June 1, 2022. I had a nice chat with our hostess over breakfast. My French was steadily improving, and I enjoyed understanding more nuance. She and her husband were wooden boat builders, which fascinated me as I had grown up sailing and had an uncle who had built his own boat. I asked about the extirpated Douglas firs, and she explained that since they weren’t native to the region, her husband had cut them down, replacing them with natives like chestnut and oak. I was reassured having felt sad about the beleaguered trees. We joked about how everything is big in America—beds, portions of food, cars. (And people, I thought but did not say). Her daughter lived in Concarneau, a beautiful walled city, and she recommended a visit.

After breakfast, we set off for Locoal-Mendon, on the way visiting Chocolaterie Espèce de Ganache, a highly recommended chocolatier. It was housed in a stone chateau that exuded old-world charm, with a tastefully-appointed interior. I had hoped to get a latte, but wasn’t impressed by the espresso machine, so decided against it. The truffles looked mouth-watering, and the seasonal chocolates beautifully decorated. I bought a nice selection of truffles, trying to control myself from getting one of each. We headed to Locoal-Mendon where we took a self-guided tour, hoping to discover some of the historic sites—a Gallic stele, an old dungeon, a well. Sadly, we only managed to find the well. In the main square, my attention was drawn to a café full to brimming with locals—mostly older men reading newspapers and chatting, not a cell phone or computer in sight. What a step back in time! I ordered a capuccino rather than my go to cafe creme. A mistake. But my mood was improved by the congenial atmosphere, and my sense of well-being augmented when a man gave us his map to aid our hunt for historic treasure. I should have used the bathroom – damn! Instead the urge came some time later, and saw me running to the local library, as the city hall had refused my entry. We still couldn’t find the Gallic stele and dungeon, even with the map. And with hunger in close pursuit, we stopped by a boulangerie to grab a tuna sandwich and some bread. Then to a pharmacy for my sore throat. I was elated to find propolis spray.

We drove on to Hennebont, a town sporting impressive medieval fortifications and a stunning basilica. On a walk along the old town walls, we came upon a solemn site —a rock wall where members of the French Resistance had been executed. I read the plaques that honored their memory, wondering whether ordinary citizens resisting authoritarian rule would keep doing so given the response from those who wouldn’t concede power. Back in town, we spotted a café and mouth-watering salad, but didn’t have time. Darn. France is a place of slow food, so if you don’t have an hour or more, don’t sit down. A bookstore café caught my eye, and I popped in hoping to see an Italian-made espresso machine. I didn’t mean to be a snob, just longed for a well-made latte. I remembered a lovely cafe I had the pleasure of finding in Mühlbach, Switzerland. The cafe’s owner, a Swiss Olympic gold medalist skier, had trained regularly in the Italian Alps and on returning to her home in Switzerland couldn’t find a good espresso. So she decided to open her own place.

Our next stop was Doëlan, a scenic harbor town divided by a river. Gaugin had come here to paint when first in this part of Brittany, and only discovered Pont-Aven when he returned some time later. The town was postcard-beautiful, with picturesque homes, a lighthouse, and trails winding along the sea. I spied a notice about an alchemical medieval hike offered by a local herbalist. Intriguing. Would have been right up my alley, but we were in search of food and couldn’t find an open restaurant. Reluctantly, we continued on to Pont-Aven.

On the way, I saw the ruins of an old abbey and stopped to investigate. There was a nice looking creperie overlooking the water, but the abbey was closed, another reminder of how many places in France have frustratingly limited hours. We continued on, pausing at a scenic viewpoint where a man rappelled over a bridge bannister, secured only by a rope tied to cement pillars.

We arrived in Pont-Aven and parked near the main square, taking the only spot I could find, a handicap spot. After getting some disapproving glares, I decided it was better to park further afield. Shawn found the tourism office and got a walking map and restaurant recommendations. We wandered through town, taking in the charming streets and old mills, before making a dinner reservation at an up and coming, one Michelin star restaurant, Hôtel des Mimosas.

Shawn wanted to walk from town to our accommodation for the night, but it looked like quite a ways on the map, especially lugging suitcases. I won out and we drove to Manoir de Kerangosquer, a gorgeous estate. Within minutes of arriving, I felt like I had died and gone to heaven. Our room, Lapins (rabbits), was in a secondary building, and I was delighted by the spacious appointment. I took a shower, washed my clothes in the sink, and took more cold medicine, hoping to stave off the inevitable. While Shawn was looking for his glasses, I took a short walk around the grounds. Then we headed out the gate and down to the river, taking a left into town for our highly anticipated dinner.

