This morning, I took myself off to Rennes' fantastic food market, the second biggest weekly market in France. It takes place on Saturdays, as it has done for probably hundreds of years, at the Place des Lices, a network of cobbled squares surrounded by wonky pan-de-bois houses. It was truly a banquet for the senses, with just about every type of fresh vegetable, fruit, and miles of fresh flowers on the outside stalls (which ran over several blocks) and on the inner stalls, a wondrous array of fresh seafood, artisan breads, cheeses in myriad shapes and colours (and smells!), and meat and poultry of all persuasions. I had no idea there were so many different types of artichoke, or that the varieties of shallot, garlic, and onion available in France could cover an entire stall. I loved simply wandering around looking and smelling everything, but there was plenty of action with all the old ladies muscling their way to the front of the queues, the vendors touting their wares in fine dramatic style (no wonder they call it a 'criee'). There were also plenty of adorable pooches for me greet and give a scratch behind the ears. (Rennes is a very dog-friendly city - even the plooty Michelin-rated restuarant next door to my hotel welcomes them!) I was also quite amused by the site of the market's rickety little tea and coffee trolley, which appeared to be made out of an old pram with a parasol stuck in the top, doing the rounds of the stallholders.
Tastebuds whetted by the sights and sounds of a morning au marche (and an afternoon of shopping), in the evening I returned to dine at Le Cour des Lices, a restaurant right on the edge of the market square that boasts the best of the day's produce. I went in on the off chance and was lucky enough to get the last table, a little one right by the window that would have been a squeeze for more than one person. This place was a real delight. It didn't look like much on the outside, being in a very narrow and somewhat run-down looking old house, but inside it was modern and cooly luxurious, with pale wood-panelled walls and leather banquettes that were warmed by splashes of bright orange in the glasses, tableware, and linen. It is family-run (the wait-staff included a kid who looked about 14! but he did a very professional job) and obviously very popular with the locals, as every second party through the door was greeted with bisous and hugs from the charming maitre d'. My meal included foie gras layered with thin shavings of artichoke, roast pigeon with today's market legumes, and some kind of miraculous caramel buerre-sale mousse-y thing with baked apples. It was seriously eye-rollingly good, and a fitting sign-off to my last weekend in France.
Tomorrow, I am off to Saint Malo for the day on the train, so will report back on this most famous of Breton port towns. Here's hoping the weather is good!
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
A wander in medieval Vannes
adventures in medieval Vannes
Vannes is one of those cities I think I could live in. It's big enough to be very vibrant ( plus, the university means there is a decent population of non-crusties) but small enough that you can wander it's medieval centre-ville on foot and not feel overwhelmed. The old city cascades down the hill to the river port in a tangle of cobbled streets and overhanging half-timbered buildings, many of them encroaching so far into the open space of the lanes that the upper stories appear to be on a most perilous lean. On the afternoon I visitied, the temperature had finally shot up into the high 20s after several cooler days, and old men in white singlets, cigarettes dangling, hung out of upper story windows and chatted to each other as the world went by beneath them.
Vestiges of Vannes' medieval city walls still encircle the old town, and are studded with a couple of squat towers, arrow slits overlooking the river, and with two of the orignal massive gateways. Beneath what remains of the chateau, the moat has long been filled in but, as in many French towns like this (Hennebont in Morbihan and Angers in the Loire spring to mind), they have now been filled in with beautiful formal gardens, their geometry traced in pink roses and dense lines of dark green box. I spent several happy hours here, chasing one alleyway into another, and finally wound up down at the riverside, so close to the sea that the smell of salt water and mudflats where equally mingled.
From there, I found my way back to the station and jumped on train to Auray, with the intention of meeting friends for dinner at Auray's lovely little medieval port of Saint-Goustan. However, typically for me, I got just a leetle bit lost trying to walk from Auray to the port. (I don't know why, but I find I am congenitally unable to orient myself to a map!) Swallowing my pride, I finally asked a harmless-looking old chap coming out of the boulangerie clutching his baguette (for dinner, no doubt) for directions. After about 20 seconds and the first set of very complicated instructions, he asked me where I was from. When I told him New Zealand, his face lit up and he started talking about rugby and the All Blacks, which seems to be a universal icebreaker in this country. He then said he would have driven me to the port but his car was at home. No, no I said, 'c'est pas grave', I have loads of time, it's a lovely evening and I *want* to walk. 10 minutes down the road, what happens but the old boy comes driving up beside me in his equally-old and crusty car, and calls out the window, 'You are a New Zealander and a rugby fan! We can't have you getting lost!' (Presumably, the English are left to their own devices...) So, long story short, yes, I disregarded a lifetime of parental advice and accepted a ride from a stranger. A few minutes later, he dropped me off at the port of Saint-Goustan, another enclave of winding streets and pan-de-bois buildings hugging the bank of the river Loch. I met my friends for dinner and we enjoyed a veritable banquet of local seafood while sitting outside next to the water. The scallops (St Jaques) were a highlight as were the whole, very large grilled sardines (pilchard-sized) and the tiny, sweet and tender local mussels. Formidable!
