We took The Promise out to sea for fear of her turning into a freshwater vessel, with all the problems and horrors that engenders. Our pastoral anchorage quickly disappeared behind the wooded bends as we followed the channel downstream past chateaux and lush farms, from where munching cows and stalking herons monitored our passing with indifferent silence. Once past the countless modern yachts and enormous multihulls in Benodet, we rode the racing ebb out through the narrows and headed her in order to up sails and bear away towards the Glenan Isles. That whole sweep of bay is some pretty. Once away from the river the sea hisses by and out to port the shining edge of sand stretches to Mousterlin, Beg Meil and on to Concarneau and the south. She heels pleasantly on a starboard tack and slips along in her groove. We, like gulls on her silver deck, can sit occasionally bending the elbow on the helm up to keep her straight, though to be honest, if I eased the mainsheet a touch, she'd sail herself. The joy of the cutter rig, well balanced and easy on the eye. On the horizon the dark line that is the half tide profile of the archipelago, Les Glenans. Passenger steamers carry hoards of visitors to this tempting reef. The water is so clear that pilotage is by eye alone and one can gaze down at familiar rocks and gullies below fathoms of blueness. Tourists are greeted by a land of sand, scrub and low lying boulders. There is little in the way of vegetation and precious little shelter from the summer sun. Not that shelter is sought for as these islands are a mecca for bird watchers and sunbathers. An ironic mix of men in camouflage, rucksacks and binoculars on one hand, and nut brown naturists on the other. They are like dancers on a ballroom floor, each in their own space, each aware of the other while trying to imagine the pristine place is theirs alone. The islands also attract yachtsmen and a famous sailing centre is based there. The only industry apart from the tourism and that can hardly justify the name, as amenities are kept to a minimum. There is no traffic, hardly any buildings - two small restaurants, ancient fortifications - and when the steamers depart for home, the Glenans are quiet save for the gulls and waves breaking on the windward beaches. I was determined to at least circumnavigate the reef and we enjoyed the running and reaching in the warm September breeze after the early start and brisk two hour transit. The Crew however have a different agenda. They are also keen for a run ashore to explore what there is and do some foraging. So it is, we luff up, drop the hook and haul the sails down to the deck. Once the dinghy is deployed they scramble over the side with bucket and net for a spot of hunting. They were after shell fish and prawns, muscles, scallops and unsuspecting shallow sea dwellers, perhaps crab or eel. There's the harpoon too. They mean business.
From the peace of the moorings, except the wind slating in the rigging, I can make out their simple forms like two chess pieces, stalking the tide line and wading deliberately to and fro in the rocky shallows. One dipping low, reaching under a ledge, or one lunging to retrieve the harpoon. Happy as children, primitive as cannibals in the south seas. We've done this for millennia, hunting, and to watch two young hominids about this ancient work is to observe a ritual that begat tool making, planning and man's eventual rise from the swamps. Better drop a bottle of muscadet over to chill on a line. It'll be seafood chowder tonight.
