Saint Tex

Today is Tex's first birthday. What a fine little dog he has turned out to be!

As it is All Saints Day, I also honour with many tears my beloved lurcher Rufus, light of my life, who died last December, lovingly missed each and every day.

Michelin Green Guide to Brittany

I'm pleased to hear that two of my books are to be in the recommended reading list of the new edition of this prestigious book. The selection is interesting: Discovering the History of Brittany is an obvious choice, but the other is The Five of Cups, my novel set in the Monts d'Arrée. In fact, however, only the other day I had a letter from a reader saying she was planning a holiday in Brittany on the strength of the descriptions and atmosphere in that tale, so perhaps it's not strange after all. I always thought the cover would make a good tourist poster.

Day 26

Day 26 on my 28-day detox régime. So no meat, fish, dairy, eggs, wheat, tea, coffee, alcohol or sugar for the duration. There's no limit on eating, only on what is eaten. It is sadly true that this does make a hugely positive difference to how one thinks, feels, moves and sleeps. But too limited and boring to adopt for life - my once a year stint is quite enough. This time I've been very good, with few lapses, just the odd cup of black coffee or sip of diet coke when cooking (I use the term loosely, because endless chopping of vegetables and fruit lacks creativity after the first five days). Not quite! A friend was buying me lunch on a shopping trip to Ikea this week and in the absence of anything totally suitable, I had one slice of smoked salmon with my rye bread and lettuce leaves. She had meat balls, chips and chocolate-almond cake. But the point is that because of this régime, I had plenty of energy for four hours in Ikea, whereas usually I would have wanted to sit down after twenty minutes or eat cake or hit people in those circumstances.

Monday's Megalith

This neolithic allée couverte at Mougau Bihan dates from c3000. It has an entrance in the north, a corridor to the burial chamber (without significant distinction) and a small separate cella (front in photo). The giant roof slabs would once have been covered with earth and grass. Inside are carvings of paddles/threshing implements, goddess breasts (raised pairs of dots - I can't really believe in that interpretation) and a hafted axe on the wall of the chamber. The latter, like so many other 'pagan' monuments in Brittany, was daubed with Catholic symbols in flourescent pink paint soon after the new pope's anti-pagan speech. Truly enlightened behaviour.
Theories of an inverted boat-shape for such tombs may explain the oar or paddle type carvings, as necessary props for the soul's final progress across water, presumably accompanied by a psychopomp.

new novel

Progress on the new novel Walking for the Broken-Hearted is following my habitual and irritating pattern. Something triggers the first thought - in this case an incident related to me by friends - and I know by writer's instinct that conception has taken place. I try and fail to get things written down. The experience is still theirs and I have a long wait for the germination process that brings it into my consciousness and makes it mine. Usually this means several months of nothing at all or the odd desperate thought that leads nowhere. Even co-incidental visits to the setting of the opening scene made no impression, and I started to wonder if maybe I was wrong this time. But yesterday, whilst walking on the moors and thinking about something completely different, I suddenly got the measure of the story, the characters and several clear sequences. And on return to the house I managed to write for half an hour - so alea iacta est and all that.

Vannes

Vannes is, or was, the least familiar of Breton cities to me, so I was pleased to spend two days there this week. It lacks the university buzz of Rennes and Nantes, and is a softer, more restrained member of the same family. I liked it very much, even though the archaeology museum closed for the winter last week. Why? Does a beautiful place like Vannes have no visitors from October to April? And if not, why not - because the best places are closed maybe?

Monday's megalith

On Monday I fulfilled a long held desire to see the neolithic cairn with its famous carvings lining the passage and single burial chamber on the tiny island of Gavrinis. Of course, no photographs allowed inside, but it was an extraordinary experience. Normally I hate enclosed spaces but there was a palpable calm and sense of peaceful rest in the chamber that made me reluctant to leave. The forceful carvings enhance the liveliness of departure.

