May 24, 2022. Bretagne Rules the Waves. A punny reference to “Rule Brittania, Brittania Rules the Waves”, a patriotic British song oft heard at Dickens Faire. The names “Brittany” (French: Bretagne) and “Britannia” (Latin for “land of the Britons”) are linked because Brittany was settled by Britons (Brythonic Celts) who migrated from the British Isles. The name thus reflects this historical connection. I had been curious about Brittany for some time, and had mapped out this trip in hopes of learning more about its wild lands (and somewhat feral inhabitants, in the good sense of the word).

We had left Paris just 16 hours ago, yet I was already falling in love with the mystique and haunting beauty of Brittany. I awoke after the first deep sleep of the trip to a delicious breakfast of fresh pain de campagne, homemade butter, eggs from the manor chickens, marmalade from the site’s fruit trees… you get the picture. Our gracious host Jean Luc appreciated that I was conversant in French, as his English had not been used since English-speaking guests had stayed here the previous summer. He told me that most of his guests are British. Brittany is very popular with the Brits. I hadn’t used my French for 4 years, yet was pleasantly surprised by how many words and phrases came back to me. We were staying for 2 nights, and Jean Lucy was eager for us to visit important sites nearby, especially Paimpont, Montfort-sur-Meu, and Iffendic. As we ate, he shared the history of the chateau, explaining how it once belonged to Seigneur Le Pin in the 1700s.

After breakfast, we walked the grounds, exploring the outside of the chapel and the barn. At one point, I observed a horse who appeared to be doing the cha-cha. As I looked more carefully, I saw that he was scratching himself with a hanging branch. Clever horse! I wandered through the several acres woodland, admiring moss-covered stacks of firewood and lush ferns. The lush flora belie the presence of heavy rains that the area enjoys. On the edge of the property near an old shed I spied an orchard filled with pear, hazelnut, and walnut trees.

Our first stop of the day was Montfort. It was a beautiful town with a charming old chateau. We walked all around, eventually finding a lovely park where bridges crossed the river, offering picturesque views of the towers. We read about the salt merchants and the gabelle—the infamous tax on salt that had caused so much upheaval. In the main square, we noticed a quirky giraffe statue outside the médiathèque.

From there, we drove through the Brocéliande Forest, a place steeped in Arthurian legends. I loved driving through miles of what looked like very old forest. I wondered how these lands had been protected from urban sprawl. It was still pouring when we arrived in Paimpont. The whole region was riddled with myths—stories of Lancelot, the Lady of the Lake, and the enchanted fountain where Celtic hunters would sprinkle water on the stone to summon rain. Ancient megalithic stones dotted the landscape, their presence adding to the air of mystery.

In Paimpont, we visited the enormous old church and abbey before stopping at the tourist office to get ideas on what else to see. We walked along the lake for a bit, spotting groups of motorcyclists dressed in matching leather jackets. Shawn debated whether or not to buy an umbrella but ultimately decided against it. Lucky for him, the rain stopped soon after.

I found the area beautiful, but wanted to see more historical sites, so we set off for Josselin. Along the way, we made a quick stop at Tréhorenteuc, where we admired an old church featuring a mosaic of a deer. We also took note of several ancient stone structures, but unfortunately, the tourist office was closed—most are between 12 and 2:30pm daily.

Sadly, by the time we reached Josselin, it was 4:30, and the castle was closed. We had stopped at the obelisk of Trente, which marked the site of an important battle, before heading into town. A woman working in the tourist information office seemed visibly annoyed at my request for information, as she was in the middle of a long, slow-paced conversation that looked like it might not end until dawn. By the end of our exchange, she seemed to warm up and even said I had a “Breton spirit.” I wasn’t quite sure what that meant. Maybe that I was feisty and had pluck? Being half Irish/Celtic and the fact that all my mother’s ancestors, including her parents, were born in Ireland, I wasn’t surprised that she thought I had some of this spirit. Whatever I have, as the saying goes, I come by honestly.