Dinner was a gastronomic perfection. The main meal was preceded by fresh pain de campagne with butter sporting a hint of seaweed and foie gras. Our main dish consisted of oysters, langoustines, and cod. All topped by a decadent dessert of ice cream, whipped cream, and broken cake bits. We sat on the patio in front of the bistro, gazing at old mill chuggling away on the river meandering through town. A lovely British couple from Chichester sat at the next table, reminiscing about past trips to Brittany and sharing recommendations about places to see on our hop to England in a couple of weeks. Somehow the topic of health came up, and the man told us how he had contracted Lyme disease while fishing in Scotland years ago. I told him about my dear friend Tom who also contracted Lyme, and we swapped cures.

After dinner, Shawn and I headed to the famous Bois d’Amour, which had served as inspiration for artists who had been drawn to Pont-Aven beginning in the 1860s. I would learn more of the town’s artistic history tomorrow. The woods were lovely at night, and I was enchanted by the gurgle of the creek as it wound its way into the darkness. I made a note to come back during the day.

June 2. I awoke with a full-blown cold—throat sore, pernicious cough, stuffed sinuses. I’d had trouble breathing during the night, and now knew why. I finally dragged myself out of bed around 10 and went downstairs for breakfast. An Austrian woman and her son were pouring over maps spread over several tables, planning their route through the rest of Brittany to Normandy. The son lived in Augsburg, Germany for work on electric car charging and recommended that we visit Nantes for its historicity. Earlier on the trip   I learned that the stronghold of the Dukes of Brittany, the Château des Ducs de Bretagne, is located in Nantes. I regretted not including Nantes in the itinerary.

I spent an hour catching up on notes about the last week’s events. When traveling abroad, I try to jot down the bare bones of my memory to reconstitute back home. Writing takes much longer than I often have time for, and on some trips like those to Mexico and Japan in the fall of 2024, I wrote nothing. Back to my morning at the manor house, I bid the Austrian family goodbye and set out for a walk along the river, this time heading toward Port Manec’h. About 2 miles down the trail I came upon an old stone mill driven by the tide. Turns out all mills in Pont-Aven were tidal. On the trail back to town, I ran into a German man who was walking back from Port Manec’h, a whopping 16 miles round trip. Leave it to Germans to be stalwart hikers! We spoke in French (his choice, oddly), but he was too slow for me, and I wanted to continue listening to Marie Yovanovitch’s gripping story, Lessons From The Edge: A Memoir. So I bid him farewell and headed back into town, wandering down Main Street, and found my way to the Bois d’Amour (Woods of Love). I crossed the small foot bridge and headed to the mill. I spied Shawn further down the trail. It was a surprise because we hadn’t discussed our morning plans. We chatted for a bit, then I headed to the museum, as I was eager to learn more about the Pont-Aven School of Art. I didn’t have much time – only an hour until they closed.

I always want more time. Story of my life. What struck me about Pont-Aven’s draw was its mix of secular and spiritual influences—the nearby chapel, Gauguin and other artists coming because it was cheap, and the “primitive” nature of the people and landscape that drew American artists in the 1860s to build a school and studio. Emile Bernard was a key figure in the movement. Gauguin fought with everyone—his only lasted 9 weeks living with Van Gogh in Arles, culminating in a violent argument which drove Van Gogh to cut off his ear and suffer a severe mental breakdown. He had spats with other artists as well, even fishermen in Doëlan (one broke his leg). Gaugin had started in the navy, not as a painter, but Pissarro took him under his wing, like he did for many struggling Impressionists. G seemed like a highly irascible character, leaving a scholarship and family in Amsterdam to head for what he thought was paradise in Tahiti only to hate it after only a year.

I spent the next hour wandering through the town and the gardens, then headed back to the manor for dinner at Kerdruc, a restaurant on the water that had been recommended by our hostess. The waitress brought our bread after the meal, the waiter was rude, and the meal a disappointment. Not even close to our previous feast at Hotel des Mimosas.

The German hiker I’d met had recommended Port Manec’h, which was only a few miles downriver on the coast. We discovered a stunning coastal trail with dramatic rocks and breathtaking views and stumbled upon an old bread oven built in a half-circle, reminding me of the dry stone beehive huts with corbelled roofs I’d seen in southwestern Ireland. Driving back to the manor, I saw a sign for a menhir and we parked and walked into the wood, emerging before a massive standing stone. Its presence dominated the quiet wood. We stood in silence, and I felt something wordless, maybe ancestral, wash over me.

June 3. I slept well, and my cold felt a little better. I wrote in my journal and looked at maps as I sat on the back porch of the manor, eating a delicious breakfast of fresh country bread, local butter, homemade jam, croissants, soft boiled eggs, and fruit. I didn’t want to leave this place. They had a wedding party arriving for the weekend and the hostess was in a tizzy preparing the estate for the new guests. I packed my things, inadvertently leaving my pillows which I didn’t realize until that night after arriving at our next destination. We departed around 11:15, stopping by Hotel des Mimosas for a café crème, which wasn’t as good as I’d remembered. Pont-Aven was famous for sablés, delicious shortbread flavored with various fruits and nuts, and we stopped at the most well-known biscuiterie to buy some of their wares. I also bought some buckwheat bread (not my favorite) and pastries at a boulangerie before hitting the road.