Ergué Gaberic

On the trail of Dallam organs for the Briton/Breton links book yesterday. The Dallam family, having left England to escape the puritan revolution in the mid 17th century, for several generations settled in Finistere and made fine organs for some of the most attractive churches. That at Ergue Gaberic near Quimper is one of the most original (i.e. least restored) and still in working order: renowned English musician Robert Woolley gave a concert there.
Finding the church closed I was sent from the mairie to the maison du patrimoine where a delightful and most helpful young woman, Gael Martin, got the key from the rector and let me have a good look inside the church. Pity my camera flash failed to function properly :-(

She was very interested in my project - it would certainly be of great benefit to small places like Ergué Gaberic which have notable heritage features to attract visitors through linkage.

fides restituta

Thank you, Mr Dodds :-)

waiting for a reply from Brittany tourism

I'm waiting for a reply from Brittany tourism's new head honcho, who happens to be English. I wrote three weeks ago asking for a late October meeting about my Briton/Breton historical trail project. No reply. Yesterday morning I sent another polite message and reprinted the first in case it was never forwarded to him. Now I wait and hope and wait and .........
My reply rate from Breton tourist boards/organisations/officials over the years has been less than 25%, but I remain absurdly optimistic and put all my faith in Mr Michael Dodds. After all, why wouldn't he be interested in such a project?

Quimper

This small city, capital of Finistere and the Cornouaille region, has gradually gnawed its way into my heart after our lukewarm first meeting six years ago. It has its quirks in addition to the much-pictured cobbled medieval streets and maisons à pan de bois. The walled medieval ville close was in fact unusually the preserve of the bishop, whilst the duke of Brittany had to content himself with the Terre au Duc, west of the Steir. Each had their own essentials: mills, fishponds, markets and seats of justice. But Quimper has always been a place of clerics, once awash with Franciscans, Jesuits and convents of every persuasion. Standing on the old rempart above the paradisical Jardin de Retraite, the huge Jesuit chapel dwarfs the fortifications that failed to protect this little settlement in the Wars of Succession and Religion. The luminous cathedral is renowned for its crooked axis of choir (13th century) and nave (15th century). Does this symbolically reflect the droop of Jesus' head on the cross? No: some idiot built the bishop's palace alongside inbetween times and there was nowhere else to go. The gleaming spires with their lofty statue of legendary founder King Gradlon are 19th century add-ons.
But if it's symbolism you want: the Max Jacob passerelle, augurated in 1994 for the 150th anniversary of his death in the camp at Drancy, stands almost between the two buildings designed by loathsome Breton nationalist and one time architect Olier Mordrel (born Olivier in Paris, Corsican mother, a late learner of Breton), who was condemned to death as a traitor after the war, and hid out in Argentina before returning to Paris and the same repulsive rhetoric in the 1970s.
The name Quimper means 'confluence' and the fluvial trio of Odet, Steir and Frout has led to some merry flooding, as recently as 2000 when plaques marking the water's highest point suggest that I would have been swimming along the rue René Madec (named for one of lowly Quimperois origins, whose private army in 18th century India won him the title of nabob).

cross in Brittany

Sad news. The Long Thought is no more. The title, that is. Whilst I understand the marketing and promotional reasons for this change, for me it means giving up the true name of my new book. It is now to be Crossing Brittany - well, yipppeeeedoo :-(

Monday's Megalith

Part of the Neocropolis at Menez Dregan. There is also a paleolithic site on the cliffside just below.

American Historical Trail?

And I've also got plenty of ideas for an American tourist trail in Brittany. Apart from the obvious WWI & WWII sites, there's Benjamin Franklin's visit in 1776 (before he was president), when he landed at Auray's exceptionally picturesque port of St-Goustan; Fulton's testing of the first submarine at Camaret in 1801; Jack Kerouac's family origins at Huelgoat - all fortunately highly attractive places to visit. And there are many more I'll keep to myself for now.

