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.

Back

A week in bed (ill, unfortunately) followed by a week with no computer as my lap-top finally died, taking many of my secrets to its grave. That's a relief. New machine now all set up, but the difficulty of buying anything here is so frustrating (even for an exceptionally patient and undemanding person like me :-)). You can spend half an hour talking specs and models, choose a computer, get your money out - only to be told they don't keep stock, in a tone that suggests you've made some nasty distasteful proposition. It's crass to actually want something NOW in France. Anything commercial anyway.

Blain - never again (OK, only rhymes in english)

In the last few days I have walked through electric storms and torrential rain, been bitten on almost every inch of my face and body by mosquitoes and acquired a most peculiar and painful red rash on one side of my neck. And I was just expecting sore feet. Feeling particularly savage about Loire Atlantique as I start to write up my notes - the canal was filthy and 'management' consisted of the most hideous architecture imaginable (I have called it 'toytown urinal meets swiss chalet twee,' a description which errs on the side of charity) and slashing down as many trees along the towpath as possible (to be replanted, of course - with firs!). Also in sour mood with the town of Blain where the chateau managed to close itself for no apparent reason (apart from my arrival) after I had arranged to spend half a day there to see it. There is little to do in Blain for that length of time - sitting on a bench studying a street map was the best value: 'rue Wootton Basset' (no, seriously) and also the allée Nominoe leading into the impasse Erispoe, which is a great joke for Breton historians. As poetry has recently re-entered my life (thanks to a very special man) after a long absence, I think I shall begin work now on an Ode to Blain ...

english out

Interesting day at the market: for the first time in my years here, I am on the receiving end of anti-English abuse (what an insult - it's worse than being called a girl). An elderly Breton stops to tell me, seriously and vindictively, I should not be selling books in English and furthermore the English should get out, or be chucked out, of Brittany. After a short while it is not pleasant and my mate on the next stall gallantly intervenes, eventually leading the man away and continuing the argument with him. Five minutes later, Christian tells me gleefully that apparently I am responsible for the death of Jeanne d'Arc. This cheers up all the traders enormously on what had been a slow day and leads to serial jokes along the lines of - don't ask her, she'll have you burnt at the stake, and, how could you do such a horrible thing to poor Jeanne (well, she deserved it and I did warn her) etc. I am having a sign made for next week - it will read, in French: I AM WELSH. PLEASE DON'T HOLD ME RESPONSIBLE FOR THE ENGLISH. If any English people ask me what it means, I shall say ALL NATIONALITIES WELCOME HERE, but if they don't buy a book, I'll burn them right up.

research

Getting ready for my Loire-Atlantique trip now. The first five chapters of The Long Thought are pretty much empty pages as yet, whereas the second half of the book is nearly finished. It's been an odd piecemeal construction over a long period of time, but I'm happy with how things are turning out. This week I'm completing the initial research which will enable me to walk a 125km stretch of canal with the right sort of thoughts in my head and a certain preparedness for important sights. Pretty sure that the excessively watery nature of the terrain out there will lead to some emotional turbulence, but there are also good historical pegs along the route from Alain le Grand to Spanish prisoners of the Napoleonic Wars to American shelling of villages by the canal. I also intend to develop the psychology of walking theme in this particular chapter - if the weather is anything like last week, I'll certainly be asking myself profound questions like - why bother?

more canal stuff

Spent a day in central Brittany walking a very sad stretch of canal between Pontivy and Lac de Guerlédan. Because the barrage at the lake cut the canal in two in 1930, commercial traffic stopped and this section has never been restored or maintained as a canal, although the nasty tarmac tow-path must get its share of walkers and cyclists. The locks are all in dismal state and many of the lock-houses have been abandoned. The landscape is uninteresting and there are few buildings of note along the way - one chapel with excellent painted ceilings, a square-towered manoir and a mill midstream on the Blavet. The barrage is grim, like a concentration camp - and not improved by the driving rain that plagued me much of the day.

