PAIMPOL
Wherever one travels one cannot but be impressed by the friendliness
and sympathy of the people. On the day we were starting for Paimpol we
found, on arriving at the station, that we had an hour to wait for our
train. We happened to be feeling rather depressed that day, and at
this intimation I was on the verge of tears. The porter who took our
tickets cheered us up to the best of his ability. He flung open the
door of the _salle d'attente_ as if it had been a lordly
reception-room, flourished round with his duster over mantelpiece and
table and straight-backed chairs, and motioned us to be seated.
'Voilà tout ce qu'il y a de plus joli et confortable,' he said, with a
smile. Perceiving that we were not impressed, he drew aside the
curtains and pointed with a dirty forefinger. 'Voilà un joli petit
jardin,' he exclaimed triumphantly. There, he added, we might sit if
we chose. Also, he said there was a buffet close at hand. As this did
not produce enthusiasm, he observed that there was a mirror in the
room, that he himself would call us in time to catch our train, and
that we were altogether to consider ourselves _chez nous_. Then he
bowed himself out of the room.
The scenery along the railway from Guingamp to Paimpol was beautiful.
I hung my head out of the window the whole way, so anxious was I not
to miss a single minute of that glorious colouring. There were hills
of craggy rocks, blue and purple, with pines of brilliant fresh green
growing thickly up their sides. On the summit, standing dark against
the sky, were older pines of a deeper green. Between the clumps of
pines grew masses of mustard-yellow gorse and purple heather, in parts
faded to a rich pinky-brown. Now and then there were clefts in the
hills, or valleys, where the colouring was richer and deeper still,
and bracken grew in abundance, pinky-brown and russet.
Paimpol itself is a fishing village, much frequented by artists,
attracted by the fishing-boats with their vermilion sails, who never
tire of depicting the gray stone quay, with its jumble of masts and
riggings. In the _salle à manger_ of the little hotel where we had
luncheon the walls were literally panelled with pictures of
fishing-boats moored to the quay. Every man sitting at that long
table was an artist. This was a pleasant change from the commercial
travellers who hitherto had fallen to our lot at meal-times. There was
no Englishman among the artists.
[Illustration: REFLECTIONS]
The English at this time of the year in Brittany are few, though they
swarm in every town and village during summer. These were
Frenchmen--impressionists of the new school. It was well to know this.
Otherwise one might have taken them for wild men of the woods. Such
ruffianly-looking people I had never seen before. Some of them wore
corduroy suits, shabby and paint-besmeared, with slovenly top-boots
and large felt hats set at the back of their heads. Others affected
dandyism, and parted their hair at the back, combing it towards their
ears, in the latest Latin Quarter fashion. Their neckties were of the
flaming tones of sunset, very large and spreading; their trousers
excessively baggy. The entrance of my mother and myself caused some
confusion among them, for women are very rare in Paimpol at this
season. Hats flew off and neckties were straightened, while each one
did his best to attend to our wants. Frenchmen are nothing if not
polite. The young man sitting next to me suffered from shyness, and
blushed every time he spoke. On one occasion, airing his English, he
said, 'Vill you pass ze vutter?' I passed him the butter; but he had
meant water. The poor youth rivalled the peony as he descended to
French and explained his mistake.
The people of Paimpol are supposed to be much addicted to smuggling.
My mother and I once imagined that we had detected a flagrant act. One
afternoon, walking on a narrow path above the sea, we saw three boys
crouching behind a rock. They were talking very earnestly, and
pointing, apparently making signals, to a little red-sailed boat. The
boat changed her course, and steered straight for a small cove beneath
our feet. We held our breath, expecting to witness the hiding of the
loot. Suddenly, just as the little craft drew to within a yard or so
of the shore, we saw from behind a rock a red and white cockade
appear. There stood a gendarme! Instantly the boat went on her way
once more, and the boys fell to whispering again behind the rock.
After a while, to our great disgust, the gendarme walked at leisure
down the path and chatted in a friendly way with the conspirators. He
had been out for an afternoon stroll. Nothing really dramatic or
interesting in the smuggling line seems to happen outside books.
The Paimpolais are a vigorous people. Fathers and sons dedicate their
lives to the sea. With all their roughness, the people are strictly
religious. The bay of Paimpol is under the protection of the Virgin,
and St. Anne is patron saint. All prayers for those at sea are
directed to these two saints, whose statues stand prominently in the
village. At the end of every winter, before starting their dangerous
life anew, the fishermen are blessed before the statues. The patron
saint of the mariners gazes down with lifeless eyes on generation
after generation of men--on those whose luck will be good and lives
happy; on those who are destined never to return. At the opening of
the fishing season there is a ceremonial procession, attended by the
fathers, mothers, sisters, and _fiancées_ of the fisher folk. Each man
as he embarks is blessed by the priest and given a few last words of
advice. Then the boats move away, a big flotilla of red-sailed fishing
craft, the men singing in loud vibrating voices, as they busy
themselves about their boats, the canticles of Mary, star of the sea.
[Illustration: A SABOT STALL]