Briton/Breton Historical Trail (1)

The trail is developing well. I've just spent a day on the island of Molène, in the Atlantic between the continent and Ouessant (Ushant). It's a small place of 100 hectares and only 250 regular year-round inhabitants. It makes a pleasant change from the Celtic saints and Hundred Years War incidents to be researching an event, albeit a tragic one, from the Victorian era for my Briton/Breton historical trail. On June 16, 1896 the steamship Drummond Castle hit the rocks (Pierres Vertes) west of Molène on the last night of its voyage from South Africa to England, and sank within minutes. Fishermen saved two sailors and one passenger early the next morning, but the other 244 people on board perished. 29 of the bodies recovered were buried in a special corner of the churchyard on Molène. The islanders received thanks both practical and spiritual, with Queen Victoria putting up the cost of a cistern, which still stands near the church, to relieve the perennial freshwater problem, and the Guild of All Souls sending a jewelled chalice and plate to the priest in acknowledgement of the Christian burials accorded to the victims.

in praise of the pringle

I am going through an obsessive phase of Pringles. I bought my first tube on impulse a year ago in a little shop in the Monts d'Arrée as I drove back from Quimper. I have a strange history with the crisp: as a child I used to save up and buy small cardboard boxes of Chipples salted potato sticks from an old-fashioned grocer's shop in the Gloucestershire village where I grew up. I always ate these secretly in my room: comfort food and an a early type of protection ritual. When they stopped making them, I never made the step to that poor substitute for the potato stick, the common and ubiquitous crisp. As an adult in London I discovered that M&S had the goods, but in large packets so that the salt intake meant borderline hospitalisation if eaten all in one go (and how else could they be eaten?). In Somerset I had a similar relationship with tesco potato sticks, but all this was in my pre-thyroid days and once that hereditary menace emerged I gave up such indulgence.
So here in France where crisps are foolishly called chips and so loaded with salt that wrinkles appear as you eat, there has been nothing comparable to tempt me until now. What is it about Pringles? Partly the perfect light texture and seasoning, partly the challenge of the shape: it tantalises the mouth and requires, for the greatest oral satisfaction, two bites, the first of which must be clean enough to avoid shattering the second half into fragments. Then there is the effort required to plunge one's hand further and further into the tube, and the test of how many days you can make one lot last. I can't do better than four. But the whole process has all the fulfilment of a ritual beyond physical gratification.

sunday afternoon

How I hate Sunday afternoons and their inherent purposelessness. How do normal people manage to pass those world-without-end hours? I spend all week walking and reading and writing - what else is there to do? Today I can't seem to find any task to lift the dreary energy so I try to match it by using time to delete hundreds of photos from the laptop as the new XP update tells me I am running out of space. Several thousand pictures of the Nantes-Brest canal have just flashed past my eyes, reviving old passions, but it seems a fitting moment to get rid of many now that my active love-affair with the canal is very nearly over - although I hope we will remain good friends.
The puppy, from his bed on the windowsill next to my desk, has just been sick in spectacular fashion all over the final maunscript changes to The Long Thought and over my diary. Whatever I was going to do in October has lost its appeal, and I will need another updated manuscript, but hey, I have something purposeful to do at last - pass the mop and bucket, Alice.

covers up

The cover of The Long Thought is evolving slowly. These are the front-runners.

Megaliths & the Monts d'Arrée

Preparing for an association event next week, and had a good walk on the Landes de Cragou, where Dartmoor ponies graze and buzzards wheel. The theme is both landscape and the earliest traces of man.

viaduct views

Morlaix is famous for its viaduct, built in the early 1860s to carry the Paris/Brest railway. It was an obvious target for allied bombing in WWII to break the Germans' vital communication line. A raid in January 1943 succeeded in knocking out part of one arch, as well as destroying a primary school, killing all the pupils and a teacher. 12 days later the Germans had the line repaired.

cover pic

The Long Thought will going to press in a month or so and I'm starting work on the covers. I'm torn between symbolic wintry pictures or June splendour showing the canal at its best. This picture is my current favourite: it also connects to the opening scene of my new novel, which would be a neat transitional image. The infinite variety of the Nantes-Brest canal requires a whole book of photos to do it justice, but I've decided to do without pictures in the text, which can stand up for itself well enough, I hope.

