LANLEFF—PAIMPOL—LANNION—PERROS-GUIREC.
[Illustration]
Twelve miles north-east of Guingamp is Lanleff—“the land of tears,”
celebrated for one of the most curious architectural monuments in
Brittany, the circular temple of Lanleff. Leaving Guingamp, we pass
through a solitary wooded country, the undulating road soon rising high
above the valley of the Trieux. The air is fresh and invigorating, and
the views from the summits of the hills extend over a wide range of
land. At Gommenech we enter the valley of the Leff that we passed at
Châtelaudren. There is no prettier river, or one that should more truly
delight an artist’s eye, than the Leff in its long, winding journey from
the mountains to the sea.
Sheltered by woods, shut in here and there by granite walls, with ruins
crowning the heights, between green banks and through sloping fields, it
is one of those picturesque rivers which are peculiar to Brittany of
which we seldom hear mention, but which many an English angler knows
well. The view of Gommenech is to be remembered as we cross the valley
on our way to the temple of Lanleff; the temple is in ruins, and
partially unroofed, but enough remains of the original nave supported by
pillars, and its outer circle of aisles, to give us a perfect idea of
the structure, which resembles closely and has, doubtless, the same
origin as the round churches in England built by the Crusaders on their
return from the Holy Land. The diameter of the church to the walls of
the outer aisles is not more than 20 feet; in the inner circle, or nave,
the twelve arches are round and Romanesque in style, with rude carvings
on the capitals. A chancel was afterwards built into the original
structure, so that the unroofed walls of the temple formed, as it were,
a vestibule to the parish church, and in this circular open porch, under
the shadow of a yew-tree, the congregations used to kneel. But the
people now assemble in the new parish church on the hillside, and the
temple is kept for show. The “holy well with its blood-stained stone” is
pointed out to visitors; the pieces of oolite, that encircle the well,
show shining red spots when wetted, to mark the place where, according
to tradition, “an avaricious priest received money from a father who
sold his child to the Evil One.”
We listen to the story gravely, and certainly no sign of doubt, or of
levity, passes over the grave face of the Breton woman who tells it; we
are in a land of historic monuments and traditions of the past, and the
people who live at Lanleff are too wise even to smile at the interest
travellers take in these things. The story has been handed down from
father to son, from mother to daughter, and is now passed on to tourists
who can master a little of the Breton tongue.
Continuing our journey northward, we soon arrive at the summit of a hill
overlooking the bay of Paimpol and the thickly wooded country round; we
have passed good country-houses on the route, with flower-gardens
skirted by hanging woods; and as we approach Paimpol, there are houses
scattered in sheltered bays, with fishing and pleasure boats aground; an
old church surrounded closely by houses, a little _Place_, a custom
house, a quay, boatmen, and fisherwomen; but—where is the water? It has
retreated for more than a mile, and the long bay or estuary and the port
of Paimpol are a desolate waste of mud. Paimpol is a small but busy
fishing village, much frequented in summer by the French for bathing. It
is not fashionable, but the inns are comfortable, and the country is
full of attractions for the summer visitor. The houses on the _Place_
and in the narrow streets are old and weather-worn; some are dark and
mysterious-looking, and have that peculiar smuggling aspect with which
we soon become familiar on this coast.
In a corner of the quiet churchyard of Paimpol there reposes at full
length, in stone, “L’Abbé Jean Vincent Moy,” many years _curé_ of this
place and honorary canon of St. Brieuc; and round about him, placed
thickly in rows, the former inhabitants of Paimpol rest under black
wooden crosses. The _curé_ is carved in dark green stone, from which
time has taken the sharpness of the chiselling; but the expression is
life-like, representing him in the popular act of blessing. There is a
cup of holy water at his feet, supplied by an old woman who kneels
before the tomb on the damp ground. It is her pious office to guard the
tomb of her pastor, and brush off the leaves which fall thickly from the
grove of elms overhead. They move slowly and die leisurely at Paimpol;
this old woman’s time is not yet, for she “has only eighty years.” In
four newly made graves there repose Eugénie, Marie, Mathilde, and
Hortense, and their respective ages are eighty-two, eighty-four,
eighty-eight, and eighty-nine!