Vannes is one of those cities I think I could live in. It's big enough to be very vibrant ( plus, the university means there is a decent population of non-crusties) but small enough that you can wander it's medieval centre-ville on foot and not feel overwhelmed. The old city cascades down the hill to the river port in a tangle of cobbled streets and overhanging half-timbered buildings, many of them encroaching so far into the open space of the lanes that the upper stories appear to be on a most perilous lean. On the afternoon I visitied, the temperature had finally shot up into the high 20s after several cooler days, and old men in white singlets, cigarettes dangling, hung out of upper story windows and chatted to each other as the world went by beneath them.
Vestiges of Vannes' medieval city walls still encircle the old town, and are studded with a couple of squat towers, arrow slits overlooking the river, and with two of the orignal massive gateways. Beneath what remains of the chateau, the moat has long been filled in but, as in many French towns like this (Hennebont in Morbihan and Angers in the Loire spring to mind), they have now been filled in with beautiful formal gardens, their geometry traced in pink roses and dense lines of dark green box. I spent several happy hours here, chasing one alleyway into another, and finally wound up down at the riverside, so close to the sea that the smell of salt water and mudflats where equally mingled.
From there, I found my way back to the station and jumped on train to Auray, with the intention of meeting friends for dinner at Auray's lovely little medieval port of Saint-Goustan. However, typically for me, I got just a leetle bit lost trying to walk from Auray to the port. (I don't know why, but I find I am congenitally unable to orient myself to a map!) Swallowing my pride, I finally asked a harmless-looking old chap coming out of the boulangerie clutching his baguette (for dinner, no doubt) for directions. After about 20 seconds and the first set of very complicated instructions, he asked me where I was from. When I told him New Zealand, his face lit up and he started talking about rugby and the All Blacks, which seems to be a universal icebreaker in this country. He then said he would have driven me to the port but his car was at home. No, no I said, 'c'est pas grave', I have loads of time, it's a lovely evening and I *want* to walk. 10 minutes down the road, what happens but the old boy comes driving up beside me in his equally-old and crusty car, and calls out the window, 'You are a New Zealander and a rugby fan! We can't have you getting lost!' (Presumably, the English are left to their own devices...) So, long story short, yes, I disregarded a lifetime of parental advice and accepted a ride from a stranger. A few minutes later, he dropped me off at the port of Saint-Goustan, another enclave of winding streets and pan-de-bois buildings hugging the bank of the river Loch. I met my friends for dinner and we enjoyed a veritable banquet of local seafood while sitting outside next to the water. The scallops (St Jaques) were a highlight as were the whole, very large grilled sardines (pilchard-sized) and the tiny, sweet and tender local mussels. Formidable!
Monday, June 25, 2012
In which I find a shrine to a headless hermit (and other local oddities)
When I'm travelling, I often get the most joy from those quirky little spots that are well off the mainstream tourist routes. Today, guided by a locally produced photocopied pamphlet (in French and complete with spelling mistakes and some very fuzzy photos), I set off on foot to explore the hidden charms of the village of Brandivy and environs. Like so many small villages in this region, it boasts more than its fair share of shrines, churches, and medieval ruins. Thanks to my trusty pamphlet, I was also apprised of some of the local legends relating to these spots. My favourite story concerns 'La Tombe des 7 trous' (tomb of seven holes), a shrine marked by an old stone cross on the side of the track in the local forest. According to the folktale, a holy hermit was travelling along this path when he was set upon by two bandits. He had just enough time to brandish the Host at them before they cut off his head, but the head refused to die. Instead, it bounced around seven times, making seven holes in the ground where nothing has grown since! This story has a bittersweet epilogue, as today the shrine is still occasionally visited by parents seeking a cure for children who have problems walking, and it is garnished with little baby shoes and booties.
At the much less fantastic end of the scale, another large stone in the neighbourhood - the 'Stele des Martyrs' - commemorates seven 'young patriots' who were killed by the Germans in 1944. This area was a hotbed of Maquis Resistance and when you see the countryside, its every lane lined with thick drystone walls and deep bramble-filled ditches, you can see why it offered great opportunities for guerrilla warfare against the German occuption. In this case, the bodies of three of the seven dead - sons of one of the nearby villages - were taken to the local chapel, but the night before their funerals the bodies were stolen by the Germans and never seen again.