bloody journalists - Ouest France

A reporter from Ouest-France, the main daily paper here, accompanied a Morlaix town walk I guided last week. He was a young man who admitted he did not know the history of the town. All the more reason for him to listen? Not a chance, he's a journalist after all. The next day he sent me a PDF of the article - full of errors and misquotations, but I expect that after long experience of being interviewed by the French press. You accept these colourful diversions from the truth in return for publicity.
I was just about to file the article and think no more of it when I spotted the photo caption: there I am, on the bandstand in the Place des Otages, explaining the tragic fate of 60 Morlaisiens taken hostage and then transported like cattle to the death camps in reprisal for a resistance attack. What does the caption say - that I am describing the hostages being SHOT. Now not only is this a nasty slur on my reputation, but it is pretty unpleasant for the families of these poor men - Morlaix is a small town and this terrible event features large in many memories.
So I send an email at once to the journalist, Morgan Bourven. No reply. After brooding all weekend, I write a letter of complaint to the editors. Shortly after the journalist sends a brief email of apology and says a retraction will be published in the paper the following day. It isn't, so I write to him again, this time in anger. He replies blaming a secretarial error (!) and promises the text will appear tomorrow. Half an hour later he sends me the text to see if I approve. Frankly I think it is very little, but it includes a public apology to me as well as a correction of the facts, so I say OK.
Today, the retraction appears, but lo and behold! the apology has mysteriously disappeared and only a bald statement of fact remains. Anyone reading without significant attention might still have the impression that the mistake was mine. I am seriously upset by this - by their stupidity and ignorance in the first place (no-one in the Morlaix office of Ouest-France noticed such an appalling error before the paper went to press) and then the apparent play-acting that followed.
I think the best thing to do with Ouest-France in future is to stuff it in my walking boots to help the drying process.

POSTSCRIPT I have just received a message from the journalist saying that it is an 'apology to history not to Wendy Mewes' - there you are, folks - NOW they care about history, but they don't give a shit about my professional reputation. If I was French it would be a very different story.............. but at least this shows them in their true light.

ADDENDUM: after reading Laurent's comment and receiving another message from the journalist, let me say that he, Morgan Bourven, tried to do the right thing but was overruled by more senior staff who did not feel I was important enough to merit an apology.

Portrait of the Young Dog

Painted by animal artist Debs, here's my young chap Tex, now eight months old and of wide vocabulary.

on the trail

Personal reasons have kept me off-blog lately, but I'm getting going again this month. Starting work on a new novel, Walking for the Broken-Hearted, which in its embryonic state appears to be a strange amalgam of fiction and reality. Also working on the development of an historic trail throughout Brittany, tracing the Briton/Breton connection over centuries. This is essentially a tourist project, concentrating on places and remains, but I expect a guidebook will accompany the basic leaflet information.

Otherwise BWs association business takes much of my time, with new walks to research and a programme of events for the autumn/winter to plan. There can't be many Morris dancing workshops on offer this December in Brittany. Plus the total reworking of the Brittany Walks website, which is going to be a big step forward for anglophone walking over here, and a major task for me.

incapacity

Nearly two months ago I knocked my hand awkwardly against the car. A minor irritation, not especially painful at the time. Now that hand is almost useless. My old bugbear of arthritis has set into the virgin joints with the grip of a terrier. After twelve years free of the crippling pains that ruined my thirties when walking was often too painful to contemplate, the nightmare returns with a vengeance. It is my left hand and I am left-handed: writing, cooking, any normal everyday action is now an ordeal. Perhaps I should be thankful that the savage pain in one finger that kept me awake night after night has at least faded to a constant dull ache - but the slightest pressure on the hand brings out that blast of agony only too quickly. My world has shrunk swiftly into limited actions and strategic movement, a way of living I thought was well buried in my past. Funny how quickly the old patterns return - I find myself instinctively guarding my knees and feet from potential trauma and moving with the gait of a cripple that once came so naturally. And yet there is nothing wrong with those joints. Yet.

puppy brain

Never, never try finishing a manuscript with a new puppy in the house. I am exhausted and Tex is obliviously exuberant. My office is a mass of shredded cardboard and decimated broom twigs. As well as the coastal book to complete by the end of January, I have a talk to give next week in central Brittany and cycle routes in pays bigouden to prepare for an English travel company. Actually, I'm quite enjoying it all, although whether I'll be able to remember details of the Seven Years War or the history of the seaweed industry when questioned is quite another matter.

new puppy

New puppy able to come home today.

Bonne année, etc

2008 at last - I've been looking forward to it. This is a year of change.

