Walking the wild coast

On Boxing Day I took my last trip for the new book, a walk down the wild coast of the Quiberon peninsula. Thin wintry sun alternated with grey skies, high winds lashed constantly, hard to stand against at times, and whipped the sea into a foaming, surging mass in the small bays. The cliffs are of modest height, which enhances a sense of engagement with the watery assault, as spume flies high over the rocks and little snowballs of foam splatter all around.
The pinchpoint of the promontory is only 22m wide, enough to carry the main road and a railway that joined Quiberon to Auray from the 1880s. Until the 11th century the Presqu'ile was a real island, but widespread deforestation led to the sanding up of a narrow spit or tombolo to join the mainland. The landmark Fort de Penthiévre was built in the mid 18th century after English raids on Quiberon, but it played a better known role in the disaster of 1795, when briefly held by royalist emigrées who had landed near Carnac but then been forced back onto the peninsula by the Republican army.

From the little fishing village of Portivy, I cross the Plage du Fozo and then fight the wind up onto Beg en Aod, an Iron Age eperon barré possibly attacked by Caesar before his naval victory over the Vénètes in 56BC. The next headland, Pointe de Percho is dominated by the ruins of a corps de garde. This coast is all about attack and defence, in both natural and human history. Contrasts are everywhere: the famous arch of Port Blanc, eroded by wind and water, stands near a pair of neolithic graves dramatically poised by the hand of man on the cliff-edge.

Further down the coast a stele commemorates the sad fate of two members of the rescue squad who tried to save a reckless photographer who had been swept into the sea. Michel Ponin and André Robet lost their lives, whilst the object of their sacrifice survived. This afternoon I see quite a few idiots posing for selfies on the very edge of the cliffs above turbulent waters. They probably go home exhilarated, whilst I stagger on down towards Quiberon through a succession of fine megaliths, weary and bleary eyed under the unhelpful slaps of that relentless wind...

But I've done it. What I set out to achieve in 2019 is accomplished. I've completed a demanding schedule of research trips. Held tight to desk work when my health prevented travel. Finished the first draft of the manuscript before the end of December 31st. All is well. Happy New Year everyone.

Manoir des Indes

Manoir des Indes

The spirit of adventure and exploration is strong in Breton history, where the sea is an almost maternal element for so many. From Chateaubriand's North American adventures to the discovery of islands in the south Indian Ocean by Kerguelen, the global imprint of Breton individuality on the map of Imperial France is still a source of celebration in contemporary Brittany.
I spent a night to celebrate my birthday this Christmas at the 4* Manoir des Indes, set in a large park, beside Quimper's western ring-road. This manor house was built by René Madec, a son of Quimper from lowly origins, who joined the navy at the age of 11 and later arrived in India on a boat of the Compagnie des Indes. He fought the English under the command of Dupleix (who is also honoured in Quimper, giving his name to one of the quays). Through mercenary activity in the many wars in India, Madec rose to the status of nabob and a fabulous fortune in his own right. He was at the siege of Pondichery in 1778 with 6000 men.
Returning to Brittany the following year, Madec was ennobled by Louis XV. The town house where he settled in Quimper is marked today by a plaque from the local pottery showing him in full Indian dress, and he was a familiar sight on horseback along the banks of the Odet. He also bought up land on the outskirts of the town in Pluguffan and Penhars, building the lavish house now converted into a hotel on the site of a former manoir, whose chapel can still be seen.

rue René Madec, Quimper

At the hotel the theme of oriental luxury is pursued in furniture and decor, with the rooms given names evocative of maritime adventure. Mine (Kerguelen) had an enormous low wooden bed, a rugged A-frame and the sliding bathroom door echoed the screen partitions of warmer climes. The bedrooms are accessed off an open landing surrounding the glass-roofed atrium where breakfast - of exceptional quality - is served. In the basement a spa has been created, with treatment rooms, a sauna and, of most interest to me, the beautiful pool/jacuzzi, under the old stone arches of the original cellars.

Cellar pool

The story of René Madec's rise to greatness is told in a booklet in each room. On his final return to Quimper, he did not live long to enjoy all his acquired wealth with his young wife, dying in 1784 after injuries sustained by a fall from his horse. I cannot fault the hotel (except that I personally prefer a Relais du Silence to dispense with piped music), but the addition here of historical pedigree and local colour made it an exceptional stay; one I intend to repeat.

Solstice

Solstice greetings to all my readers and best wishes for 2020. I was at Mardoul very early this morning to find the Elez in greater flood than I've ever seen: all paths and bridges inaccessible. I left home under the moon and stars, saw the light come up over the dashing water, stood through a rainstorm and drove home with the sun. It was wonderful, a time of real reflection on the turning of the year and great hopes for all the new things coming in the next one. I have achieved all I set out to do in the good but tough passage of 2019: now is the time for change, a call I feel strongly in mind, body and heart. Looking forward to it and sending positive thoughts and thanks to everyone.

Wayfaring update

Really pushing myself to finish the draft of Wayfaring in Little Britain before the end of the year. I have one more field trip around Christmas and then a scramble to write up the final chapter in some coherent fashion. Otherwise all that's left, which I'm working on now, is text about imaginary and symbolic journeys, so important in Breton culture, and the idea of the landscape imbued with legend and metaphor should lead nicely into my actual journeys. It's a strange feeling to see this elusive book finally looking like a manuscript after three years of stop/start, illness and frustrations. I am grateful to all those who ask me rather nervously from time to time about progress. It's not quite as I envisaged at first, but the narrative shape that has developed organically seems a good one, true to experience and representative of all I have left to say on the history and landscape of Brittany. Next year, back to fiction!