There is even a little touch of the Da Vinci Code in the 'hood with the stories about La Motte Feodale de Lanvaux, the ruins of a medieval keep dating from the 11th and 12th centuries. Today, there is nothing left but some reasonably substantial outer walls built of stone, but local legend has it that this was one of the places where the Order of the Knights Templar stashed their treasure after they were attacked by Philippe le Bel. Some decades ago, the treasure-hunting became so intense here that much of the structure was seriously undermined by people digging holes in it. Because of this, sadly, you are no longer allowed to clamber amongst the ruins. But when I walked around them, all alone on a quiet rain-fogged afternoon, the overgrown, crumbling stone still created a powerful sense of gothic romance. (Seriously, I felt like Catherine Morland reading 'The Mysteries of Udolpho'!)
At the much less fantastic end of the scale, another large stone in the neighbourhood - the 'Stele des Martyrs' - commemorates seven 'young patriots' who were killed by the Germans in 1944. This area was a hotbed of Maquis Resistance and when you see the countryside, its every lane lined with thick drystone walls and deep bramble-filled ditches, you can see why it offered great opportunities for guerrilla warfare against the German occuption. In this case, the bodies of three of the seven dead - sons of one of the nearby villages - were taken to the local chapel, but the night before their funerals the bodies were stolen by the Germans and never seen again.
There is even a little touch of the Da Vinci Code in the 'hood with the stories about La Motte Feodale de Lanvaux, the ruins of a medieval keep dating from the 11th and 12th centuries. Today, there is nothing left but some reasonably substantial outer walls built of stone, but local legend has it that this was one of the places where the Order of the Knights Templar stashed their treasure after they were attacked by Philippe le Bel. Some decades ago, the treasure-hunting became so intense here that much of the structure was seriously undermined by people digging holes in it. Because of this, sadly, you are no longer allowed to clamber amongst the ruins. But when I walked around them, all alone on a quiet rain-fogged afternoon, the overgrown, crumbling stone still created a powerful sense of gothic romance. (Seriously, I felt like Catherine Morland reading 'The Mysteries of Udolpho'!)
Thursday, June 21, 2012
In which I get Neolithic
As you all know by now, my first love is all things medieval (closely followed by the Renaissance). So I was quite surprised to be so taken with a place the history of which stretches back 6000 years to the Neolithic period. This was the Cairn du Petit Mont, a site comprising several enormous stone-built cairns containing what were probably burial sites. The first cairn was built around 4500 BC, and the others added to it over time to create a massive mound on a point commanding a view right around the Golfe du Morbihan (although apparently, back when the cairn was in use, large areas that are now under water were arable land cut through by a series of river channels). The chambers are incredible feats of architectural engineering, with massive stone slabs used as lintels, floors, walls and doorways, and even what looks like a processional stairway. In between, the walls are filled out with smaller stones that have been so beautifully cut and finely fitted together, no mortar is needed. It is just as impressive in its own way as a cathedral. In fact, with its solid grace and simplicity, it put me in mind a little of being in the nave of one of those wonderful early Romanesque churches you find in France.
There are carvings on the slabs that form the walls and although the ones in the oldest chamber are very difficult to make out now, the ones in the other chamber (ca. 2700 BC) are much clearer, and include images such as a sun and snake-like forms. There is also an image that formerly was interpreted as a female fertility deity but which, 'after further recent study', is now thought to represent a phallus. I wonder if this is a reflection more of the image itself or of the people studying it!
The place must have been perceived as having some serious sacred power, because it seems it was re-used in the Gallo-Roman period for a divinity cult. Sadly, the whole site suffered a dreadful insult during World War II, when the Germans decided the Mont made a perfect surveillance spot and whacked a bloody great bunker right through the middle of it. This obliterated one of the cairns, and cut into the walls of one of the others. It is very jarring to be peering at a 6000 year old rock carving and suddenly notice a big chunk of concrete next to it!
After our visit to Petit Mont, we ducked down to nearby Port Navalo, a little fishing port lined with cafes and seafood restaurants. (I admit it! I had another galette buerre sale and more rose!) Port Navalo is on a thin spur of land so on one side is the port, surrounded by low rocky cliffs that are topped by a good walking track with views across to Quiberon and out into the Golfe du Morbihan. Around the point is a crescent of white sandy beach, sheltered from the prevailing wind and with incredibly clear bright aqua water. You can't move in this area during the high season of July and August, but at the moment it is not too bad and seems to be mostly locals rather than tourists from England and Paris. I would love to come back here in the winter and experience the Atlantic storms beating against this coast. The massive stone breakwaters in the ports and the stoutness of the fishing vessels tell the story that while it may seem very gentle now, it gets really elemental and wild when summer comes to an end.
There are carvings on the slabs that form the walls and although the ones in the oldest chamber are very difficult to make out now, the ones in the other chamber (ca. 2700 BC) are much clearer, and include images such as a sun and snake-like forms. There is also an image that formerly was interpreted as a female fertility deity but which, 'after further recent study', is now thought to represent a phallus. I wonder if this is a reflection more of the image itself or of the people studying it!