Finally finished coastal book walking on December 31st, only two months behind schedule. Most of the text is written, however, so I'll still hope to bring it in on time. Have been distracted by doing some research work for a travel company and giving talks about this and that, as well as spending two weeks in England. For the first time since coming to live in France I enjoyed my trip back over the water, and had an excellent time in Glastonbury, Shropshire and London.

tarot competition win

A highly original and exciting new deck - The Maroon Tarot - has recently been published (Majors only so far). What endears it to me especially is that it is a deck from Poland, a place with which I have great affinity. Part of the publicity is a competition for work inspired by one of the cards - I have had a win with this poem on the Judgement card shown above.

Judgement

I have heard this call before,
Deep in my green thoughts,
On lost nights
In a wrong place

I hid my face.
Past failures hold me
New fears enfold me
In the sadness of space.

Call me again

How high is wall?
How far is the fall?

Call me again

Is that the time?
The blast insists.
My mind resists
Such a step
From dark to light,
The distance of knowing.

But I’m on my way
I’m going

My spirit flies before.


©Wendy Mewes
2007

here's the cover

never-ending coast

Only about 130kms to go now to complete walking for the coastal book. Then the real work will begin. Have just endured a few days on the high cliffs of Cap Sizun and some very scary paths. Recent week staying in a mobile home north of Brest to complete the north-west section was more enjoyable - photos here from that trip. Fortifications from 17th to WWII for the Rade de Brest are extensive in this area - the Fort de Bertheaume in the picture is where Napoleon's commander was holed up by the English navy blocking the goulet.

spot the difference

These two photos were taken this morning with two hours of each other on the same stretch of north Finistere coast. Such are the vagaries of this month's weather. In fact, it became so hot, I had to curtail my walk, which is a drag because an extra trip to the Coast of Pagans will now be required, and my schedule of walking and writing is pretty full up to the end of October. Also my knee is bad again, ominously. Too exhausted to swim even in these incredibly alluring waters. Not a great day then, but the sight of a man holding a poodle up by the tail and wiping its bottom with toilet paper made up for the negatives.

Pointe du Raz

Coastal book coming on quite well now. Today I was at the Pointe du Raz - NOT the westernmost point of France despite the coachloads there believing it so. Too hot for comfortable walking today, but what scenery! From the point, the Ile de Sein was clearly visible, and not a breath of wind, a rarity on this blustery littoral.

walking the Finistere coast

Spectacular walking for the new book on the Crozon peninsula this week, helped by hospitality and lifts from friends Les and David in Landevennec. Highlights include the remarkable éperon barré of Lostmarc'h and scenery around the Cap de la Chevre. How fortunate that I have just been asked to supply photos showing Brittany's exceptional scenery for a travel magazine. It is also timely for publicity for the Walking and Writing course I'm launching next year, using the landscape not only for inspiration but to also to develop techniques. More on that shortly.

brittany coast project

New book now underway, despite The Long Thought not being finished. I am not happy about this coast of Brittany project. Walking by the sea is about relaxation for me, not work, and galloping dozens of kilometres in very hot sun or searching endlessly for missing waymarks does not make me glad to get up in the morning. I hate built-up stretches of coastline with hideous houses and beaches that don't allow dogs. But I do like sea smells and breezes. Have so far completed my Pays Bigouden chapter and am now getting to grips with the Crozon peninsula. Only 578 kms to go by January.

solstice

Got up at five and was on the high hills before six. Rain, very strong winds but fantastic cloud formations racing about in shades of grey and black, minutely edged by gleaming rays. Didn't actually lay eyes on the sun itself, but pretty good all the same. Odd that the banks of clouds were moving in completely opposite directions and crossing over the misty lake. OK, year is winding down now, everything inside....

pasta

Tonight I made pasta (my favourite tubes) with smoked trout, turkey, bacon, vegetables and a sauce concocted from humous, strawberry vingar, apple jam, fresh pesto, etc. It was DELICIOUS. Now I am going to walk the dogs in the pouring rain and make up a banana cake recipe for tomorrow's group walk.

tarot

Good day reading tarot at a fair in Cotes d'Armor yesterday. All the same, now that I am in the process of designing my new tarot website I can't help feeling that some sort of image and outlook re-think is needed. Is Star Tarot is a bit wimpy and new agey? Are hope and optimism really my keywords? Wouldn't something that more nearly defines my general attitude and reading style be better? OK, Kick-Arse Tarot it is then.

