June 4, 2022. I regretted having to retrace my steps for the forgotten pillows. My anxiety manifested as a nightmare. I dreamt I had slept through my alarm and not awoken until 1 PM. Luckily, it was not a portent of things to come. We were able to pack and get out of dodge by 9. I move fast when I have to. Shawn wanted to explore Quimper rather than double back with me. I dropped him off and then continued on my quest.

I had remembered the significance of Chapelle de Tremalo to the Pont-Aven artists and made a slight detour. I loved the small quiet chapel whose spirit so influenced the Pont-Aven school artists. I lingered for a while, breathing in the mystique of this small but important place. It had an aura of deep calm. I left and headed to Pont-Aven, first to the boulangerie for pain de campagne, since the buckwheat bread was too dark for my taste. I pulled a French maneuver, making a U turn in the small village streets and then double parking in order to buy bread. The town was packed with strolling tourists as I had done the day before. Then I headed to the manor. I wanted to thank the hostess but was afraid to bother her since it was 11 AM and she had a wedding to prepare for.

So I grabbed the by now infamous pillows and headed to Port M’anech for a bit of sight seeing. I was curious to see more after our brief sojourn the night before. I passed by the same bread oven I had noticed last night, and stopped in Kerdruc where we had dinner the night before to admire the small flotilla of sailboats in the marina.

Back in Quimper, I parked and started looking for Shawn. On the way I discovered a medieval garden, completely walled off save the entrance I’d been lucky enough to find. It hosted a traditional garden of medicinal plants and dyeing agents, particularly for hemp and linen. I wanted to hang out and commune with the plants, but knew time was short, so I continued looking for Shawn. I found him on the cobble streets close to the garden and together we headed for the tourist office to get maps and an ideas for where to go in town. Since Shawn and I have different interests and energy levels, we often do better exploring on our own. Since we both like Roman history, we headed to Vieux Quimper, the old Roman part of town, known for its embroidery and faience. On the way we stopped at Quimper Cathedral, formally the Cathedral of Saint-Corentin, a national monument of Brittany. The cathedral is mysteriously skewed, perhaps to match the contours of the location and avoid an area that was swampy at the time of the construction. Archeological excavations suggest that the cathedral was the third to be built on the site, leaving numerous riddles for archeologists to solve. Unfortunately it was closed all day for weddings and wouldn’t open till 5:30pm. I made a note to return.

I found a fascinating exhibit on Charles de Foucauld, recently canonized as a saint in 2022, in one of the many churches in town. To me he really deserved sainthood, not like most of the ones who seem to get it only because they were killed. He had been a French soldier, explorer, geographer, ethnographer, Catholic priest, and hermit who lived among the Tuareg people in the Sahara, Algeria and was assassinated in 1916. His inspiration and writings led to the founding of a number of religious communities inspired by his example. Orphaned at six, de Foucauld was brought up by his maternal grandfather, Colonel Beaudet de Morlet. He undertook officer training, then joined the cavalry. He decided to settle in the Algerian Sahara at Beni Abbes. Taking the name Charles of Jesus, he lived with the Berbers, adopting a new apostolic approach, preaching not through sermons, but through his example. During that time he learned the Tuareg language and worked on a dictionary and grammar. His dictionary manuscript was published posthumously in four volumes and has become known among Berberologists for its rich and apt descriptions.

I headed on to a small art exhibit. As I wandered through the town, I started to feel hungry and mentioned it to Shawn. Unfortunately, most of the places we found were exorbitant, so Shawn headed back to the main square near the cathedral hoping to find something more affordable. I said I’d join, but first headed back to the secret garden. It was a medieval garden with informative signs about medicinal plants and natural tinctures that had been used centuries ago for dying linen and hemp. I felt the spirit of the plants very strongly, and loved the simple aesthetics of the compost pile and signs written on slate shingles. After spending some time there, I hurried up to the promenade recommended by the tourist office. I loved the peaceful surroundings and the great view.

From there I headed to the square and found Shawn. He had already ordered at a café I had misgivings about. Unfortunately, my instincts were right—my chicken was the worst I had ever had, tougher than shoe leather (not that I’d ever tried that). I couldn’t finish sooner, and headed to the museum of Saint Corentin Cathedral. The museum focused on rural life and featured an exhibit about Théodore Hersart de la Villemarqué, who had written extensively on the Breton song tradition. I was fascinated by the description of his three notebooks filled with Breton popular songs, published in 1839 and called Barzaz Breiz (literally, bards of Brittany). The songs authenticity was doubted but later proved genuine. The collection was compiled from oral tradition and preserves traditional folk tales, legends and music. Hersart de la Villemarqué grew up in the manor of Plessix in Nizon, near Pont-Aven, and was half Breton.

