certain rocks along the routes he walked are dubbed the bed or pillow of St Yves, emphasising his rejection of comfort and luxury whilst so many suffered hardships of penury.
'Pillow' of St Yves - Trédrez
The indefatigable walking was part of his method and his commitment to God. It was a way of interacting with the peasants in the fields or workers in the forests and travellers on the road (as two women attested after his death). He always stopped to speak and make contact with those he passed, seizing these opportunities to spread the word of God. By all accounts his actual sermons - no texts survive - were highly emotional, tears figuring alongside examples from the lives of saints.
Before the violent mayhem of the Wars of Succession that ravaged the greater part of Brittany from the mid 14th century, it was apparently possible to walk without fear along the paths of the Trégor. From Trédrez in the west to the area of Goelo and the Abbaye de Beauport in the east, many legends of association in the landscape have grown up around the journeys of St Yves and the powerful image of this slight figure walking his way into sainthood.
St Yves - Tréguier cathedral
To be continued...

Sunday, July 09, 2017

Tuchenn Gador

Took my first proper walk today, leaving early this morning to hike up the eastern approach to Tuchenn Gador before the sun drove away a light grey mist. The path mounts through a little cluster of conifers, several bare skeletons the destructive result of serving as roosts for the million starlings that perform their evening dances in a dark cloud over the hills here each autumn.
Once out onto the open heath, a wind invariably slices across from the north-west, rippling the molinia, or moor grass. A rough track rises steadily towards the first rock-outcrop, where I scramble up remarkably easily, as if my legs are acting from memory rather than my current weakness. On the plateau the views are superb: the reservoir gleaming silver, heather-purpled ridges, Mont St Michel de Brasparts with its iconic chapel on the summit.
A deep happiness fills my heart as I approach the rocks themselves, riven by shards of quartz that glisten as the first sun pushes out from the clouds. The formation is natural, an eroded carcase of this once great mountain chain. It resembles a craggy throne, hence the name 'Mound of the chair', although 18th century French map-makers made head nor tail of the Breton tuchenn and settled for Toussaines instead..........

Tuesday, July 04, 2017

New start

Home at last after weeks of recuperation in beautiful Roscoff, helped by wonderful people at the Maison St Luc facility. Now it is time to stop being an ill person and make a new start. I feel ambivalent about writing projects but it is probably too soon to take big decisions about significant changes. One thing I've been thinking about is how, for some of us, there is a remarkable sense of serenity to be had from wildness, whether of inner or outer landscape. What troubles others with a lack of definition or human control, calms me beyond anything else. The sight of the unusually green summer coating of the Monts d'Arrée softening their sharp edges smoothes my rumpled spirit. I know I can feel whole again in the embrace of those teeming spaces.

Saturday, June 03, 2017

Lost month

My month of May passed in shock, sickness and the slow-motion of watching the self from another place. After collapsing in the forest when out with my dog – who incidentally probably saved my life by licking my face until I recovered consciousness - I was diagnosed with heart problems, taken into intensive care for an operation and eventually sent home for the beginning of a long recuperation which will include weeks in a special centre in Roscoff. I don't have the results of the latest tests yet, I don't have the strength to do more than stroll a few hundred metres with a companion, I no longer breathe easily and I can't face visitors. I don't work or drive, and cling obstinately to this shrunken world. Alongside this torpor, there is a strong element of unreality and separation, a sense of observing the struggles of someone else. To be inactive, fearful and mentally unfit is so alien to who I have always been. Now what, I wonder constantly. My personal landscape is destroyed.
Out of the many upheavals and changes that have ensued from one sunny Saturday afternoon, the worst is knowing that I will never again set off light-heartedly for a walk in the forest.