She suggested we walk across the river to Quarrier St. Croix. We wandered up to the church, made a little loop through the area, and climbed a hill—right about the time the rain started. Then Shawn spotted a Michelin rating on a restaurant, and we figured, why not? It was from 2019, so we assumed it must still be excellent having recently earned that reputation. Shawn, having worked as a chef in some Michelin two and three star establishments, has excellent taste when it comes to fine dining and wanted to investigate.

We were less than impressed. My squid was tough, the sea bass was good, but the rest? Pretty underwhelming. Shawn was disappointed, and for the price, it definitely wasn’t worth it. We even joked about peeling off their Michelin sticker on the way out. At least the rain had let up for a bit. We ducked in partly to escape it, but by the time we left, it was back. We headed to Iffendic and learned about the story of a mysteriously nocturnal washerwoman who caused three handsome lads to flee so quickly they lose their clogs in the process. In the late nineteenth century, the folklorist François-Marie Luzel spent countless winter evenings listening to stories told by his neighbors, local Breton farmers and villagers. At these social gatherings, known as veillées, Luzel recorded the tales in unusual detail, capturing a storytelling tradition that is now almost forgotten. He presented this and other stories in such a way as to simulate a winter’s night of storytelling long ago. The mysterious washerwoman was one of these tales.

Back at the chateau, I crawled under the covers after cracking open a window to listen to the rain. I fell asleep to its patter and again was lulled into the best sleep ever. I awoke with a deep sense of peace and thanked Jean-Luc the next morning for creating such a peaceful and beautiful sanctuary.

May 25. Another lovely breakfast at the château before we headed to Rennes. Parking was a bit of a puzzle—we weren’t sure if we had to pay, so we ended up leaving the car near a school just outside the town center. After wandering around a bit, we realized we wanted more time to explore, so we drove back in.

First stop was the tourism office, where we asked about using a handicap placard. They sent us to the police station, who then directed us to the town hall, where we were told no. Later, we looked it up online and saw that it should have been accepted—apparently, there’s an agreement in place. Bureaucracy at its finest.

We had planned to visit a church exhibition, but it was closed. Same with the old convent—beautiful but off-limits due to archaeological work. So, instead, we wandered through the city, stopping by various landmarks, including the old city gates. The blend of medieval and modern architecture made for an interesting walk.

When we got back to the car, we realized our parking was about to expire, so we decided to drive closer to the center. That’s when we stumbled upon an amazing boulangerie and picked up quiche for lunch—mine was veggie, while Shawn got the salmon and veggie mix. They were huge and absolutely delicious.

As we walked along, we passed a chocolate shop, and I couldn’t resist going in. After sampling a few, I bought some to take with me—but after we walked to Tabor Park to eat our quiche, I decided I needed more. So, before the shop closed, I made my way back for another round. It was truly some of the best chocolate I’ve ever tasted. And I’ve had my fair share.

Parc du Thabor is a park and botanical garden located in the Thabor – Saint Helier – Alphonse Guerin neighbored and named after Mount Tabor in the Bible by Benedictine monks. Its 25 acres feature characteristics of a French garden, an English garden and a large botanical garden. The park was breathtaking. It’s known as one of the most beautiful parks in France, and I understand why. There were botanical gardens, waterfalls, rivers, topiaries, aviaries, and gorgeous greenhouses. The layout was incredible—11 rings of plants with towering conifers in the center. We kept noticing coastal Redwoods (aka Sequoias), which was quite unexpected as they now only occur in California and Oregon. Later, we learned that these trees were brought to Europe centuries ago as part of botanical projects.

May 26. We said goodbye to the lovely château Le Pin and set off for Iffendic to explore the town a bit before continuing on to Lake Temescal. There, we read about the history of the family that once lived in a stone hunting château—a glimpse into a different time.

From there, we drove to Bédée, where we visited a medieval garden and the remnants of a medieval mound. Then it was on to Fougères and later to Vitré, both of which had their own historic charm. We had hoped to squeeze in a visit to Château Girard, but time wasn’t on our side, so we had to skip it.

Our final destination for the night was La Roche-Bernard. We arrived around 10 PM and discovered that our accommodations were above a bar—not exactly ideal. The night was chaotic, with people yelling and running up and down the street. It was one of those moments where you just have to laugh and roll with it. We ended up playing rain sounds just to drown out the noise and get some sleep.

