August 26, 2005
Trevou-Treguignec - St. Brieuc
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Barbara missed breakfast and instead ate a banana in the room. I went for the usual coffee and croissant combo, of which as mentioned in my previous journal I am quite fond. We paid the bill and learnt that the Breton word Ker means house, but a bigger house than a Ty.
This was a much more pleasant day than the previous two. The wind had dropped, the morning was cool, but the sun was out, promising later warmth.. We rolled out of the hotel car-park and down the hill and along the beach road. At the end of the beach, the road climbed away from the sea and we followed it until the right turn to Tréguier. If we had literally followed the coastline of both Brittany and Normandy, taking every twist and turn of the roads, to visit every bay, beach and cliff, we'd probably still be there [I'm writing this in November]. So, here, we're cutting a corner, heading inland for a while. La Pointe du Château may be beautiful, but so is Samarkand.
A roadside church advertised its recently celebrated pardon. This, a Breton custom, is a festival, which celebrates the saint whose name is given to the parish church. A mass is held and there is food, drink and craft stalls. Most French villages hold summer fêtes, this would appear to be the Breton version. I slowed down in order to point this out to Barbara. She was of the opinion that it was one way of getting money into the parish coffers. All that stuff about John the Baptist's finger seemed to have accentuated her scepticism. We personally did not encounter a pardon, probably because we were out and about a little late in the season.
I waited for Barbara at the main road junction in Plouguel, near to a shiny, black Citroën 4, parked on the pavement [sidewalk]. A woman was hanging out washing in the adjoining garden [it was a good drying day, but not up to the high standards of the day before]. I enquired about the car. 'It's my daughter's, I'll get her,' she said. A middle-aged woman appeared through the front door of the house, obviously pleased to be the centre of attention. 'Is it from the 1950s?' I enquired. '1961,' she said. 'It's been very well looked after,' I offered. 'My husband's a mechanic,' she replied. At this point, Barbara turned up and the conversation shifted to what a bustling and thriving commune was Plouguel, via where were we going next? 'Treguier.' We took some pictures of the pristine Citroën and said our polite farewells.
A quick and very picturesque descent to the river and a stiff climb [but not that stiff, remember?] round the back of the cathedral, propelled us into Tréguier's main square. According to my very cursory research, Tréguier stages a Premier League pardon. Not today though. Café-au-lait, rather than absolution was on our minds. We sat ourselves down outside a café and I ordered the coffee. Tréguier is a little jewel, at least for anyone even remotely medievalist. As well as the small but hefty cathedral, the buildings surrounding the square are largely half timbered, ochre plasterwork contrasting with the dark-brown beams, the streets leading back down to the modern world, narrow and ancient. For all that, it now seems a suitable time to tackle the re-emergence of La Baguette de Tradition. We finished our coffee, then, pushing the bikes round the square, set out in search of an artisan boulanger-pâtissier, for more croissants aux amandes and another venerable loaf. It seems that this year there has been a marketing drive in favour of the traditional baguette, with some craftsman bakers displaying large posters fully explaining the more conscientious methods of milling, mixing, proving and baking required. The difference from the point of view of the consumer is that la tradition has a harder crust, a springier texture, larger air holes within and tastes more of yeast. One thing that's certain is, you need teeth. It is usually around 30 Euro cents more expensive. Strangely, I first came across la tradition, in England, seven years ago, at a specialist French bakery, while working in the upscale London suburb of Richmond. I had never seen them in France. From here on, Barbara insisted on patronising only bakeries with the artisan tag on the shop sign. The opinion of my brief Italian acquaintances from St. John of the Finger was proving to be correct.
Back on the main road, we crossed the Jaudy river at the neck of its estuary, before turning right onto the D20 towards Ploëzal. I have included a photograph from this stretch, of a type of road sign prevalent in the départment of Côtes d'Armor, which consists of a conceptual map of the vicinity, so in theory it should be impossible to get lost.
At Ploëzal we took the busier but not too busy, D6 to Pontrieux, where we stopped for lunch. The centre of the town was in your face medieval; all cobbled streets and half-timbered houses, We found a small park with picnic tables by the picturesque little river, le Trieux, unsurprisingly. People were taking guided river trips in small electric powered boats. We watched as we ate and took photographs.
This had been a late lunch and we thought we might look for a place to spend the night in Lanvallon. We set off uphill through woods out of Pontrieux for an uneventful 16 km ride. In Lanvallon, on first impressions an unappealing town, we found nowhere and so continued again on back roads towards the much larger town of St. Brieuc, the prefecture [county town, state capital]. Along this stretch of road, potential tourism seemed to take a back seat to agri-business. The villages were more workmanlike in appearance and the landscape much the same. There was little traffic and although we were by now, more tired than we'd like, it was a pleasant enough ride, until we were forced to join the busier D712. There was a descent to cross a river then a climb and a further drop into the town centre, through unpromising, rather shabby outer suburbs. There was heavy cloud cover by now and even the more ancient cobbled streets of the town centre held little attraction. I sought out the TIC and was given a town centre map with nearby hotels marked by the girl behind the counter. We settled on the Hotel Champs de Mars, on the edge of the shopping centre and on the corner of a large square, one side of which was occupied by the large, functional, concrete office block of a major insurance company.
The hotel itself was fine, with friendly and helpful hosts ['You don't pronounce the 'c' in St Brieuc,' I was told] and a pleasantly modernised, if slightly cramped room.. A photograph of the Breton cyclist, five times tour winner Bernard Hinault, [le blaireau, the badger, as he was not so affectionately known] decorated the reception desk. Barbara took a shower, while I drank a beer in a nearby bar. Directly opposite the hotel entrance was an intriguing establishment, apparently a wine-bar, busy with a 'Thank God It's Friday' clientele, whose décor, both inside and out looked unchanged since since WWI.
I took my turn in the shower and we went out looking for a restaurant. We were in the capital of Côtes d'Armor in Brittany, so we ate at a Tex-Mex restaurant and then listened to a Salsa band. For the record, I had Enchiladas followed by Brownies for dessert and Barbara, Guacamole with Stuffed Peppers. No dessert. Barbara declared herself to be disgusted with the Guacamole. Her disaffection was obvious enough for the management to [all too easily] buy me off with a free double shot of Tequila.
In the square, near the cathedral, under a large rectangular marquee, the salsa band was strutting its funky stuff. We stopped to listen for three numbers. Couples were dancing, evidence of the world-wide popularity of the genre. My local pub holds sessions on Wednesdays.
We walked the short distance back to the hotel. On our return, I couldn't help noticing that the bar opposite was still open. As Barbara prepared for sleep, I crossed the road, entered the bar, whose name, unfortunately, I can't remember and in terms of design, stepped back a few decades. I ordered a beer. My first impression proved to be correct, this was a wine bar, but with a short and determinedly preferential wine list. 'I'll try your carte des vins another time,' I said by way of excuse. I took the time to look around. The ceiling was decorated with large representations of playing cards. Unpainted faded wood was the main feature. The locals were friendly. 'This is a very interesting place', I said, rather obviously. 'Yes, it hasn't changed since World War I,' replied the proprietor. 'Film and TV companies use it for period shots.' I fell into conversation with a man who told me he won a weekend in London as a prize in a golf tournament. 'What do people do for work around here?' I asked. 'Nothing,' he said. 'Nothing?' 'OK, maybe pigs, then.' 'Pigs and the Préfecture,' I suggested. 'Yes that's it, pigs and the Préfecture.' [county hall, state legislature] It was time for bed I thought.
Today's ride: 78 km (48 miles)
Total: 216 km (134 miles)
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