At Paimpol in summer every one seems to take life easily, the French
visitors driving about, bathing, boating, and living perpetually in the
fresh, pure air; the native inhabitants getting up boat-races, and
dancing the “gavotte” at night, in streets lighted by paper lanterns in
old Breton fashion, as we see sketched at Châteauneuf du Faou. There is
unusual brightness on this sombre, storm-washed shore; there is the
dazzle of a crimson pennant, and the flashing of a snow-white sail;
there are green banks, in contrast to water of the deepest blue, for in
these little inlets of the sea the summer sun clothes everything with
brightness in a moment. Perhaps we have seen Paimpol _en couleur de
rose_, for there has been blue sky overhead nearly every day for a
fortnight, and the sun is so hot at midday that the market-women put up
their red umbrellas, and the men descend into cool cellars for shelter
and refreshment.
There is a favourite walk, of about a mile, to a promontory on the south
side of the port, by a pathway skirting fields of corn and buckwheat,
which brings us to high ground and a shady plantation of firs, where we
lose sight of Paimpol itself, but obtain the best idea of the
surrounding scenery. We choose this walk a little before sunset on a day
when there is a high tide. At our feet, on the left hand, is a steep
bank with tree-tops _below_, their dark foliage contrasting with the
blue of the water and the orange stems of weather-worn firs. Looking far
away northward and eastward across the water, dotted with white sails
coming in with the tide, the island rocks light up brilliantly in the
setting sun. The air is so clear seaward that we can distinguish little
houses on the island which guards the port, and on more distant rocks
far out to sea, all glittering in the sun. Turning southward, to the
real bay of Paimpol, which we cannot see from the town, the opposite
banks are in shadow, and the foliage which reaches to the water’s edge
takes a rich purple tinge. The outlines are soft and indistinct,
excepting on a tongue of land in the middle of the bay, where in the
midst of a garden of fruit-trees, and surrounded by ivy-grown walls, we
can just trace the Gothic lines of the abbey of BEAUPORT.
It is a shaded walk of about a mile and a half from Paimpol to Beauport.
The road and the by-paths are shut in by high banks, so that we come
upon it rather suddenly, looking down upon the ruins, through the bare
windows of which we can see the sea. The Gothic chapel is a complete
ruin, but part of the abbey building is in good preservation, and
inhabited. One room is turned into a school-house, and a great roofless
hall, once the refectory, is used as a threshing-floor. The romantic
aspect of the ruins of Beauport, with its surrounding scenery, has been
described in every book on Brittany, and the view of it by moonlight
over the bay of Paimpol is as famous as that of “fair Melrose.” To this
ancient abbey come pilgrims of the nineteenth century to study and
wonder at the art of life shown by the monks of the thirteenth. If ever
there was a spot where nature and art seem combined for man’s special
enjoyment, it must have been at Beauport. Here the fruitful land meets
the bountiful sea, and there is no arid line of demarcation; the corn
waves at the water’s edge, and the flowers bloom and shed their leaves
into the water. The soil is rich, and the air is soft, and in this
autumn time the harvest seems everywhere ready to man’s hand—a harvest
of fruit and grain on land, a harvest of fish and rich seaweed spread at
every tide upon the shore.
The abbey of Beauport is considered by M. Merrimée to be “the most
perfect example of the monastic architecture of the thirteenth
century”—in fact, the most important and beautiful ruin in Brittany.
“It lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows, crown’d with summer sea.”
As we wander round the gardens and through the avenues of trees that
line the raised walks on the breakwater, or under the shadow of high
brick walls, laden with old fruit-trees, it is easy to realise in our
minds the lives of its former occupants. The picturesqueness of
Beauport, especially the view, from the eastern side, of the
chapter-house and other dwellings, should attract artists. This
afternoon there is one large white umbrella planted firmly in the gravel
of its deserted walks, and one canvas spread with a green landscape in
which old, grey, mullioned windows, and the stems of weather-beaten
trees, form prominent features.
From Paimpol to Lannion is twenty miles by the road, crossing the river
Trieux by a lofty suspension bridge at Lézardrieux, and halting at the
ancient cathedral town of Tréguier by the way.