May 27. I was disappointed we hadn’t seen Josselin castle before it closed a few days prior, so we decided to head back via Malestroit, a town we both liked at first sight. We had also hoped to visit La Gacilly and Montneuf, known for its ancient cairns, but time got away from us again.

Josselin’s château was stunning. The gardens were beautifully landscaped, and I was eager to explore the lower section, but I couldn’t figure out how to get down there. Even after asking a few people, no one seemed to know. Later, I found out that there was an English garden below, which I could see but never quite reach—one of those little travel mysteries that will probably bug me forever. Only part of the château was open to visitors since the current owners still live there, but we were able to tour four rooms, each with interesting historical explanations. I was glad we took the time to go inside.

Afterward, I wandered around Josselin for another hour, taking in the charming buildings and medieval streets. I stopped for some pastries, but my card didn’t work, and the cashier insisted I wait for the receipt. Meanwhile, I was stressing out because I was supposed to meet Shawn. When I finally got back to him, I got completely turned around trying to find the car park. After what felt like ages, I finally found it, and we drove back to Malestroit.

At the tourist office, we picked up a map and followed the signs to different landmarks. We crossed a bridge to look at an old water mill, and ended up walking all the way to the end of the town before turning back. At some point, I called T-Mobile because my phone service had been painfully slow, only to find out that my international data plan was limited to 2G speed unless I paid an extra $50 a month. After over an hour on the phone and resetting my network settings multiple times, I finally got it working. Thank god.

Meanwhile, Shawn had found a table and was already eating, so I joined him in front of the church and shared his food. As we sat there, we heard an Irish music session happening nearby—super lively and fun. It was strange to think that earlier that day we had witnessed a funeral, and the area had been packed for a very different reason.

I wandered around until about 9 PM, taking in the evening atmosphere. As we were about to head back, I asked if we could make a quick stop in La Gacilly. Shawn reluctantly conceded. In retrospect I’m sure he was at the end of his energy rope and had given in because he could see I wanted to go. It was love at first sight. I instantly fell in love with the place. The town was gorgeous, easily one of my favorites so far. They had a massive outdoor photography exhibition running until September, and the images were stunning. The whole riverside area had a magical feel to it, and the town had this artsy, laid-back vibe that made me wish we had more time there.

I passed a fancy restaurant and museum dedicated to Yves Rocher, which I made a mental note to visit in the future. Before we left, I even walked through a labyrinth—because why not? A perfect way to end the night.

May 28. We had a great conversation over breakfast with a British couple from Jersey Island—very droll. The woman was lovely, but her husband seemed only interested in cruising canals, which he described as just “up and down.” He mentioned the Brest-Nantes canal that runs near Josselin, but I couldn’t imagine being content with that kind of slow-paced travel. After breakfast, we took a long walk around La Roche, a charming town filled with informative historic signage, all of which I read eagerly. I am a compulsive sign reader. I’m sure this is quite annoying to a different sort of person.

We walked back to the main square for a coffee at La Roche Café, but the cigarette smoke at the outdoor tables was unbearable. Holding my nose, eyes watering, I powered down the café crème, which was just okay, nothing special. We then headed to the Maritime Museum, mainly because I wanted to see the structure of the building—it had a beautiful wooden staircase and a fascinating model of the 1836 bridge that spans the river La Vilaine. We finally left around noon, planning to tour a nearby chateau, but it was closed.

Instead, we drove to Piriac-sur-Mer, which had a distinctly Capitola-like vibe—very touristy with some charming corners and old houses. I found a sign about a local man who used to mend sails in the square, which I thought was a lovely detail. I wished I had known about Kerhinet and Guerande before, as they sounded more my style—especially Guerande, a medieval town. We did, however, drive over the salt marshes, which date back to the 1300s, when the Duke’s workers first established them. Eventually, we made it to Batz-sur-Mer, where we finally visited the salt museum. It was fantastic, but we only had an hour.

From there, we went to Le Croisic, which I absolutely loved and wished we had more time to explore. It was one of those places where I found myself wishing I had done more research beforehand to know where to go. On the way to our final stop, we passed a beautiful old windmill but couldn’t go in. Then, we got stuck in traffic for almost two hours trying to reach Baden for our 8 PM dinner reservation at La Gavrinière. Just barely made it!

