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.