Today, Britain…
Brittany, this land both furious and friendly, is for me, distant and close. Distant because I am a woman from the South, and close because half of Breton blood runs through my daughter’s veins. From Brittany, I love above all the islands. “Beautiful island at sea, Marie Galante, Ouessant, Virgin of the seas », Laurent Voulzy’s pretty saw obviously came to mind. It’s not about the overly domesticated and awkward Belle-Ile caviar that I’d like to talk to you about, but about Ouessant. Ouessant is really the end of the world. After that there is nothing. “Who sees Ouessant sees his blood, who sees Groix sees his cross,” recalls the saying.
To tell you the truth, I only spent a week there, exactly twenty years ago, with the future father of my daughter. My memories are therefore quite imprecise. But, I feel at home on the islands. In the middle of everything and nothing, safe or insecure, and on the way: “ It’s the water that separates you, and leaves you apart », as Voulzy sings.
A Pascal Thomas atmosphere
The weather was very nice during our stay in Ouessant. In Brittany, it only rains on idiots, it is well known. There reigned an atmosphere of films by Pascal Thomas: we rode bicycles, drank a lot of aperitifs with Parisians who had discussions about Parisians. But, as I never do things by halves, I totally immersed myself in the Celtic atmosphere. Until participating in a fest-noz and returning drunk, on a bicycle (without falling, miracle of alcohol). I vaguely remember an evening spent singing sea shanties, real ones, not those of Hughes Aufray. We had even visited one of the last mud houses. Does it still exist?
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Of the beaches, I also only have a vague memory. There are many small coves in Brittany, difficult to access, where you come across some real lovers of solitude. But suddenly, even if it’s not Saint-Trop, you stop thinking you’re alone in the world in the middle of nowhere once you put down your towel. What I like the most is taking the boat. Even during a crossing that lasts half an hour, everyone finds more or less the childish impression of living a corsair adventure, of being Surcouf. Even if the crossing that brought us back to Brest, I especially remember a fierce hangover.
This chronicle will make me pass for alcoholic, but I did nothing but respect the local customs…
Perros-Guirec, its Mickey club and its Virgin Mary
A few years later, when my daughter was little, there was Perros-Guirec, in the Côtes d’Armor. It’s much gentler, its famous pink granite coast and its coastal footpath, its casino, its thalasso, its large fine sand beach, where it starts to rain, just like that, without warning. Finally, in Brittany, it does not only rain on idiots. But it is also and above all for me, my daughter’s early childhood: the carousel of wooden horses, in front of which we waited patiently while waving, the Mickey club on the beach and its trampolines. Comrade nostalgia, to paraphrase Gainsbourg.
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Brittany, beyond Celtic folklore, remains a deeply Catholic land: the Virgin Mary is a star there who can be found in every village. As in Mexico, this adoration mixes with paganism: even the worst miscreants are impressed by the Pardons of August 15, as in the Tristan Corbière des Yellow Cupids : “Sainte is the wild chapel/De Sainte-Anne de la Palud. » I saw it as a spectacle, a peaceful and colorful parade imbued with spirituality, even if I told my daughter not to believe this nonsense. Incorrigible that I am! I was really moved, however, by this timeless and reassuring parenthesis…
That was my last summer column, a little crazier than the others, this one. “Sophie’s beaches”, this allows me to paraphrase Varda and her Agnes beaches : “ If we opened up to people, we would find landscapes there, if we opened up to me, we would find beaches. »
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