Dinner was an incredible seven-course meal, expertly prepared. We met the chef and had a wonderful Italian waiter who spoke fluent French and English. He was incredibly kind and had worked at Lake Como’s Bellagio and the Dorchester in London. The meal lasted until 11, and just as it ended, I was hit with a terrible bout of diarrhea and acid reflux that kept me up all night.

May 29. After a sleepless night, I felt absolutely miserable and cranky. The tension spilled over into a conflict with Shawn—I felt unappreciated for all the driving I’d been doing. We didn’t leave until 11:30, which just added to my frustration. Our original plan was to visit several spots on the Rhuys Peninsula—Arzon, La Chapelle Lantiere, Gueron, and Noyal-Muzillac—but knowing Shawn would be annoyed, I pared it down to just the Château de Suscinio. It turned out to be fascinating, though I couldn’t shake the regret of having missed opportunities.

Afterward, we drove through a region known for its thatched-roof houses, then made a quick stop in Sarzeau for food and bread—only to find everything closed. Finally, we arrived in Vannes, an interesting old town where we spent four hours wandering. The architecture was beautiful, and I especially loved the faces carved into the corbels of the half-timbered houses, which reminded me of Rennes. I stumbled into the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament during mass and waited until it ended to admire its stunning Renaissance artwork.

Shawn and I shared a dish of mussels, then I explored the Fine Arts Museum, which had a nature photography exhibit. Vannes was also hosting a larger photography exhibit, but it didn’t compare to the one in La Gacilly. One particular gallery caught my interest—it featured an early 1900s photographer who had worked in the Peruvian mines and documented the lives of the Amerindians. Unfortunately, the gallery was closed.

As I walked, I found myself following a tourist train that moved at my walking pace, its guide narrating the history of the town. I came across the fish market (which conveniently had a restroom), then wandered into the old bastide area, where I saw Gallo-Roman paving and fortifications. Nearby, a small channel directed water from the city to the port—an engineering detail I found fascinating.

Just as I was heading back, I met a very sweet local with whom I struck up a conversation. He was so excited that we were from California and asked endless questions. Some of his mannerisms reminded me of my friend Markus, and on a whim, I gave him my email and invited him to visit if he ever made it out west. Hope to hear from him!

By 8:30, I was cold and tired, so Shawn and I met up and started heading back to Baden. On the way, I saw a sign for the Cairn de Gavrinis and felt an immediate pull. We followed the signs until we reached the water, where we discovered that the site was actually on an island. To visit, we’d need to book a boat tour—only ten people are allowed at a time. It was disappointing but also added an air of mystery to the place. We lingered there for a while, watching the sunset and enjoying the quiet peace before heading back. On the way, we found ourselves driving through a wheat field in a small village and passed more windmills. I made a mental note to come back and see them properly the next day.

May 30. Finally, after days of poor sleep, I woke up feeling rested. As I packed, I reflected on the stress I often feel while driving and how much it reminded me of my dad—he was always tense behind the wheel but completely at peace on a boat. Maybe that’s why I love being on the water so much.

Meanwhile, Shawn was in the bathroom watching the Liverpool vs. Madrid World Cup match. Madrid won. I grabbed a few provisions—two slices of cheese and a couple of pieces of prosciutto—since I’d learned by now that breakfast was not included at any of the places we were staying. We finally left at 11. Our first stop was Le Guern, which didn’t have much to see apart from a very small port. It wasn’t nearly as nice as Lamour-Baden. Next, we tried to visit a windmill, but it had been turned into a brocante shop. Another windmill we found was just the base, located in someone’s yard.

We then headed to Auray and I began walking in the lower town, the Port of Saint-Goustan. I loved it immediately—beautiful promenade, lots of history, and bustling streets. The port is a picturesque area with a rich history, including a visit by Benjamin Franklin during the American War of Independence. I wandered through narrow lanes, admiring the old houses and bought some pastilles à la violette (traditional violet lozenges) before crossing the famous Pont Neuf that connects the lower town/port of Saint-Goustan to the upper town centered around the Saint-Gildas church. In the 13th century, the Dukes of Brittany built the bridge, a port, and castle in Saint-Goustan, leading to the creation of the two distinct districts. 

