IF IT’S RAINING, WE MUST BE IN BRITANNY

Monday, September 2, 2024

IT’S VERY HARD TO DEFINE HEROISM because it means so many different things to different people. We visited the beach in Normandy called by the name of the village: Arromanches, with our friend Christian and Eric, who are really Lili’s friends who invited us generously to spend the night in their home during our trip through Britany. We had arrived from CDG directly to lunch and they suggested we talk an afternoon stroll and headed for this beach.

Arromanches is part of Gold, one of the five beaches that were part of Overlord, the code name D-Day landing areas (Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno and Sword.) It is now a picturesque village of about 500 people that has been totally rebuilt since the invasion 80 years ago.

Arromanches became one of two assembly points for the Mulberry artificial harbors, temporary jetties of prefabricated concrete supports, steel spans, and floating piers that were towed across the channel in sections and aligned perpendicularly to the beach and thus became one of the principal offloading areas for Allied troops and supplies until permanent harbors could be repaired elsewhere. A Musée du Débarquement is related to the Normandy Invasion.

The settlement has grown to many times its original size, but not the beach, of course. From the arrival area the beach extends far in both directions and what is still impressively evident far away are some of the floating docks that were carried across the channel and tethered in place along two lines: one to disembark vehicles and material and the other to return the trucks to replenish them again and again with war supplies. There is a dock remaining on the beach itself and the size of it is just overwhelming.

We talked in low voices as we walked along the beach and asked ourselves questions: What were the young men, aged 19 to 22 years old, completely laden with over 40 kilos of weapons, thinking moments before they stepped into waist high sea water in the middle of waves and started advancing towards the beach as their fellow soldiers fell right and left killed or wounded by the enemy bullets? What does it take to have the strength and courage to make the decision to step forward towards almost certain death? How do they keep advancing into the enemy fire while trying to fire back and survive at the same time? What are the sergeants and lieutenants leading these men shouting to them in the unbearable noise of battle? What does it take to continue walking and running and dragging to get to the first line of defense? How are they able to sleep and rest that first night? How do they wake up from exhaustion and continue fighting the next day, and the next, and the next? You only have to see the numerous cemeteries in the region, the resting place for thousand and thousands of US, British, Canadian, French, Polish and German young soldiers, all in their prime of the beginning of life, to start feeling the magnitude of the emotional, spiritual and physical effort to engage in close quarter combat.

AS THESE THOUGHTS WERE RUNNING THROUGH OUR MINDS I could not help but remember the sad image of a presidential candidate of the United States, recently at the graves of soldiers in Arlington National Cemetery, standing by the graves, raising both thumbs, smiling for the camera and making sure that his videographer and photographer took the right pictures to put them on his campaign website. This, from the man who says he does not like heroes because they are losers who die, nor prisoners, because they get caught, while it is known by the world that he never went to military service during the Vietnam war because he, allegedly, had bone spurs in his toes. Is cowardice the opposite of Heroism?

We saw, at the top of a hill overlooking the beach, a magnificently powerful ensemble of sculptures of Allied soldiers, made with washer-like rings, rising against a wire fence from a sea made of rocks, valiantly marching on, although their bodies were all perforated with bullets holes.

We all reminisced how after every war, the leaders declare” Never Again”, yet the ambition of reckless leaders continues to pervade nations big and small.

A very moving moment of our trip.

WE HAD A WONDERFUL TIME WITH CHRISTIAN AND ERIC, thanks to Lili, who suggested we contact them during our trip to France. They were most welcoming and treated us to fabulous chats, gossip and conversations; fabulous meals with oysters, cheeses, fish, cakes and great wine and champagne; and a very welcome visit in their beautiful farm house surrounding by incredible vegetation, pure air, the smell of moist earth and grass and the warmth of their heart and spirits. Truly a memorable experience.