TRÉGUIER, as will be seen on the map, is well situated for exploring the
coast and for visiting a variety of places of interest in the
neighbourhood; and it is a town in which the artist and the antiquary
would desire to stay. The cathedral with its graceful spire, “percée au
jour,” and its old market-place, with the streets leading from it, form
pictures more characteristic and interesting than anything we have seen
in Dinan or Guingamp. Tréguier, which was one of the four original
bishoprics of Brittany, abounds in historical associations. Everywhere
we hear of “St. Ives,” or “St. Yves” (the lawyers’ patron saint), who
lived here in the thirteenth century, and who is buried in the cathedral
by the side of Duke John V. From Tréguier to the sea there is a wide
estuary, capable of floating, at high tide, vessels of large tonnage;
and it was here that the famous expedition against England by “Constable
Clisson” in the fourteenth century was to have embarked. The
shipbuilding which is carried on at Tréguier and the views on the banks
of the estuary are not the least picturesque points to notice. The
cathedral is in a variety of styles; it has a north porch of Norman
work, and a square tower, “the tower of Hastings,” of the eleventh or
twelfth century, and some beautiful cloisters of the fifteenth. It might
be worth while to stay at Tréguier if only to examine and sketch the
interior of an old Breton farmhouse in the neighbourhood, containing the
bed of “St. Ives,” and other relics of the patron saint; here too we are
within easy reach of the remains of the castle of “La Roche Derrien,”
with its fine views northward over the sea.
[Illustration]
It is near Tréguier that we make the discovery of a watering-place,
Perros-Guirec, where we can live in the height of the summer season for
five francs a day, and where it is difficult to spend more. The bay of
Perros-Guirec is just sufficiently off the track of tourists to make it
delightful in summer. There are two small inns on the shore, one at
either extremity; but the actual village of Perros-Guirec is situated
amongst the trees which crown the northern promontory of the bay; there
are a few summer-houses and gardens, an old church, and near it a
convent, where in July and August strangers may board for a small sum.
It seems hard to break up the peace of this retreat by printing a
description of it, but here, we are bound to record, is a spot where we
can spend our summer days with the greatest delight. We can live as we
like, dress as we like, bathe in the water at our feet, sit and sketch
in the shade of woods, through the branches of which we see the shining
sea. The air, so fresh and bracing, sweet with the breath of pines, is
more grateful in the hot summer months than at Dinard or Trouville, and
the sights and sounds are certainly more healthful and restful.
It is evening as we return from a walk by the sea north of
Perros-Guirec; before us is a wide and beautiful bay, extending for
nearly half a mile in a noble curve of shore; it is shut off from the
land by sloping hills, and bounded at either extremity by rocks. The
tide is nearly out, and the sand is as pure, smooth, and untrodden, as
on Robinson Crusoe’s island. There are no projecting rocks or stones on
this wide plain, nothing to be seen on its surface but our long dark
shadows and two little crabs, behind their time, making hard for the
retreating water. We cross the bay leisurely, treading lightly on the
carpet of sand, and watching the sunset light on the rocks and on the
little islands which make this coast such a terror to navigators. They
are smiling this evening in that roseate hue which storm-washed red
granite rocks put forth on gala days, and their purple reflections in
the water are as deep and glowing as from the steep walls of the Lago di
Garda under an October sun.
The two crabs soon disappear in the water, but as we cross the bay, two
other little spots appear at some distance on the sand. The sight is so
unusual here that the thought of Crusoe on his island occurs again, and
we approach cautiously. The objects are larger and farther off than at
first appeared, in fact nearly a quarter of a mile; they consist of two
neat little bundles of clothing, one of which appears to be a silk dress
surmounted by a white straw hat! There is nothing near them but sand, no
sign of human creature; but, presently looking seaward, the mystery is
explained by two heads appearing suddenly on the surface of the sea, one
with long hair floating from it. We beat a retreat and learn afterwards
that an evening walk in “ce pays ici” is often supplemented by an
evening bath. Thus Monsieur and Madame, strolling together on the sands,
make a diversion without ceremony or “machines,” and without the
slightest “mauvaise honte.”
A little to the north of Perros-Guirec is the village of Ploumanach,
almost built out into the sea. It is a place to be visited above all
others on this coast for its wildness, and to see the hardy fishing
population, living amongst a loose mass of rocks, nearly surrounded by
water. Looking northward, on a clear day, we may see a group of islands
that form, as it were, outworks of granite protecting the land from the
waves that break upon this shore. One of these islands, the abode of
innumerable wild-fowl, is said, with doubtful authority, to be the
Island of Avalon, or Avilion, where King Arthur was buried.