Shawn was contentedly eating his sausage and tomato tapenade while I explored various churches and took in the architecture. Shawn had discovered a loved arboretum on the upper town, where I discovered some massive trees lining the river—even trees from California, like the Monterey Pine. It was such a peaceful spot; I could have stayed for hours.

Later, we went to Trinité-sur-Mer, a charming town with an Irish shop where Shawn found a T-shirt showing the seasons of Ireland featuring sheep. Very tongue in cheek to be sure. From there, we visited Carnac, arriving around 3. After lunch, we explored the prehistory museum, which exhibited most of the archaeological finds, including jewelry, beads, and axes from the Neolithic era to Roman times.

Afterward, we visited the famous Carnac alignments—rows of prehistoric standing stones. We climbed to the top of the Tumulus of Saint-Michel, which had once been open to visitors but has been closed since 1998. A man I met the next day told me he had managed to enter before it had been shut to visitors—he described it as a tight squeeze, only big enough for one person. Later grave sites were built for more than one person, but this was an early site, and probably intended for one person. From there we tried to find other menhirs and tumulus that we’d been told about, but with no luck. Menhirs are large upright stones placed during the middle Bronze Age. They can be found individually as monoliths, or as part of a group of similar stones. They often taper toward the top, but their sizes vary considerably. I wanted to find the so-called giant stone but was tired and daylight fading. Thoroughly worn out, we headed to our final destination, arriving around 8:30. The huge manor loomed, seeming both desolate and intriguing. After unpacking, I wandered around the grounds, marveling at its immensity. The scent of a recently cut stand of Douglas fir lay thick in the air.

May 31. We decided to visit the Carnac visitor center, Maison des Mégalithes. And was I glad we did! An informative movie and well-done exhibits did much to educate me about the area’s prehistoric sites. Guides recommended visiting two sites in particular, Locmariaquer and Saint-Pierre-Quiberon. So we headed to Locmariaquer. The site featured a massive fallen menhir and reconstructed tumulus with a large cairn. The tumulus, while impressive, wasn’t as special as that of Saint Michel upon which we had stood the night before. We met a local who shared his theories about the ritual activities that likely took place. He felt that these sites likely held deep religious significance and may have even been used to reincarnate important ancestors, as well as bury those close to the gods. I agreed. His arguments against the great man theory reminded me of “The Dawn of Everything,” a book that challenges conventional narratives about prehistoric societies.

On our way toward Saint-Pierre-Quiberon, we came upon a road block and took a detour. There we stumbled upon yet another tumulus and a man waiting to get picked up by co-workers, to whom I offered a lift. We finally arrived in Saint-Pierre-Quiberon, a charming town on the northern part of the Quiberon peninsula, filled with picturesque streets and quaint homes. Right in town stood a semi-circle of menhirs, one next to the other. Following a narrow path, I reached a park under reconstruction, then discovered some old houses and a cemetery. Unfortunately, the church was closed, so I couldn’t go inside.

We debated continuing on to the village of Quiberon on the southern part of the peninsula. We decided against it, having seen quite a bit of the Côte Sauvage and finding it less spectacular than we had expected. On our way back, we passed a massive WW II bunker before heading to Île de Saint-Cado, a stunning fishing village connected to the mainland by a narrow stone bridge. The wind was fierce and made walking less than enjoyable. Inspired by the village rustic charm, I persisted in my perambulation, reading a few signs about the village’s history. It was fascinating to learn how fishermen’s homes, perched right on the water’s edge, were frequently inundated by the sea, with only a rock wall for protection. Saint Cado himself had an intriguing and somewhat eerie backstory—he supposedly made a pact with the devil, sacrificing a cat’s life to ensure the island’s safety. I found that a little unsettling for a saint. The seawall connecting the island to the mainland was lovely, and I told myself I might want to return someday. On the way back to our farm stay, we passed through Etel, a large fishing port, but aside from the port itself, the town wasn’t particularly scenic.