BREST—PLOUGASTEL—CHÂTEAUNEUF DU FAOU.
[Illustration]
At Landerneau we are once more on the high-road to Brest. We have left
for a time the dreary wind-blown promontories of the coast, and find
shelter in a pleasant valley, surrounded by trees and gardens, and
watered by a river which opens out westward into the bay of Brest.
The railway from Landerneau to Brest is carried for the most part at a
high level, and from the windows on the _left hand_ we obtain beautiful
views of the scenery of the bay. Below we can see the stores of timber
for naval use, and are otherwise reminded of our approach to a sea-port
by the company which collect at the small stations _en route_. In the
crowded carriage are old weather-beaten fishermen and countrywomen with
market baskets, and, in one corner, two boys with fair fresh faces, set
in wide straw hats, bearing upon them the inscriptions of _Vulcan_ and
_Vengeance_.
Brest is a naval station of such importance that even travellers in
search of the picturesque should not pass it by without a short visit;
the arsenal, docks, and harbour are on a scale of completeness second
only to Cherbourg; moreover, Brest is the most convenient point from
which to visit other parts of the coast of Finistère, especially the
fishing village of Le Conquet, the abbey of St. Mathieu on the extreme
western point of Brittany, and the island of Ouëssant. Brest is situated
on an elevated position on the north side of one of the finest natural
harbours in the world, commanding good views from its ramparts and
promenades. The population is about 70,000, exclusive of soldiers and
sailors; a busy cosmopolitan maritime city, in which there is little of
the Breton character to be studied.
[Illustration]
In order to realise the beauty of the inland bay of Brest, we must look
down again from our imaginary _ballon captif_, and see its blue waters,
green banks and woods coming down to the water’s edge; the country
dotted with white villas and little wooden châlets belonging to the
wealthy traders of Brest, and here and there the sombre avenues of a
château with grey, high-pitched roofs and pointed turrets peeping
through the trees.
Across this inland sea, traversed by little steamers and dotted with
white sails—raised high upon the heath-clad hills which form the western
spur of the Monts d’Arrée—is the little town of Plougastel.
It is too late to cross the bay on the occasion of our visit to
Plougastel, and so we take the last train to Kerhuon station, where
there is a ferry. A vessel has just been paid off at Brest, and in the
railway carriage are several sailors on their way home. One of them gets
out with us at Kerhuon, and we go down together to the river. By some
mischance the ferry-boat is missing, and all is darkness at the little
boathouse. The young sailor, ready at expedients, puts down his pack,
collects some furze, and lights a fire as a signal. We sit and wait and
shout at intervals, burning the fuel until just about midnight, when we
hear the plash of oars, and a dark object glides past; it is a
fishing-boat with one mast, with three men in the stern, and two women
rowing. After a little parleying they agree to take us across for thirty
centimes each, and the women turn the boat round, running it heavily
against the stones of the causeway. We get in quickly and stand in the
bows, whilst we silently cross the Landerneau river. It is a strange,
mysterious boat-load; not a word is uttered, there is no sound but the
heavy plodding and working of the oars, and the night is so dark we
cannot see the faces of the men or the nature of the packages that weigh
down the stern. The moon, rising through the clouds, just illumines the
darkness as we near the shore; it shines on the smooth, wet mast, on the
waterproof hat of the marine standing up in the boat, and reveals close
to us the strong, stout arms of a girl, bared to the shoulder, her head
concealed in a dark, tight-fitting headdress, with lappets like an
Egyptian sphynx; the head is raised for a moment, and eyes are turned
upon us as we leave, but no word is uttered, scarcely a “Bon soir!” as
the boat drifts away into the night.
The moon shines as we ascend the hill—winding up a path between great
rocks and under the shadow of stunted trees, to Plougastel—revealing a
poor-looking town of plain stone houses, silent and deserted at this
midnight hour. At a corner of two streets our companion points out the
inn and takes leave, having to go to his home at the further end of the
town. We knock for admittance, but without avail; heads are put out of
various windows, but the answer is that every house is crowded, for
“to-morrow is the fête”; and, truth to tell, curses are heaped upon the
strangers for disturbing the dogs, who begin to howl as they trot by on
their midnight errands. There is nothing to be done until daybreak, and
so the night is spent in the open air.