We hadn’t decided on an itinerary. Looking at a map, we headed to Quimperlé, which was more or less on the way to our next destination. It was a charming historic town perched on an island in the river, and I loved the former Sainte-Croix abbey church, Abbaye de Sainte-Croix. We spent a couple of hours wandering around, heading up a hill on the other side of the bridge to the viewpoint. From there we headed to Concarneau, which felt really built up and modern. It has an old fortified town on an island, so we checked that out after eating a picnic by the marina. There were lots of police pulling over random cars—no idea what they were looking for. We parked and wondered whether (and how) to pay for parking. No one else seemed to, so we didn’t. When in Rome.

The fortified town had some original remnants—the walls, some of the towers—but a lot of it had been rebuilt. I walked the entire wall, then explored inside. There was a Fishing Museum in a historic building that I wish I’d gone into. Stumbled into a beautiful old creperie that reminded me of the wooden architecture in Zakopane. The whole place felt a bit like Disneyland—lots of tourist shops. Walked outside the walls on the mainland side for a bit and saw a few old buildings, including a crumbling tower that seemed important but was neglected.

We’d seen enough, so Shawn suggested heading to Pont-l’Abbé. I wanted to take the scenic route through La Forêt-Fouesnant and Combrit, both of which looked like gorgeous villages. Along the way, we spotted a really old church from the 1200s with a staircase winding up to the steeple—reminded me of the Chapel of Trémalo in Pont-Aven. It was a beautiful spot, so we ate our pastries on the steps of the calvary.

Driving through La Forêt, I saw what looked like old wine presses, though they might have been for cherries—I’d seen a number of signs for cherry-picking along the way. I loved the area and wanted to stop but we were short on time. Eventually, we made it to Pont-l’Abbé, home to one of the fortified castles of the Dukes of Brittany and a rare inhabited bridge that once used tidal flows to power mills. There’s still an embroidery mill on the bridge.

We walked separately, running into each other at the basilica, then wandering around the fortified tower and the Hôtel de Ville before crossing the bridge to a rather deserted part of town. There I stumbled upon the ruin of a church with only a few walls remaining—which had been destroyed during the Red Bonnets peasant revolt. But not by the peasants—the government had demolished six church steeples and gutted the churches as punishment. The ruins were haunting and beautiful.

While I was gazing upon the ruins, a young man parked his bike and approached me. He seemed very ardent and asked a series of rapid-fire questions, and when he learned I was a tourist from California, rattled off a list of local sites to visit. I had to ask him to slow down so I could write. The only suggestion I managed to capture was Penmarch with its massive stone lighthouses and chapel ruins. I asked if we could connect on Facebook, but I wasn’t able to. I hoped he would add me. I like staying in touch with people. I’ve had some people refuse, saying they prefer the ephemeral nature of one-off encounters, which reflect the randomness of life. I feel sad when I meet someone interesting and know I’ll never see them again. Many such chance encounters are with fascinating nomads who claim to live solely in the moment. Not I. Ah well, at least I’m honest about it. I wanted to get his contact information, but didn’t want to keep Shawn waiting longer than I probably already had.

I headed back to the river, where I read about inhabited bridges, apparently quite rare. I ended up in Les Halles, a massive parking lot which had once been a cattle market. Finding my way back to the car was a challenge—streets were torn up, and navigating was a mess, though I enjoyed looking at the amazing architecture along the way. When I finally got back, Shawn was sitting in the car reading a book he’d brought for the trip.

We drove to Landudec, our destination for the night. The Airbnb seemed quite remote, and upon disembarking we discovered a huge grassy meadow and what looked like a riding arena. We walked down to investigate and saw a beautiful white horse and its colt. Shawn toasted it and then whinnied. The colt bolted (Shawn likes to call animals, but often scares them away in the process). I tried to woo the horse with grass and carrots, but it seemed too wild to be interested. Out of nowhere I realized I had left my pillows at the manor home in Pont-Aven that morning. This was no minor thing, as I needed them for a better sleep. I called immediately and was relieved to hear that the hostess had set them aside. I wasn’t sure what time I’d be able to pick them up the next morning, which seemed to annoy her. She told me to park next to the garage since another wedding party would be arriving for the day.

I had ordered a portable battery-operated water irrigator and silicon earplugs a week prior and had sent them both to the Airbnb. The irrigator had arrived before us, whereas with all the bank holidays and non-delivery days, the earplugs might take weeks—probably faster to walk and get them myself. The lodging was funky, but the stunning horse and arrival of the water irrigator made up for it. I had a fitful sleep perhaps due to substandard pillows, perhaps worry about having to retrace my steps the next day.