Browned off...

I believe the term, "Browned off" comes from the process of preserving steelwork with controlled RUST. In centuries past, musketeers and carabiners would take the exposed metal parts of their muzzle loaders and treat them with a rust accelerating compound. This obviously dulls shiney new steel but a soldier or hunter didn't want the sun reflecting off their gun barrels. This actually helps keep metal good and I have a percussion lock musket from the 1800's which testifies. Once browned off, the steel can be oiled or waxed to a lovely deep patina. I say this because there is a glut of stainless and bronze parts available for boats today but I have a friend in Maine who fits his punts out in iron and browns them off in the traditional way. Look great and is easily maintained. Mild steel is workable, long lasting, good looking and CHEAP. Boatmen, you don't have to spend your hard earned Reales on mass produced chrome. Find a gunsmith and get browned off.

Wild life on the Islands

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.

There is a blush of autumn about the river. The very tops of the chestnuts are just showing highlights though the oak woods are still reassuringly dark. Isolated pines lance through the canopy supporting noisy but invisible rookeries. On board, the serenity of the river has been fractured by one of the crew's enthusiasm for their new concertina - The Box. A delight in the right hands but the learning process can be painful for those of a discerning ear. Thank goodness they didn't buy bagpipes (another Breton favorite) or worse - a bombard. I was moored in the inner harbour at Lorient once, during their occasional celtic festival. I thought then, If I ever hear a baghad again, it'll be too soon. That said, I do think a small guitar might be nice to while away an ocean crossing. There's a very musical community afloat. I knew a guy who had three pianos on his boat, and a model train set. He also made the best profiteroles known to man. Having spent several days scraping down a mast in preparation for umpteen coats of best varnish, his coffee breaks in the boatyard were a treat. Time for a brew I think...

Those were the days

I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow--a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white. I remember him looking round the cover and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards:

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest-- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

RLS

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.