We have come to Plougastel to see the people, and also its famous
calvary, which stands in the middle of a desolate churchyard strewn with
newly cut stone. As the day begins to dawn, we make our way to the
church, and to the spot where we can just discern the calvary, with its
carved figures standing darkly against the sky. There is a flutter at
our approach, for birds have been nestling behind the headless horsemen,
and sheltering in the nooks and corners of the ancient pile. We leave
them to silence a little longer, and stroll out to the highest ground to
see the sun rise. Soon there is a streak of light from the east, which
gives shape and outline to the church tower and the grey roofs of
Plougastel, and, as we reach the high ground outside the town, the
landscape southward is lighting in the morning sun; we see cultivated
valleys and parklike views, with pleasant green slopes leading down to
the sea. But beautiful as is the foreground, with its undulating green,
interspersed with granite boulders, with dew upon gossamer webs and
little clouds of vapour stealing between clumps of grass, the view
across the bay, where the distant headlands (indicated on the map
overleaf) take a pearly tinge, is the best sight of all. A little
northward and westward are the masts, chimneys, and church spires, and
the smoke and steam, of Brest, for the morning is breaking over a busy
scene at the arsenal and dockyards; but here, as the sun shines out, the
sound in the long grass are of grasshoppers, birds, and bees.
It is the morning of the fête; the thrush clears his throat, and so do
the peasants in their own way, as they come slowly up the hill. Let us
leave the view and go into the streets of Plougastel, which are already
alive with people, some of whom might be the descendants of Eastern
races, wearing Egyptian or Phrygian headdresses, caps from Albania,
embroideries from Greece, and sashes from Arabia. Here, then, for the
first time in our travels, we find colour predominating in the costumes
of the people. Some of the women wear close-fitting dark green caps
embroidered with gold thread, their dark skirts also bordered with
embroideries or stripes of colour; some wear white stockings and
neat-fitting, red or black, slippers or shoes. But the prevailing
headdress of the women is the white cambric _coiffe_ with large side
lappets and wide collars which we see elsewhere in Finistère; the men
have broad-brimmed hats with embroidered strings or ribbons. Some of the
men who come from the south wear striped trousers with a red sash, and
spare blue jacket with numerous silver buttons, as in the sketch
opposite. Some are dressed entirely in blue cloth or serge, with sashes
and red caps, but others have broad white trousers and belts, their
jackets and blouses embroidered on the shoulders and sleeves. There is
colour everywhere, subdued by the dark blue of blouses and the sober
brown and green stuff gowns of the older women.
[Illustration]
It is said that the people of Plougastel, preserving their old costumes
and traditions, still live much apart from their neighbours; a life half
seafaring, half agricultural, whose origin is traced to some early
immigration of Eastern races. By ten o’clock hundreds of people have
come in from the neighbouring villages, and as they all crowd together
at the church door and in the square round the calvary, we see the
strangest medley of costumes in all Brittany. They collect round the
calvary, some praying, some quarrelling or bargaining for small wares; a
general place of rendezvous on fête-days, especially on the 24th of June
(the Feast of St. Jean, called the “Pardon of Birds”), when a large
number of birds are offered for sale. This is a good day to see the
costumes of the peasants, to hear their songs, and to see the dances in
the streets of Plougastel.
The calvary was erected about the year 1602, and some of the figures are
as sharp and clear as if carved yesterday; some are headless, and
otherwise injured or destroyed. Around the three elevated crosses are a
series of bas-reliefs, full-length figures cut in Kersanton stone,
depicting various incidents in New Testament history—the Entry into
Jerusalem, Christ teaching among the Doctors, the Offerings of the Magi,
the Baptism of St. John, the Entombment, &c. On the south side is a
representation of the Bearing of the Cross, on the north is the Judgment
of Pilate, and so on. Some of the figures are very expressive, some have
a certain quaintness and humour, and here and there we detect the same
anachronisms in costume as at St. Thégonnec, where the Breton costume is
introduced.
Altogether we must regard the calvary of Plougastel as a curiosity
rather than as a great work of art; a grotesque group which, in its dark
rugged outline set against the sky, will be remembered by travellers as
something peculiar to Brittany, something which, in this land of strange
mediæval monuments and relics, is yet perhaps the strangest sight of
all.[6]
Footnote 6:
See sketch of a calvary on page 91.
Returning to Daoulas, we join the high-road between Landerneau and
Quimper, and pass southwards along the inland shores of the bay of Brest
to Châteaulin. As travellers speed through this district by railway,
they get glimpses, on the left hand, of the forest of Guimerch, and on
the right, through the tree-tops, of inlets of the bay, and of the
ancient little town of Le Faou, lying as it were at their feet.