launch day

Today is launch day (not literally I hope) for my Nantes-Brest canal guide, which is already selling VERY WELL :-) I am leading a walk from Glomel in Cotes d'Armor along the Grand Tranchée (over 3kms of canal cut almost by hand by prisoners in the 1820s in appalling conditions) various etangs and a pretty cross-country route to the Corong reservoir, built originally to feed this highest section (184m) of the whole canal, joining the Blavet and Aulne river valleys. Some press coverage has been set up, but the weather is looking decidely stormy so it's quite possible I shall be walking alone after a soggy photo with one local reporter.
The last month has been quite a struggle work-wise with the Long Thought proving annoyingly elusive, but preventing a clear mind for the next book, which I suppose, reluctantly, will be Brittany: Legends, Myths and Megaliths unless another publisher comes through for Brittany: the Islands, which is what my heart hankers for. Most letters I get ask about another work of fiction, but that's looking less and less likely. I can't face it as things are.

monts d'arree

This is my everyday sort of walking terrain. I tore my calf muscle badly last weekend leaping up a rock just like this, and have been down to 5 kms a day this week. Bad news for training, but I HATE resting! Managed 12kms today and will regard myself as fit again for a long stint tomorrow.

Brest

I've been taken to task once or twice for describing Brest as only of interest to 'those fond of post-war architecture, naval history and shopping' in my guidebook to Finistere. Over the years since that was published I haven't changed my mind, but I have re-evaluated the first two items (the third, never). Three things in the last fortnight have combined to bring Brest back to my attention and send it shooting up the list of favoured places. Firstly, a friend sent me articles written about Brittany by journalists around the world and several of these involved talking to people in Brest who gave good value about their city. Secondly, I was invited to a concert of 'schizophrenic jazz' by the duo Nosfell who are rapidly establishing a reputation in and outside France. It was held in an underground cabaret/bar venue, with several hundred young things leaping up and down in a haze of assorted smoky substances whilst the music thundered all around - fantastic 'night in the city' experience which buoyed me up for days (all that passive smoking doubtless). Lastly I went to the chateau yesterday, feeling that my canal journey must truly end in Brest even if the canal itself didn't. From the medieval towers, miraculously spared in the allied bombing that flattened the rest of the city, looking across the Rade and out along the Goulet, all that naval history finally came alive before my eyes and gave me what I hope will be a strong ending for The Long Thought. Thank you Brest.

canal film

What is supposed to be a quiet time of recuperation after finishing a book has been a frantic whirl of activity. Lots of walking, tarot and website activity to be planned and carried out. This week have taken a group walk at Landevennec (ancient abbey pictured here), along the forest path edging the Rade de Brest - beautifully atmospheric in dripping grey weather, although the open country return route in driving rain was a bit of an ordeal. Kind friends Les and David who live locally provided tea and cakes to restore us all. Keeping up training in current weather is hard and my old left knee problems are exacerbated by the pervading dampness and quite a few slips (and the odd fall) on treacherous terrain.
Yesterday to Rennes by TGV to meet film director Brigitte Chevet, who has funding to make a film about walking the Nantes-Brest canal. She's a very interesting lady and we had a good talk about many aspects of my beloved waterway and its exceptional potential - and I may get a chance to talk about my book on camera. Better get on with writing it then.

Nantes-Brest Canal guide

My canal guide finally finished and sent off by courier this afternoon, after six months of intensive (and lately stressful) work. Above is the first cover draft, but it's changed a bit since then. The book will be out in April. And now, after two years of research on the subject, I can finally get back to writing the serious book it's all been for :-)

detox

Every year I do the Carol Vorderman detox diet at least once. No meat, fish, dairy, eggs, wheat, alcohol, tea, coffee, etc. for 28 days. Sadly, the hype is true - it works. After a few dodgy days, the mind clears, sleep is deep and restful, skin glows, eyes sharpen, energy levels soar, so it is all worthwhile. And it's not a food deprivation type diet - I eat whenever I'm hungry. Rye toast and honey, nuts and dried fruit, lentil pasta (non-wheat), humous in large quantities and SOUP of all kinds. I feel fantastic at the end, but have to wait for the right moment to begin. An awful lot of time is needed to cut up all the vegetables :-) This hasn't quite come yet in 2007 - it was snowing here this morning after all - but the urge is there, so it won't be long. Interesting to see how it suits my training.

