The wild lands

West of the sunshine and beaches of the Bigouden, the land takes on a wilder character. There are sparse villages and flat moorland between and I also needed to stretch my legs after weeks afloat. I left one of the crew to chores, that being off to the co-op maritime for boot topping as the anchor rode chafes our line on occasion. The other picked up a hire car and met me at Ste. Marine quay, as we were off to Penmarc'h. There are a number of draws to the area as it's rich in prehistory and and the views are wide. It's big sky country and the wind from the west hurls sand from the dunes far inland. There was a particular spot I wanted to see close to. Brittany's oldest calvary is at Tronuen. Carved from granite in the mid 15th century, it's a holy place of pilgrimage and peace far from the shops and cafes of the bigger towns. Now, I'm not a much of a church goer but I do have belief in spirit and here on the edge of Europe, one is aware of an older time, an earlier time, of stones and trees, of gods and demons. Here the last two thousand years blow back like cheesecloth to reveal an ancient world where we tread like dancers. As soon as you've passed Pont l'abbey, the signs point to the fishing port of Saint Guénolé and the headland at la Torche, a mecca for surfers and bird watchers. The bell tower of the chapel begins to materialise above the swaying tamarisk and suddenly you top a rise to see the silhouette of ancient granite crosses against a ragged sky. I parked the tiny hire car on the grass and wandered across to the church.

There were other tourists there, in bright, acid coloured sports clothes and snuggy tops. It's not like the great cathedral sites like Chartres, nor the ordered politeness of our UK monuments. There were no signs, or instructions, except in the car park where laminated boards explained the big picture in French. This was low key and quiet. Very few people spoke or communicated and after briefly admiring the main feature, the calvary itself, hewn from 15th century lichen encrusted granite, I crept cautiously into the cool vaulted space of the chapel.

The interior was vast or seemed so. Dark and cold but with sunlight shafting through comparatively modern stained glass window. There was very little else, considering the excesses of other catholic churches I've seen. A simple desk stood right at the back selling guides and saintly gifts. Not for me. In front of the altar windows a tier of candles burned. I stood contemplating the scene for a moment or two then felt compelled to light a candle in memory of an old friend, recently gone from us. I placed my Euro in the box, picked a slender light and then stepped back having added it to the other offerings. It was serene, the right thing to do and as there was no clap of thunder, I felt strangely at peace there. I coughed and sticking my hands in my sea coat pockets I stalked back out into the light before a second tear had time to follow the first.

visitors

I hear on the jungle drums that we may be getting a visit from old shipmate, Ian Heard. He's a Cornishman, painter and aspiring writer from the Tamar valley back in Blighty. I have the crew keeping the deck tight with liberal buckets of sea water and polishing the brass, after months at sea and a lazy summer have allowed a dull patina to steal the reflections in the lamps and binnacles. Last time I saw him was in Fowey, singing in Gallants, to some French yachtsmen who were reduced to tears. I though his pronunciation was equally questionable. We'll do a few songs here I'm sure, once the langoustines have gone down and the calvados is glowing in the glass.

quiet day, ebb tide

Mid-day on The Promise. Tide is around half and ebbing so we're pointing upstream towards the woods and steep banks, our stern leaving a bubbly wake as we go nowhere. The weather has lost some of it's heat and turned dampy, light rain, though still very warm. It's shorts and tee shirt times. The crew sometimes making the most of our solitude, pad about the decks wearing little or less. They're rustling up a favorite lunch below. Courgettes, lightly done in Olive oil, on toast with grated good cheese, English. A little local Muscadet too. Perfect.

We've been making the best of the weather, touching up on a bit of varnishing, scrubbing off the waterline and checking rigging aloft. Other than that, pottering up and down in the punt and taking the air. There are creeks to explore off the main stream and I've used the time to build a picture for my book. Notes and references. Colours, architecture, sounds and scenes, all grist to the creative mill. There is little on the history though. The French don't do a National Trust, and their museums are either prehistoric or 19th century painters. You'd get the impression nothing happened here till then. Perhaps it didn't. However, I've heard of a place near Audierne, a manoir that will suit my story and so I need to organise a trip ashore, or take the ship as it's not far. More on that later.

I motored down to Ste. Marine, opposite the noisy fleshpots of Benodet last night. Passing under the high, modern bridge that spans the river there and hauling the punt up the slip to avoid fishermen and trippers. What transport east and west was like before the bridge can only be guessed. A long trip around Kemper would have been in the offing. I imagine there were ferries but there are few obvious crossing places. After a chat with the harbour man, I walked around the point as far as the great sweeping beach on the bay north of the village, passing by weekend retreats and holiday cottages, through dunes and pines and marram grasses until the sea and surf filled all my senses. It's a place of sea and sky. This is the northern edge of the bay of Biscay. The Iles de Glenan smudge the horizon and the white sands curve away into the distance where a lighthouse marks the edge of land and to where the sun would ultimately slide into the sea. I sat watching the sunset for a while then wandering back to the port, enjoyed a Pastis in a cafe and absorbed all this Frenchness as last minute dippers towelled off and dogs barked at nothing in the sky, just because that's what they do.