The place must have been perceived as having some serious sacred power, because it seems it was re-used in the Gallo-Roman period for a divinity cult. Sadly, the whole site suffered a dreadful insult during World War II, when the Germans decided the Mont made a perfect surveillance spot and whacked a bloody great bunker right through the middle of it. This obliterated one of the cairns, and cut into the walls of one of the others. It is very jarring to be peering at a 6000 year old rock carving and suddenly notice a big chunk of concrete next to it!
After our visit to Petit Mont, we ducked down to nearby Port Navalo, a little fishing port lined with cafes and seafood restaurants. (I admit it! I had another galette buerre sale and more rose!) Port Navalo is on a thin spur of land so on one side is the port, surrounded by low rocky cliffs that are topped by a good walking track with views across to Quiberon and out into the Golfe du Morbihan. Around the point is a crescent of white sandy beach, sheltered from the prevailing wind and with incredibly clear bright aqua water. You can't move in this area during the high season of July and August, but at the moment it is not too bad and seems to be mostly locals rather than tourists from England and Paris. I would love to come back here in the winter and experience the Atlantic storms beating against this coast. The massive stone breakwaters in the ports and the stoutness of the fishing vessels tell the story that while it may seem very gentle now, it gets really elemental and wild when summer comes to an end.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
La vie est douce
Je m'appelle Amelie. J'aime voyager en train, les galettes avec caramel du buerre sucre, est les hiboux. Je n'naime pas ... hmmm, I can't think of anything at the moment! That must be because I have arrived in France and am now staying in a beautiful (if slightly dilapidated) 17th century stone farmhouse in the countryside of the Golfe du Morbihan, on a nameless lane between the hamlets of Brindivy and Kerdavid Duchantil. Every time I come to France, I'm reminded of why this country seduces me. It's something about the softness of the evening air and the gentle heat of the sun (so much less harsh than our southern hemisphere orb), and the lush countryside that, even though it is well-farmed, still has many stands of old oak trees and little pockets of forest with mysterious fern-fringed tracks winding into the shadows. The area where I am staying (near Carnac) is well-known as a region covered with megaliths and dolmens that are athousands of years old. When I'm walking through a forest and suddenly come upon a circle of standing stones covered in moss and lichen, I get a certain eerie sense of very deep history that I have not really experienced before.
We have a family of tawny owls nesting in the barn by the house, and I have been privileged to see them a few times, either hanging out on the roof getting the late sun or, last night, swooping down over the garden on a hunting trip. They are such beautiful animals. Somewhat awkward and comical while sitting on a perch, but majestic on the wing. It doesn't get dark here until 10:30 or so at night, so I go for a walk about 9pm and get to watch as all the little night creatures start stirring in the hedges and fields as the sun goes down.
Our little local village of Brindivy is a place where not much ever seems to happen ( though it does have an impressive Calvary and some 12th century relics, which I plan to investigate soon). However, it is the home of a legendary creperie, the Creperie du Puits. On Sunday nights, the carpark of the tiny church is packed with locals who have come to eat there, and I can see why. Tonight, I had a galette with half a dozen enormous, fresh scallops in homemade sauce, a half bottle of good Provencal rose, and a salted caramel crepe (my new love), served up with charm by the son of the owner and all for the princely sum of 15€. We will be back!
Oh, I am also happy to report that my French this trip is so much better than the last time I visited. I can actually have normal conversations (in shops and so on) without having to carefully think everything out and translate it all in my head first.
We have a family of tawny owls nesting in the barn by the house, and I have been privileged to see them a few times, either hanging out on the roof getting the late sun or, last night, swooping down over the garden on a hunting trip. They are such beautiful animals. Somewhat awkward and comical while sitting on a perch, but majestic on the wing. It doesn't get dark here until 10:30 or so at night, so I go for a walk about 9pm and get to watch as all the little night creatures start stirring in the hedges and fields as the sun goes down.
Our little local village of Brindivy is a place where not much ever seems to happen ( though it does have an impressive Calvary and some 12th century relics, which I plan to investigate soon). However, it is the home of a legendary creperie, the Creperie du Puits. On Sunday nights, the carpark of the tiny church is packed with locals who have come to eat there, and I can see why. Tonight, I had a galette with half a dozen enormous, fresh scallops in homemade sauce, a half bottle of good Provencal rose, and a salted caramel crepe (my new love), served up with charm by the son of the owner and all for the princely sum of 15€. We will be back!
Oh, I am also happy to report that my French this trip is so much better than the last time I visited. I can actually have normal conversations (in shops and so on) without having to carefully think everything out and translate it all in my head first.
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