I also loved seeing the local traditional Sunday best and work costumes, as well as exhibits depicting rural life, including a wedding chest, bed box, and a cradle. There were also intricate faience pottery patterns from centuries past, as well as extensive information about how the song collection reflected life in Brittany.

I left the museum and headed to Quimper Cathedral to finally get a peek at the interior. The interior was beyond immense. I couldn’t even see the cathedral ceiling. I walked up and down the aisles, gazing at images of saints and smelling the wafting censors burning frankincense and myrrh. It had a grandeur beyond words, and I lingered there, imagining all the people who had passed through its doors.

After a respite, I headed off to find Shawn and we wandered through Les Halles to the old city gate, where a watchtower had once stood to monitor (and keep out) the riffraff. I loved being in a place with such history. But secularity called again. Following a gelato craving, I discovered Cave de L’Arthur, and decided to try their pistachio and nougat. Shawn went next door to a charcuterie, and I followed, striking up a conversation with the butcher, who told me about how he had asked Dominique Crenn, a famous female chef with three Michelin stars from San Francisco, to sign his guest book. I mentioned that Shawn was also a chef, and he asked him to sign too. A thoroughly personable fellow. Shawn bought some foie gras for his friend Michael and his dad whom we would be visiting in Cornwall later on the trip.

Across the river, I wanted to look at Théâtre de Cornouaille an impressive national theater that replaced the older Théâtre Max Jacob. The building is clad with a crown of ipe, a Brazilian wood, which helps it blend harmoniously into its environment. The garden was equally lovely. On the way back we checked out an ornate Art Deco building before heading back to our horse paddy. When we arrived, we ate a simple but delicious dinner of bread, cheese, salami, and tomatoes with pastries for dessert. I wrote notes, talked to the horse, and went to bed feeling like I’d had a very full day.

June 5. It took a few hours to catch up on my blog and create a detailed itinerary for the rest of our trip. I asked the proprietor to let me know when my earplugs arrived so she could forward them. Fat chance I’d still be in France I thought. I was sad to say goodbye to the white horse.

Locronan turned out to be a small, beautifully preserved town with a central village and an old church. Just as we arrived, it started pouring. Shawn had wanted to find a place to eat. I wandered around, eventually stumbling upon a cozy crêperie behind the church. When I told him about it, we went in and ordered omelets—but they brought us crêpes instead. Then, when they corrected the order, they left out the mushrooms, tomatoes, and onions we had asked for. I convinced them to give us them on the side. It felt like pulling teeth.

I liked the dog lounging behind the church. He was so calm, almost cat-like, half-asleep on the stone. It was a Sunday, so the town was full of people ducking under awnings and dashing into shops to escape the rain. I found a marionette theater and even visited a shop that sold some of the puppets—I took plenty of photos, as usual. After a short while, we left for Le Faou.

Le Faou was another small but charming town. It had once been a major shipbuilding hub for Brest due to its proximity to the forest. The Royal Road ran through the center, though at some point, parts of it had been widened, leaving some houses oddly sized compared to their neighbors. I wanted to check out the port, about 4 km away in the direction of Brest, but the road appeared to narrow into a trail. I loved the half-timbered houses and historical signs. Outside the church, people were playing boules, a bowling game of French origin in which a player standing within a circle placed or scratched on the ground throws or rolls usually steel balls down a long typically dirt or gravel court to stop as close as possible to a smaller target ball. It is more properly called pétanque, derived from the French for “feet anchored”. I felt like a ghost, an observer just passing through this world.

Onward to Brest. I parked near the ramparts, and we walked along, admiring the castle and the monument built by the U.S. to honor its naval alliance with France in WWI. The castle looked lovely. It houses the naval museum, but the museum was closed, so I wouldn’t be able to see the interior. Drats. I like castles. We drove into the city center next, always in search of food. I wandered toward the main square, reading about the city walls and strategic forts that had been built over the centuries, as well as strategic points on the bay.  There was an English guide, which I appreciated.