On the railway we pass over an estuary at a great elevation, and on a
greater part of the route to Châteaulin are on the spurs of the Monts
d’Arrée. Travellers from Brest to Quimper should not be deterred from
stopping at Châteaulin by the one line devoted to it in guide-books,
viz. “a dirty little town in parklike scenery, with no good inns.”
[Illustration]
The shores of the bay of Brest and the bay of Douarnenez are districts
to be lingered in when the sun shines, for the days are really few when
we may see the country to advantage. The luxuriance of foliage on the
hills, the height of the grasses, the deep green in the valleys, and the
enormous umbrellas carried by the peasants, should remind us that fine
days are few.
Châteaulin is crowded once a year to visit the Pardon of Ste. Anne la
Palue, a ceremony that generally takes place on the last Sunday in
August. The modern chapel of Ste. Anne stands alone upon high ground,
overlooking the bay of Douarnenez, near Plonévez-Porsay, a small village
about eight miles west of Châteaulin. Crowds of people come from Brest
by boat, and every road and pathway leading to the chapel is lined with
people on the morning of the Pardon. The ceremonies are nearly the same
as at Guingamp and at Ste. Anne d’Auray, but the camping-out of the
people on the hillside above the sea (sometimes 10,000 in number), the
processions of pilgrims, bare-footed, to the Holy Well of Ste. Anne, and
other customs, are more curious than any to be seen elsewhere.
It is at the Pardon of Ste. Anne la Palue that the ceremonies of the
church are rendered most picturesque from the surroundings, and where a
greater variety of the ancient costumes of Cornouaille are to be seen.
The trinkets, rosaries, and ribbons which are blessed and sold to the
peasants are a modern importation from Angers or Lyons, but the
embroidery round the dress of a beggar woman may be rare in colour and
design. Nowhere else, excepting at Plougastel, shall we see such
embroidered caps and bodices; nowhere, not even at Auray, such bronzed
and wrinkled human creatures.
The procession of the priests and people takes place on Saturday, about
three in the afternoon, when the banner of Ste. Anne la Palue is carried
across the hills by girls dressed in crimson, gold-embroidered robes,
with scarves of silver thread and headdresses of lace and tissue of
gold.
These are pictures in sunshine which are rare at Pardon times, and of
summer nights when camping under tents is no hardship; but what must the
scene be at Ste. Anne la Palue in storm and rain, when thousands of
pilgrims, old and young, have no shelter, when all colour and brightness
has vanished, and the wind sweeps over the hills?
Let us now turn inland a few miles, following the course of the Canal de
Brest, to Châteauneuf du Faou, a small town where Mr. Caldecott made
sketches at a Pardon which was held in the rain. This visit, made in
1874, will be best described in the artist’s own words:—
“The courier for Châteauneuf du Faou left Châteaulin at 3 A.M. So we
hire a phaeton, and proceed up the hilly road towards Pleyben. On the
left is a beautiful vale with a pretty village by the side of the river
which runs towards Brest. The scenery is like the borders of Wales, and
the weather like that of Scotland; but the clean, elderly girls coming
down the road are like themselves only.
[Illustration: GOING TO THE PARDON AT CHÂTEAUNEUF DU FAOU.]
[Illustration]
“We reach Pleyben in about two hours, a small deserted-looking town with
a wide _Place_, at one end of which is a curious calvary (date 1670)
undergoing repair, and an old church, partly Gothic, partly Renaissance.
The painted window over the altar is apparently old, but part is
replaced by plain glass. The ceiling is blue with gold stars, and there
are large painted effigies of the apostles in the porch.
“In about two hours after leaving Pleyben, the phaeton rattles into the
little town of Châteauneuf du Faou, knocking about the umbrellas of the
people crowding the streets on the occasion of a pardon. The Hôtel du
Midi, where we put up, is at the farther end of the town, and is
conducted in a simple manner. Ladies would not like its arrangements.
Several inhabitants, and a visitor or two, dine at the table d’hôte, but
all are unable to carve a duck except the English visitor, who is
accordingly put down as a cook. There is music in the streets, and the
town is full of people, some of whom dance a kind of quadrille, called
the ‘gavotte,’ in the market-hall; others attend a large booth to see
acrobatic and other performances.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
“The next day is still wet, and there are many people again in the
streets, some from far away. The races come off on the high-road. I go
to see the finish of one; four horses, strong and about fourteen hands
high, gallop up a hilly length of a high-road; a pink, a red, a yellow,
and a green and white jacket, dash by with a flourish of gaily tied up
tails. I join the admiring crowd which encircles the winner, and we all
go in procession to the Hôtel de Ville. I notice as the rider dismounts
and enters the building to receive the prize (twenty francs) that he
uses no saddle, wears his usual trousers, and has his coloured cap and
jacket made of calico.