old year/new year

Catch up time. Thanks to all those who have sent kind messages to my website in the last month. And especially to K&S for the vodka. Happy 2007 to you all and to all my readers.
I'm hard pressed at the moment with end of January deadline for the canal guide, but it will be done. Had two trips in December, to Redon to see the Musée de la Batellerie directeur Charly Bayou and get another good look at the town, and then a few days in Nantes just before Yule. One more day out to Lac de Guerledan to double-check some new paths this week and get a couple of photos, then the draft text can be finished.
On the walking front, my ligament injury seems to be healed and I'm on the verge of committing to an epreuve in six months time which requires a walk of 83kms in 24 hours - i.e. you walk all night and all day. So beginning to train in earnest, and I hope to up my 10kms a day to 20 as soon as the wretched book is finished.
Otherwise - this looks set to be a big year for me. For good or ill, on va voir (plutot boire?).

Difficult times

Difficult times - that's it.

soup

Cheerful Monday morning making Moroccan soup with chickpeas, spinach, apricots, lemon, chili and cinnamon - so good I managed quite a long trek in heavy mist and drizzle up and over the high hills this afternoon. Perhaps not quite my daily 10kms, but not bad for a grim November day. Adequate preparation for smoked trout pasta later, I dare say.

witchfest review

Back from the bizarre experience that was Witchfest. A great deal of concentration required not to stand on trailing cloaks or get wands up the nose. Interesting that the atmosphere was completely normal - no sense whatsoever of special energy or powerful focus - just too much shopping on hand, maybe? Having said that, I had a truly awesome experience of connection with an absent loved one in the shopping hall, and made one very happy purchase. Talks were embarrassingly basic and simplistic until the great Ronald Hutton took the stage and wowed several hundred people with his intellectual integrity and passionate commitment to the cause. And he was funny ...
Also met several people whom I've known well for years on the internet for the first time in the flesh, and was not disappointed. Dear friend Zoe especially :-) and my tarot reading colleagues from TABI. That was the best part of it all, prosaic human contact. What it lacked for me was, well, magic ...

witchfest

Off to England early tomorrow for Witchfest International (in Croydon!)and then a few days with oldest and dearest friends. Just as well, I'm not doing any work at the moment ...

always judge a book by its cover

A day of choosing photos, out of hundreds, for cover of new short canal guide which is due out in spring. This is in addition to The Long Thought - seems a good idea to get two books out of 18 months work :-) This whole cover business is so important, it pays to take the time. My Walking in Finistere cover took almost a month to decide, and I lost long arguments about the back cover pictures of Discovering the History of Brittany - the satisfaction of now clearly being right is not enough compensation either.

melacholy day

I can't do better than Auden today. What misery.

Like love we don't know where or why,
Like love we can't compel or fly,
Like love we often weep,
Like love we seldom keep.

I'm writing a poem about éoliennes and feeling like shit.

ADDED: but the day got a whole lot better ....

crepes

I have to be in the mood for crepes, and usually that means lunchtime only, but tonight was an exception. At the best creperie in Morlaix had an excellent meal - ble noir crepes, a) tuna, garlic butter, seaweed and lemon filling (top favourite) b) roquefort with walnut salad. I won't bother to mention the creme brulee ice-cream and the ... Accompanied by cider, naturally, and animated discussion of American literature and society, the French education system, why I loathe John Donne, are writers ever good people (no), etc.

poem

When You Are Ill

Driven by demands
Of frustrated tenderness,
I am restless far away

Wanting to touch your face
Make soothing soup
Read something silly aloud
Or simply watch you sleeping

But I want from exile,
Not nearly near enough

back again

Two weeks in Morbihan finishing my 360km love affair with the Nantes/Brest canal, and also doing the work for some historic walks I've been asked to contribute to a new book for next year. I am ALL WALKED OUT and starting to get injury prone as a result, despite going to bed at 8 every night and resting as much as possible. Time to stop walking and start writing again, although my head is full of poems and very little else.