AS THE SAYING GOES, “TIME FLIES WHEN YOU’RE HAVING FUN” and we can attest to the veracity. We left Normandy after our visit with Christian and Eric and finally made it to the Mont St Michel, where a few years back, because of a bad leg, I could not make it even to the entrance of the roc. Now, in great shape, we climbed all the way to the Abbey at the top and wondered how did those monks manage to build this incredible church with stones that came from far away, with architects and masons who spent their lifetimes building it and that now is visited, in the months of July and August by one million people. Yes. One million people in two months; and two million in the remaining 10 months of the year. The access to the Abbey is the same as the exit, mainly one narrow road completely packed with cheap souvenir shops and cheap pizza and crepes stands with one or two restaurants that sell…pizzas and crepes. The church is imposing, dark, cold and humid and yet magnificent at the same time. And so are the views of the sea surrounding this rock and the constantly moving tide that, at high points flow close to 18 km/h, faster than a horse can run. The Bay is splendid and enormous. Nothing but a magnificent abbey could be placed there, as it has for over 12 centuries. It seems that the famous “Omelette de la Mére Poulard”, cooked on the fireplace from frothy beaten eggs, is just as old and now has become as expensive as if the Mère Poulard herself had cooked her famous concoction, which now stands at 40 Euros per three-egg omelet! And 87 Euros if you want one with truffles, which I imagine come from the Perigord Region via TGV. Ah! Tourism…

HOW DO YOU GET TO YOUR BOAT WHEN THERE IS NO WATER? We arrived in Cancale on a Voyage of Remembrance (Le Voyage du Souvenir) where we had spent a marvelous sunny afternoon in 2017 while doing the Tour de France, not on bike but on a red convertible Mercedes. We visited the lady in the shop where Sabâ had gifted me a wonderful blue, warm sea weather coat (that I was wearing) and tried to find the restaurant where we had eaten and Sabâ had famously directed and performed the (click the link)> . Unfortunately the restaurant was closed. We ended up in a Brasserie, with a huge mound of Moules Marinière and an unctuous Croque Monsieur in front of us, looking at tractor beds parading continuously, filled with numerous sacs of recently harvested oysters, and at the boats dispersed, on their sides, around a completely dry bay. Since the tide empties the bay, the boats that are not out fishing remain behind, like lost, sad pets, abandoned by their masters, who cannot get to them because they would have to walk at the bottom of the bay. Around six pm the tide comes back and the bay is ready with the boats eager to go early next morning for the next fishing venture. And then the tide recedes…

WE DID NOTHING IOF THE SORT. WE PROCEEDED to Saint Malo, the magnificent walled fortress city that was the heaven for pirates and the departing point for adventurous seafarers from time immemorial. Seven years ago we had visited St Malo and were so taken that we decided we needed a second visit. And it was a sound decision. Colbert who, under Louis XIV was the Minister of Everything except War. Jad to deal with the fire in St Malo that destroyed a great part of the city. He had it rebuild to look almost like it looks now. I am referring to the Intra Muros part of the city, surrounded by immense, thick walls, so wide that many people can walk on top of them and be astonished Les Malouins at the views of the sea and the city herself. The Nazis used the city as their headquarters for their Atlantic submarine fleet that created havoc in the British and American Merchant Marines during WW II. During the 1944 Landings the Allies destroyed the city, in fear of the submarine power and it was again rebuilt starting in 1947 with the original plan being followed except for some of the streets that were widened a bit and additional plazas. But the layout was conserved as well as the magnificent granite stones for the building facades that remind us of the power of the city in the past.

THE FALKLAND WARS PITTED THE BRITISH NAVY VS the Argentine Forces, sent there to rescue the islands from the “Colonial British Power.” In fact the Falklands have been called since the 17th century Islas Malvinas because the St Malo sailors (Les Malouins) used the islands, about 500 kilometers from the Argentina coast in the South Atlantic, as their last sailing off point in their way to round Cape Horn in their never ending quest for trade with the Pacific nations. The islands were pretty much French during several centuries. Then the French lost them during one of their wars to the British, who promptly sent settlers there. Some of their descendants still live in those islands.

THE PIRATES ALSO FOUND HAVEN IN ST MALO since some sea captains were given a Lettre de Course by the Sovereign King to attack and capture enemy vessels. (Letter of Marque or Patente de Corso.) These sailors were called Corsairs or Pirates; many of them made St Malo their port of haven. Nowadays the only Corsairs left are some of the cheap shops and food joints that cater to the large masses of tourists invading every part of the world, including beautiful St. Malo. Apart from the wonderful coherence in the architectural style, massive to withstand the storms but elegant, as any French city is; with uniform heights in the buildings; with austere but melodic facades; with continuity of color in the stone of the buildings and the pavement; with a solidity that symbolizes the power of the city; and with astonishing views, St. Malo stands firm in her presence and her beauty. The streets in the commercial area are lined with beautifully arranged shop windows that speak volumes of French elegance and élan, that make hard to describe the sense of serene and eternal beauty that French fashion seems to bring to everything they create and exhibit, from a pair of earrings to a softly knotted foulard left, as if by accident, in a beautifully harmonious heap on top of the shop window. We left St. Malo telling ourselves that we would be back some day, if only for the exceptional seafood flavors that our forays into “Le Café de l’Ouest” left in our satisfied palate and full bellies, or the delicious tinned fish delicacies for which all of Brittany is famous.