There were many men speaking Arabic hanging out in the square. I felt uncomfortable but realized I had nothing to fear and was experiencing racist messages I’d internalized as a kid. I went to the tourist information office and stood outside, reading about the history of the town. A woman sitting behind the sign came up to me and said something in French, then please, and then stomped on my foot three times very hard. Luckily I was able to jump out of the way. Shaken, I found Shawn, and he led me to a kebab place that turned out to be fantastic. The staff was warm and generous with portions, which was a welcome change from some of the less-than-friendly French waiters I had encountered. I really appreciated the kindness of one of the employees in particular.

After eating, we walked into a part of town that, unlike the rest of Brest, looked like it hadn’t been bombed in WWII—older and more intact. It was near the train station and had a lovely vibe and quiet streets. Eventually, we met back at the car and left for our room at Chambres Hotes Brezehant in Commana.

I called the host to let her know we wouldn’t arrive until 9:15 PM. She said she’d be gone but would leave us a note. We were out in the sticks, so finding the place was almost impossible. Luckily I found a neighbor who pointed me in the right direction. On route we passed a sign for an abbey and a windmill. I wanted to visit even at this late hour, but Shawn wasn’t in the mood. And we wouldn’t be coming back this way so I wouldn’t get to see it. That made me sad.

At our lodging, we made friends with our bunkmates from Nantes over dinner, sharing wine and bread. The young woman ran a metaphysical rock shop that her father had once owned, and her parents were traveling with her to support her in this adventure. She was heading to an annual gathering of people she had studied metaphysics with. They were incredibly kind and even helped me with my French. I exchanged numbers with her, hoping to stay in touch. Her father was quiet but very kind. Around 11 PM, I said good night and headed to bed. In bed, I worried that I might not sleep well, as the bed was hard, and regretted needing to get up for our 9 AM breakfast.

June 6. Despite not having slept well, just before 9 I made my way downstairs, as did our friends from the night before. Our hostess was kind, and made me an herbal infusion to help my lungs and a nice espresso with milk to help my tastebuds. Breakfast was simple—bread, jam, juice—but enjoyable, mostly because of the company. After breakfast our friends would be heading back home to Nantes.

Two hours later we left for Morlaix. Shawn wanted me to drive to the center of town, but I had a bad feeling about it and wanted to park outside of town. I did as he wished, but traffic was blocked off because of a kid’s bike race. I let him out and then parked at a grocery store to avoid parking fees. Within a while I came upon the kids’ bike race, which annoyed me at first, but seeing the parents cheering their little ones softened my mood. One of the things to see was the Morlaix viaduct. In the 1860s, the location of the proposed viaduct had aroused controversy, with a majority of municipal councilors suggesting that its immense size “will be an obstacle to the good ventilation of a town confined at the bottom of narrow valleys”.

I couldn’t miss the viaduct as we drove into town. At the tourist office, I got a map and checked out the exhibit detailing Morlaix’s commercial history in the 1700s—coal and wood imports, and linen, leather, and tobacco exports. I found out that wealth from these industries funded the elaborate stone carvings unique to local churches and cathedrals. Like most tourist information places and museums in France, it closed from 12:30 to 2, booting me and other tourists outside. I headed toward the port, where I read about some of the famous corsairs born in Morlaix from the 15th century on, including Jean Coatanlem, Nicolas Anthon, Charles Cornic, and Jean Nicolas Anthon. There was a large pink granite building that looked like a manufacturing plant next to the dock. Turns out to have been a former tobacco factory built in the 1730s when King Louis XV sought to boost economic activity by establishing tobacco production. Manufacture des Tabacs de Morlaix has been turned into a cultural venue, hosting exhibits on tobacco production and factory workers’ lives as well as a science space, library, library café and art exhibit, and garden. How cool to give such an important historical building a new lease on life.

I wanted to check out the old quarter of the town with its winding streets of cobbled stones and overhanging houses constructed of stone and timber. Many have religious and secular sculptures on their façades. I was relieved at the quiet since bike race had ended. An old church caught my eye. It was an amazing structure and I particularly loved the woodwork around the organ and baptistery font. I love secular carvings in churches: people making funny faces and gestures, animals, and the like. The woodwork in this church was one of the best preserved I’d seen on my trip thus far. On my way out a guy sat on the steps, asking for alms. A common occurrence in front of churches. For some reason I felt uneasy that he might follow me and decided not to walk the deserted alley.