autumn

For the first time, it was dark when I got up to go to the market yesterday morning. And I wore jeans, jacket and proper shoes. It must be autumn. Today on my regular 10km circuit, the gorse and numerous heathers were out, mushrooms burgeoning everywhere and blackberries nearly over. All the land is wet and steamy, where the rain has soaked down into the earth's latent summer heat. I've started cooking red cabbage again and eating inside and not taking the dogs out in the evening. It must be autumn.
Great market - highlight was meeting a couple who arrived holding a copy of my walk book they'd bought on a ferry, and were pleasantly surprised to encounter the author and keen to tell me how much they enjoyed the ones they'd done. In fact, they'd come to Morlaix to do the city walk in the book - now that did make me happy. And they were such nice people, I wish I'd had longer to talk to them.
Today I'm working on the canal material. Serious and focused again. It must be autumn. Not August.

good day, bad day syndrome

Tuesday a very good day. Meeting with charming Directeur of SMATAH, a group that manages the canal in Finistere. By chance, also encounter charming French journalist there (at a lock-house in Chateauneuf-du-Faou). Drive about looking at quarries and bourgs close to the canal, which provides some interesting new perspectives. Wednesday a terrible day. Unproductive morning with carnal thoughts interfering with work in a way I do not normally allow. Afternoon, went on a walk with the Queffleuth group in torrential rain and was soaked to the skin within two kilometres. Turned into a bit of an endurance test, despite some good company and a positive spirit of discovery that does the others credit. I was out on a limb and too preoccupied to make a sparkling contribution. Tea, feeling dismal, soggy and exhausted, with my Czech friend in Plourin.

madness

In answer to D's (DW not DP) query about my resolution of last weekend - I have kept one part but not the other ;-) In fact, did something incredibly stupid on Thursday. Serious madness. Now, on reflection, I think I might quite like to do it again.

market forces

Brilliant market session this morning - sun shone, I shone, sales shone. Met a handsome and engaging Frenchman (yes, another) who bought my history book, (ADDED this does not do him justice: from our subsequent acquaintance I must change the description to highly intelligent, interesting, funny, stimulating and generally amazing Breton man; ADDED AGAIN - this doesn't do him justice either, he's extraordinary, ADDED AGAIN - there are no words to describe this man) and lots of other lovely people it was a pleasure to sign books for because I knew they'd enjoy and value them, and maybe even come back and tell me so. Lazy afternoon, picking blackberries and reading a Philippa Gregory given to me by Erik, my Breton mate with the bookstall opposite. Dogs glad to have me home for once and in a mood to give them attention.

spider

My friend Jude with her Alfa Romeo Spider. We are so going to be the coolest women about town (OK mainly country, but look out the Café Terrasse in Morlaix).

Pardon

Our local Pardon today at the Abbaye du Relec. A service in the ancient abbey church followed by procession carrying relics through the woods to the sacred fontaine. Even as an observer, it's a profoundly moving experience, from the swell of Breton song from the belly of the church spreading over the many waiting outside, to the simple faith of the costumed women carrying their Lady's image on aged shoulders. As they wound their dignified way alongside the lake and were then lost among the trees I was both tearful and happy, separate but bound by the love of the land that underlies all devotion here. And not a foreign voice to be heard, except the French :-)

weekend

Dismal Saturday. For some reason (probably lack of KoS), market was dreary and unproductive. I felt very unengaged with the whole business and thus repelled most potential punters. Spent the afternoon reading a crap book in tent in the orchard with Brian constantly trying to force his way in. (He's a dog, for any late comers to this story who think it might be more interesting than is actually the case).
Sunday, gave tarot readings at English sale held in go-kart arena (now that does look fun, I always enjoy a bit of aggressive driving). Very tired emotionally (not as salacious as tired and emotional) after this, but still had two internet readings to do at home, so seriously in need of copious amounts of vodka this evening. Am going to give up drinking this week, I swear, and indulge my other vices to excess instead.