WE WERE LOOKING FOR SPECTACULAR NATURAL SCENERY and we have certainly found it. Brittany has a wide variety and incredible intensity in her landscape: from the rolling hills chock full of corn stalk, to the forests and the meadows to the jagged rocks and swarthy beaches, it’s all a pleasurable experience for the eyes, the mind, the soul and the heart. We planned our itinerary looking for a combination of interesting settlements and exciting landscapes and we have found it all. Driving inland and the along the coast, la Côte d’Émeraude, the Emerald Coast has all the green beauty of the grassy landscapes and the absolute stunning Land’s End of Cap Fréhel where the sky and the sea join and create two contrasting and sometimes opposing weatherscapes of serenity and tempest, together or alternating, as was the case with us. Observing the sea and letting it encompass all your senses can bring serenity. But you only have to look up at the menacing dark, almost black clouds rolling and preparing for an explosion of rain that you are able to discern the constant symphony of calm and storm that seems to encompass all the beauty and strength of the countryside. Apart from that we found a fisherman artist who delighted us with his presence, scraggly beard, smiling eyes and tender wooden fish statues who connected with us in this unlikely setting of human and nature.

THE FRENCH EQUIVALENT OF “THE BATES HOTEL” WAS our next discovery in Chatelaudren, a small town outside Saint Brieuc, where I had reserved seeking solace from what I thought would be a busy port city. It was quite a feat, even for our tired GPS system, to find the tiny one way road leading into a huge three story building that looked line an abandoned schoolhouse where the children on any Stephen King novel would attend classes. No one greeted us. Sabâ, via a phone call, found the owner who gave us the entry code. The gate opened slowly and ominously. We drove hesitantly into the courtyard, looked in the windows at the semi empty dark rooms, with leftover furniture; felt the wind; bore the burden of the weight of the lonely place; sensed the storm; and promptly got the hell out before the owners arrived, nervously punching in the code for the gate, hoping it would work for an exit, hoping that we would not get caught in the one way street, hoping that the owners would not follow us in their car and finally making it to the autoroute to Saint Brieuc. Ah! Freedom from this Hitchcockian place!

Sabâ found a Novotel in St Brieuc, where our ample, freezing, room had a great warm shower and where we slept in peace leaving the “Psycho” adventure of the Bates Hotel with their dark past behind us.

GUIDED MORE BY THE NAME THAN THE VILLAGE we arrived in Roscoff, called in Breton Rosco. The “-off” ending seemed to me unnatural for a French town name. This part of France has been trying to be independent for 2000 years or maybe even more. It has been like a revolving door, where many peoples have come and gone, some staying a long time, going round and round, others just passing through but the soul of the Bretons has persisted, like the axis of the revolving door and remains very much a presence. You can sometimes hear it in the language spoken by older people; you can certainly see it in the road signage that is both in French and Breton; you can feel it in some villages and peoples, you can taste it in the wide variety of cakes, biscuits, cakes that are delicious and plentiful in their tastes and varieties. The Romans, the Gauls, the Vikings, the Normans, the English, the Spanish, the French have all had their hands in building (and destroying) this piece of land jutting into the Atlantic and contributing to its shape, history and legend. Roscoff is a tiny locality post-card like with just a few blocks of houses along the beach and inland where we walked, explored, delighted and eventually, ate, all to our great delight. Here, let it be said, Sabâ tasted her first Kouing Amann, a super delicious pastry made up with puff pastry dough, honey and sugar that is an exceptional delight (and a favorite of Paul Hollywood, the master taster of The Baking Show) and, also, where we discovered that the salads in this part of the world are plentiful, beautiful, tasty, delicious and abundant. A meal unto themselves. We agreed we could spend a few months in this village, particularly when it is sunny and warm.