I was pretty hungry, but equally curious about exploring the old part of town. I came upon a very strange site: a narrow yet many storied medieval timber-framed structure like something out of Grimm’s fairy tales. Shawn and I had run into one another outside, and I suggested checking it out. He wasn’t interested, but once inside changed his mind. We joined the small tour and got an earful during the 45-minute talk about the home’s construction and Reformation-era influences. As the talk was in French and very technical, I understood about half. I learned that the House of the Duchess Anne was built between 1520 and 1530 and is one of few remaining examples of a timber-framed medieval structure typical of the time.

Local legend has it that Duchess Anne of Brittany visited the house during her Tro Breizh pilgrimage. However, this is unlikely as the home constriction began 6 years after her death. The house features an architectural peculiarity known as “Maison à la lanterne” or “Maison à pondalez” in Breton, with a covered inner courtyard separating two building bodies. Perhaps the most fascinating element was the stairs, in French escalier à vis, a work of art which winds around an 11-meter column carved from a single oak tree trunk. The facade of the house was adorned with 10 statues depicting saints and secular figures. My favorites were the fool who supposedly represented the transition between a pious and sinful person, Saint Roche because of the importance of the holy pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, and St. Christopher who protects  travelers (my kind of saint) at the tippy top of the facade. So open floor plans were not as modern as I thought. The 5 story interior had ben illuminated by a single lantern hung from the rafters above the top floor.

Over the past few days, Shawn had become more silent, punctuated by occasional comments, often sarcastic. I felt the tension and knew that his stony silence was resentment, since his need for adequate food and rest met wasn’t being met. I am the energizer bunny and push myself to see as much as I can. While we mostly were exploring separately, he was still affected by the fact that since I was the driver, I had more influence over our agenda than he did. I had compromised as much as I felt able, but my desire to see as much as I could drove me. I knew he blamed me but felt helpless to rectify things. I think we both felt trapped and wanted to escape.

With the tension palpable, we headed to Roscoff, searching for dinner. The old port only offered crêperies (like much of Brittany), inadequate as Shawn wanted a proper meal. With no other options, we settled for fish soup and crêpes. When he offered to pay, I sensed his resentment and insisted on covering it myself. After eating, I wandered alone to the lighthouse, the Marine Institute founded by a French biologist, and read about the prevalence of ornate towers and skylights or dormer windows carved of stone—status symbols of wealthy merchants that allowed them to use their first floor as a shop. And skylights let light into the living quarters above.

On the way back, disaster struck. While driving along the freeway, I heard a thud and felt a strong impact shake the car. Unbeknownst to me, a deer had bolted across the northbound lanes, lept over the barrier, and run straight into the car. Shawn had seen it crossing. I hadn’t as it had been behind and to the left of the vehicle. I felt devastated and guilty for probably killing the deer. It didn’t matter that it hit me – I still felt responsible. I kept going over the moment prior, wondering whether I could have avoided the impact if I’d seen the deer prior. Though it’s possible that I might have panicked and caused an accident, I couldn’t shake the sadness. It couldn’t forgive myself for not being able to avoid the deer. To clear my mind, when we got back to our lodgings, I went for a walk at the lake down the road, Lac du Drennec. It was quiet, wild, and lush—one of the most peaceful places I’d been in France. There was a bridge that crossed the lake at one point, and I gazed into the dark water. It felt like a fairytale setting, and for a moment, I felt a calm resolve despite the day’s events.

June 6. Somehow, I managed to sleep—though I was awake when Shawn came down to the room at 8:30. I thought it was much earlier and grumbled at him. At 9:30, I made my way to the breakfast room, where Shawn was already eating. We chatted with the woman working there that morning—she was really nice. She made me an espresso with milk, but I wanted more milk, so I asked for it “like a café crème.” I wasn’t really sure how to ask for a latte. She also made some herbal tea for my lungs (which I appreciated).

I explained to her that I had a package scheduled for delivery that day and asked if she could leave a clear note for Amazon since she wasn’t going to be there, requesting they drop it inside. Fingers crossed it would arrive. She and her friend gave us some sightseeing recommendations, and I took copious notes as always. Turned out to be a good choice.

First stop: Plouezoc’h. There wasn’t much to see, but the tourist office at City Hall suggested we head down to the bay for coffee. Problem was, I couldn’t find the port—so we moved on. Luckily, we made it to Cairn de Barnenez just before they closed for the morning at 12:30. Actually, the last tickets were sold at noon, and I got ours at 11:52—cutting it close!