Rade de Brest

Finally managed a day of research ambling around the peninsulas and promontories edging the most fabulous roadsted in Europe. The Rade de Brest is a stupendous natural harbour, an inland sea big enough to house and hide a dozen fleets. Here, by the little settlement of Landévennec with its famous ancient and modern abbeys, the mighty Aulne disgorges itself - and so technically here ends the equally mighty canal. St Guenolé, who founded the original abbey in 485 first settled on an inhospitable island opposite and used to look longingly across at a beautiful wooded valley where mist rose like smoke each morning. I wanted to find that view, and to overlook the strait where the Viking fleet appeared on a fatal morning in 913, the Goulet where the Cordelière was blown to smithereens in 1512, and the scene of lethal German submarine runs in WWII. This cradle of a major port and regional capital is a vast arena, different from every angle, full of light, shadow and deceptive directions, calm, emotive, redolent of death and loss, beautiful, ominous -the source of many long thoughts to draw together themes in this final chapter of the book. Then I shall have to think about writing chapter one.

death penalty for cruelty to houses

Weekend: ten hours at the market on Saturday (annual all-day event, and unable to get the car out so stuck) nearly finished me off, but excellent trade. Sunday usual walking and working, then a great deal of alcohol, a fire spiced with sage and spending the night outside. Slept very badly, and then knocked for six by singularly unpleasant email first thing this morning. Still managed to do two tarot readings before heading off for another Luzec outing: first to my favourite house, La Maison Cornec, a typical maison anglaise (from the wealth of linen trade with England), dating from 1702. I know this place well and looked long and hard for a house like it before settling for something more like 1800. Found one that would have done very well, but English peole had put in a spiral metal staircase and fucked up the sleeping area beyond repair. The death penalty should be reintroduced for that sort of insensitivity. Characteristics of this beloved house include an external stone staircase and an avancée, used for the dining table, the first step up from living in one room - a strangely significant development in lifestyle.
The theme of the excursion was energy - they have a charbonnier reconstruction site at Cornec - and we then went on to the nuclear power station at Brennilis and then the Yeun Elez, the tourbière that is already very familiar to me from the peat levels in Somerset.
Need peace, sleep and a day of freedom tomorrow.

paganism

In response to another question prompted by my Lammas ramblings - why do these things at all? I can only answer for me. For many paganism is not a religion, but I think I can stand the word well enough. It is an active, participatory phenomenon: no creed, no intermediaries between human and divine, just personal choice, experience, commitment and responsibility. This very freedom makes the Sabbat festivals special as they are shared occasions, important to many thousands of people all over the world. Sacred times, sacred spaces. For me each event is about personal concentration, connection, contribution and celebration, but also primarily about the natural progress of the year, to which my psychological and emotional state is irretrivably linked (and I'm not just talking about moon cycles). I live in nature and my life moves with it, comfortably or agitatingly part of a greater whole. I didn't celebrate Beltane on May 1st, because a fertility ritual seemed inappropriate when many trees were not yet even in leaf - the reality of very late spring in Brittany this year was more important than a date on the calendar. That integrity of experience is essential to me as a pagan. Enough. I'll leave my dangerous Thelemite leanings for another time.

Lammas

Lammas at last. Gathering up all the harvest stuff - oats, nuts, fruits, flowers - and holding ritual in the hazel bower (very four of wands it looks too) at the top of the orchard with sun streaming into my face; good meditation afterwards in the same empowered space. Earlier did special lammas tarot reading for myself, but rather a sorry tale unfolded. At least the Hanged Man did not appear to urge the lammas theme of sacrifice, as I was half expecting. So the struggle goes on.
Lammas meal tonight: homemade plaited loaf, cheese from chap up the road, ripe tomato broth with fresh herbs & bread fried in olive oil and an enormous fruit salad. All very suitable, all delicious.