All round these rocky promontories the inhabitants live more on the sea
than on the land; they look to the sea for their harvest, and glean on
the shore rather than in the fields. The children of this seafaring
community, when tired of the earth, take to the water naturally, and it
is not an uncommon thing to see the mother of a family rush from her
cottage, lift up her skirts deftly, and jump into the sea to the rescue.
The principal town in this neighbourhood is LANNION; it is a natural
commercial centre for the surrounding districts, collecting and
dispersing the produce of the sea and of the shore, and busy also in
providing and fitting out vessels for the mackerel-fisheries. It is a
busy town, with a fixed population of about 7000, but apparently with
accommodation, and occupation in the busy seasons of spring and autumn,
for a much larger number. Lannion dates from the twelfth century. It is
picturesquely situated on the steep slope of hills above the river
Guier. The market-place in the centre of the town, from which steep
streets descend to the river, is remarkable for its curious old houses,
but nearly all traces of local costume have vanished. So, too, has
vanished the antique tapestry representing the story of Coriolanus, and
“a staircase up which a regiment of grenadiers could march in double
columns,” which used to be shown at the Hôtel de l’Europe. In their
stead we find plate-glass shop fronts, good pavements, and little
children seated on dirty doorsteps dressed _à la parisienne_. On
market-days the country people come in wearing their old costumes, and a
few well-to-do farmers and their wives, who put up at the best inns, are
dressed in the old homely fashion of the Bretons of the Côtes-du-Nord.
[Illustration]
Lannion, at the time of writing, may be said to be one of the outposts
of French tourist civilisation in the Côtes-du-Nord. Hither come in
summer-time a few Parisians, and families from the interior, for the
bathing; driving to and from Perros-Guirec and other places on the coast
daily, but seldom actually staying on the seashore. In their train come
the latest fashions, both in manners and in dress, and it is here we may
notice, especially on Sundays and fêtes, the strange contrasts in
costume between the Bretons and “the French,” as the natives persist in
calling their visitors.
It is on their way down to the Jardin Anglais one Sunday morning that a
gay Parisian and his wife walk through the market-place and down one of
the old steep streets; behind them come nurse and _bébé_, all “en grande
toilette de l’été.” The lady wears a white dress, which trails over the
cobblestones; the gentleman is in brown holland, with white shoes, white
tie, and a new straw hat shaped like a Prussian helmet and decorated
with a crimson band; the baby is decorated in as much of the fashion of
the day as its size will permit; the nurse, the neatest of the party,
wears a spotless white cap and dark short dress. An old dame, seated at
her doorstep, taking a bountiful pinch of snuff, emits a harsh sound,
more like “Jah!” or “Yah!” than the customary approving “Jolie!” which
comes so trippingly on every French tongue. The Breton woman, in her
old-fashioned gown, black stockings, and neat stout shoes, who owns the
house she lives in, and perhaps half a dozen others, regards the
fashionable visitors with anything but pleasure, and resists the advance
of fashion into Lannion as an evil almost equal to an inroad of
Prussians.
In Lannion the most interesting buildings will be found in the
neighbourhood of the Grande Place, where some curious slated “hoods,”
and projecting roofs, break up the perpendicular lines of the modern
buildings; enough remaining even now to account for the frequent
descriptions of its picturesqueness. The church of St. Jean, with its
high terrace overlooking the valley, is interesting principally from its
commanding position above the town. From its terraces and between the
stems of its dusty trees there is a pretty sight on Sunday morning when
the people crowd to the neighbouring church of Brélévenez.
Looking northwards across a deep ravine—through which a once clear,
rapid stream rushes full of soap into the river Guier—we see that in
course of time it has worn its way through rocks, washed the slight
covering of earth from the roots of trees that grow on its steep sides,
that it has been utilised to turn water-wheels, dashing in and out of
holes in wooden houses built over its banks. It has “washed” for Lannion
for hundreds of years, and every summer’s evening down by the bridge,
the women, old and young, may be seen on their knees at work on wet
boards. On the opposite side of the ravine the houses rise one above the
other in a series of steps to the church of Brélévenez with its fine
spire cresting the hill; and it is up and down these steps that on
Sundays and fête days the people crowd in a dark procession all day. The
ascent is steep indeed, and the young have to help the old to make the
pilgrimage.