The cairn itself wasn’t that impressive to me. Earlier on the trip I’d walked into several dolmen still intact and had climbed a much larger tumulus. Here, we could only look at the site from the outside. It had been a quarry in the 1950s, and they had excavated parts of the rock, exposing the backs of the burial chambers—there were eleven in total. Maybe I just prefer more immersive experiences; being able to climb around ancient sites in the forest feels completely different than viewing one in a controlled, museum-like setting.

From there, we drove to Lannion, a place our hostess had recommended. And she were right—it was a proper city, full of real economic life, not just a place catering to tourists. Much more interesting than a lot of the towns we’ve been visiting.

By this point, Shawn was hungry, and I agreed it was time to eat. One of our ongoing struggles has been missing the lunchtime specials—by far the best way to eat affordably—so we’ve often ended up starving. This time, though, we found an incredible spot called Le Tire Bouchon, which honestly deserves a Michelin mention. I had mackerel with mustard sauce and ratatouille as an entrée, followed by chocolate mousse. It was so satisfying to finally eat a proper, filling meal—these crêpe places serve such tiny portions that I usually walk away still hungry. Shawn got duck confit, which looked amazing. We left full and happy.

After lunch, I spent the next hour and a half exploring. I walked over to Sainte-Anne Chapel on the other side of the river, wandered through the gardens, checked out the Médiathèque, and admired the half-timbered houses—including one with hilariously explicit wooden carvings on the beams, featuring men in, let’s say, Kama Sutra-like poses. I cracked up.

I also found a beautiful garden with some impressively large trees, including a Metasequoia (dawn redwood), not a true redwood. I’ve also noticed coastal redwoods and giant sequoias, which are native only to California, in several botanical gardens across France. I wondered about the horticultural exploits of the empire. There was a lot of plant relocating on the part of the British empire. I’m sure the French were in on it too.

I admired the bell tower of church before heading to the market square. Shawn was at a church perched on a hill overlooking the city and recommended I check it out. It would mean climbing a ridiculous number of steps, but that never stopped me. The church was old, Gothic, and filled with polychrome statues. A kind man there pointed out a life-sized sculpture of Christ being taken down from the cross, located in the crypt below.

I hesitated for a second—the lights in the crypt kept flickering on and off, which was a little eerie. When I came back up, the kind man was leaving, and we chatted for a bit. His eye was bothering him, and he kept opening and closing it. I asked if he was okay, and he said he needed eye drops. There was something about him that made me a little uneasy—maybe because his shirt was unbuttoned? Not sure why that struck me as odd. But he was kind and asked if I was German. (Earlier, a man had guessed Irish.) When I told him I was American, he said he was from Belgium. All in French, of course.

After descending many steps, I met back up with Shawn at the car, and we headed to Ploumanac’h, famous for its pink granite lighthouse. The whole coastline here, from Ploumanac’h to Saint-Brieuc, is known as the Pink Granite Coast—huge, smooth, pink boulders everywhere, even in the churches and houses. There was also a castle on an island made from the same stone, plus an oratory with a wooden statue of a local saint resting on a Gaelic stele. I’ve seen a few of those around this region.

I walked through a forest near along the coast and stumbled upon an old well and a slate-covered fountain/washhouse. It wasn’t on the tourist map, so it felt like a secret discovery. I kept wandering, admiring the pink granite houses, and eventually reached the lighthouse. It was gorgeous, but I didn’t walk all the way there—the trail was steep and slippery, and I didn’t want to risk it with the time we had left.

We continued our drive along the coast to Perros-Guirec, where I found a stunning church with a carved stone tower. Inside, its carved columns featured grotesque and funny faces of people and scenes from the Bible—though I couldn’t quite make out what was what.

By now, it was raining pretty hard, and I was exhausted. I had planned to visit another town, but considering our early ferry the next morning from Roscoff, rest was more important. I wandered around Perros-Guirec for a few minutes and checked out the city hall (Hôtel de Ville). Shawn and I ran into one another there. He couldn’t remember where the car was so I walked back with him.

Most of the coastal towns aren’t as old as villages inland, but they make up for it with their majestic pink granite houses. We got back around 9 PM, and I went for a short walk by the lake before heading in to pack. I barely slept—partly from worrying about the early morning, partly because our next-door neighbors were making noise.