“In the large timber-built market-hall is a vast crowd of extensively
linened, many-buttoned men—some with rosettes, the stewards of the
fête—joined hand in hand in one long serpentine line with clean,
red-faced, large-capped, big-collared girls. They jig along the earthen
floor in shoes, clogs, and sabots to the music of a flageolet and a
bag-pipe, varied by an occasional few bars of the voice. This is called
the ‘gavotte,’ as the waitress of the hôtel, who is dancing, informs me.
A farmer in blouse, with a collar (sketched overleaf), beats time with
his sabots. One soldier, two town bonnets, and a few gendarmes relieve
the costume of the peasants, which is, however, full of variety.”
[Illustration]
The Breton _ronde_ or round dance, of which the gavotte is a good
example, is one of the most characteristic scenes to be witnessed in
Brittany. At nearly every fête and gathering—in the streets, in the
fields, or in the town-hall—we see the peasants dancing the gavotte, the
musicians being generally two, one with the ancient Armorican bag-pipe
(_biniou_), the other with a flageolet. Frequently, as in the sketch,
one of the musicians puts down his instrument to sing.
[Illustration]
The dancers keep good time, going through a variety of figures, but
always returning to the _ronde_, dancing together, hand in hand, with
great precision and animation, and a certain kind of grace. The gravity
of manner and the downward look of the women in certain figures, as they
advance and retire with hands down, give a peculiar quaintness to the
gavotte, which, apparently rollicking and unrestrained, is, in fact,
orderly and regular in every movement. The circular motion of the
dancers, now revolving in several circles, now in one _grande ronde_, is
traced by M. Emile Souvestre, and other writers, to Druidic origin and
the movements of the stars.
[Illustration]
But as the dancers come swinging down the centre of the hall, hand in
hand, now meeting, now parting; as fresh couples join and others fall
into the rear; as we hear the measured tread and the voices which never
seem to tire, we should be content to describe the “gavotte” as a good
old country dance of singular animation and picturesqueness; a scene of
jollity and at the same time of good order, of which the sketch gives an
admirable idea.
[Illustration]
There is one figure dressed in the latest fashion of Quimper, who is
looked upon with doubtful admiration by the other dancers, but who will
serve to remind us that distinctive costume, even in these
out-of-the-way places, is a flickering flame, and that in a few years
such scenes as the above will have lost their character.
We give a few bars of a favourite air, played with great spirit, which
seemed to give the performers intense enjoyment, for they returned to it
again and again.
[Illustration]
At dusk oil lamps are lighted, a crowd fills the hall, and, when far
away down the wet streets of Châteauneuf du Faou, we can see the steam
rising between the rafters and hear the clatter of the dancers.
[Illustration]
Four years later, on the 8th of August 1878, we arrive on a quiet,
sultry evening at the same little inn at Châteauneuf. There is no one in
the house but two little children and some fowls, and the streets are
silent and almost deserted; but at a little distance from the inn we
hear the heavy thud of flails, and going up a little green pathway
across the road, where a grey cloud of dust rises between the trees, we
come upon a scene of energy and determination which defies description.
It is the last evening for threshing out a little patch of corn, and the
whole strength of the establishment has been enlisted in the service,
including the waiter, _chef de cuisine_, stable-boy, a farm labourer,
and one or two professional “batteurs”; four on one side, five on the
other, swinging and letting fall their heavy flails in turn, close to
each others’ heads, with a precision and desperate energy wonderful to
behold. Mr. Caldecott’s sketches, taken at the moment, in a cloud of
dust, bring the scene before us most vividly; the _garçon_ of the inn,
the second in the row, all energy and excitement, putting his face into
his work so to speak, urging on the rest by shouts and gestures, but
still keeping steady time with his flail; opposite to him, last but one,
is “Madame,” her face tied tightly over with a veil, as a protection
from the dust; and, last in the line, the _chef de cuisine_, working as
hard as the rest.
In the second sketch the leaders have changed position, the pace is
quickened, and, from where we stand, the flails seem to fly dangerously
close to the heads of the women. But no one flinches, and the strokes
come down together as if from two operators instead of nine.
The grain is beaten out wastefully on the ground, and gathered into
sacks by two old women, who put the straw afterwards into the pillows of
the Hôtel du Midi.
[Illustration]