Bretajarnay

 

Can I expect anything more from an arrival in London than dank grey clouds, pork pie and people swarming ant-like in every direction? I love arriving in a bleary-eyed stale-odoured state and snatching little reminders of the life here, like The Sun (as opposed to the sun), buy one get one frees, and clipped British announcements over the PA system advising you to stand on the right, watch out for the end of the escalator, keep your luggage attended, and beware of this vehicle which is reversing. Then there was unexpected jauntiness and warmth from at least the first three people I interacted with at the airport. Olympic afterglow.

There wasn’t so much time to soak it all up, with a day of recovery before a trip onward to France (with underpants). Here they were cursing the British for their underhandedness and inexplicable superiority in, like, everything. I endeavoured to grow a pair of Bradleys. And eat their food and drink their wine and avoid their toilets. I started eating their cake on one of their ferries, following a brief homecoming of sorts in Plymouth, then onwards across La Manche to Brittany, Bretagne, or the newly crowned region of Bretajarnay.

It was a week of walks and whacks, reunions and religieuse, based around Ploudeaumezeau in the far northwest of the far northwest. Rugged and remote, sharing ties with the western fringes of Britain, including its weather. Highlight had to be the stunning coastline, offering miles of white sand interspersed with rocky coves, windswept headlands and convenient bakeries. And when the sun shone, a setting for joyous play.

Rainier days came and mercifully went; the ever-present wind at least meaning clouds would never linger for too long. Brighter highs emerging beside the seaside, up lighthouses, along coast paths, and down patisseries.

 

 

 

 

 

Back at our home for the week, and the chance for Gorreblue barbecues and cow patch footy. Shaun the sheep offered a distraction from more gateaux, balloon play, cups of tea, glasses of wine, or all of the above. It was often hectic but always warmly embracing. And the daggy decor and warren-like space of Gorreblue turned out to be rather charming.

 

The final few days continued to revolve around the elements, and a cool and cloudy day sent many of us to the biggest town – Brest. Brest: a bit like Plymouth, only with the chance of much more innuendo. It was pleasing to see a bit of Brest, particularly the perky part encompassing some massive tanks. The aquarium – Oceanopolopolis – brought us the South Pole, the Barrier Reef, and a duller bit of the French coast in a thoughtful and entertaining way. On top of these three climatic zones, there was the very popular gift shop atoll.
 

 

Back on the Finistere coast and there are so many coves and bays and rocky platforms that you could spend years here and still find new nooks and crannies. Tuesday morning saw Dad and I point the car in a general direction, try and circumnavigate road closures and take in some random points on the north coast. We found Porz Gwen, a combination of sandy beach, fishing cove and rugged headland, bathed in a glorious, salty atmosphere. It was such a serene spot, it was no surprise that others soon appeared.

 

 

 

On the way back from this particular amble I got a divorce, and it was a pretty reasonable settlement. Considering this divorce comprised two choux buns, one filled with chocolate and the other coffee cream, I would definitely advocate for a higher divorce rate. And like most who have just been through a divorce, soon after, it was off to the park to spend some time with the kids.

It was great to spend some time with the nieces and nephew, along with their parents and grandparents. Though, me being me, it was also very satisfying to spend a little time away, going walkabout on windswept beaches and taking a few pictures in the hope that a small percent will be of sufficient quality to feature on a blog that no-one reads. A little jaunty escape at Portsall, a pretty little place near our rural retreat, a forerunner to evening sundowns treading the beautiful and untainted sands further along the coast.

 

 

 

 

 

The sun, so here one minute and gone the next, never quite made it into the Atlantic during our stay. Out in force on the last day in Roscoff, it offered some final glorious warmth in what turned out to be a pretty Breton seaside town; a contrast to the somewhat grimy enclave of Millbay Docks waiting at the other end. It bathed the French coastline as we left, and offered outside solace on a much too lumpy crossing of the waves. And it finally dipped into the Atlantic Ocean as we neared the coastline of Cornwall, leaving the lights of Plymouth shimmering, welcoming in their security, a glowing embrace of a homecoming from the sea.