If we follow the crowd across the ravine and up this narrow way, we find
that it has been selected by suffering and poverty-stricken humanity as
a public mart. The path is so narrow and steep that there is no escape
from the beggars that line the way. In the churchyard at the top it is a
pretty sight to see the country people meeting and chatting together
under the trees, standing in groups waiting for the service. They are
evidently accustomed to the beggars; but it seems hard upon Marie and
Mathilde, coming on a summer’s morning through the fields to church, to
have to run the gauntlet of so much misery and disease, to have hideous
deformities thrust upon their sight, and curses hurled at them if they
do not give. A stranger is of course fair game—he is Dives, and Lazarus
is waiting for him at the gate; but all are importuned alike, and every
hideous artifice is used to extract alms under the protection of the
church. The women and children push their way bravely, slipping over the
stone stiles modestly one by one, their neat short skirts being suited
to the work. The air is fresh and sweet, blowing through the churchyard;
but inside the church the crowd is great, and the heat almost
insufferable. The beggars do not go in, at least not many of them, but
they lie in wait and line the descent of this ladder of life, sunning
themselves in corners until the pilgrims pass down.
Before leaving Lannion, a word should be said about the inn
accommodation, because it is exceptionally good. They may be small
matters to record in print, but it will be useful to travellers to know
that in Lannion they will find at the principal inn the comforts of
civilisation, including an excellent cup of tea. After a few days’ stay
at the Hôtel de l’Europe the illusion will be dispelled that in
travelling in Brittany, away from railways, it is necessary to “rough
it,” as the saying is. In all the principal towns on our route the
hotels will be found as good as in Normandy and other parts of western
France; and throughout Brittany we get abundance of good meat, bread,
butter, milk, and wine. At the Hôtel de l’Europe at Lannion, English
families come to stay, it being quieter and less crowded than Dinan, as
well as a convenient centre for visiting some of the most interesting
spots in Brittany; interesting to English people especially for their
historical and romantic associations.
Everyone makes a short stay at Lannion, in order to visit the
thirteenth-century castle of Tonquédec, in a lovely valley about eight
miles south of the town. It is easy to reach it by taking one of the
diligences on the road to Guingamp to a point about five miles from
Lannion, or by taking a carriage direct. At the time of writing, this
castle is one of the best preserved specimens of military architecture
in all France, and it is to our mind one of the beauty spots in
Brittany. Time has covered its towers and walls with thick and luxuriant
foliage, graceful in line, and altogether picturesque from its untrimmed
aspect; in autumn time it is as rich in colour as a pheasant’s wing, and
the lines of the landscape which surround it are as varied as the waves
of the sea.
The castle of Tonquédec was one of the ancient strongholds of Brittany;
the present structure is in great part the restoration of Henry IV., and
the ruin the work of Cardinal Richelieu; time and ivy having done the
rest. It is rare to find, as at Tonquédec, so “complete a ruin,” if we
may use the word, showing the plan and structure of its different
courts, its fortifications, and surrounding dwellings, as used in the
thirteenth century. We must not dwell upon architectural details, but we
may mention the views that are to be obtained from its windows and
towers, the adjoining park and avenues of old trees, and the lake with
its ancient carp asleep under the banks, who—according to the women in
charge of the castle—“have lived so long that their tails are worn out”!
At Lannion and Tonquédec we are on the border-land which divides the
departments of the Côtes-du-Nord and Finistère. The little river Douron,
which takes its source in the Monts d’Arrée, and falls into a bay
between Plestin and Lanmeur, marks the boundary of the departments and
also of the ancient bishoprics of Tréguier and St. Pol de Léon. There is
a natural division between the two departments in the general aspect of
the country and demeanour of the people. From the hanging gardens of
Beauport and the sleepy orchards and cornfields which surround Lannion
and Tonquédec we shall shortly pass to a wilder and sterner part of the
coast, dominated by the cathedral spires of St. Pol and Le Folgoet.
[Illustration]