LE FAOUET—GOURIN—GUÉMÉNÉ.
[Illustration]
It is a pleasant change, even from the quiet of Hennebont, to wind
slowly up the hills covered thickly with ferns and woods, to disturb the
magpies on the roads, and the yellowhammer and the lizards on the rough
stone walls; to see the silent peasants knee-deep in the fields, the
little black and white cattle tethered to pasture, the black and brown
sheep grazing in the open land, and the pigs at the cottage doors. It is
a considerable ascent from the town through an undulating landscape of
woods and streams and ferns; the valleys green in their depths, the
trees turning gold and brown where they fringe the hills.
[Illustration: REAPING NEAR HENNEBONT.]
As we approach Le Faouet, the scene changes gradually to a sterner
aspect, the trees are less luxuriant, and the soil is less fruitful.
Here and there we pass on the road a busy harvest scene, the people
turning round at the sound of approaching wheels to watch the travellers
pass. It is the farmer himself that gazes at us, half amused; the time
for harvest is short on these rainy hills, and so master and man, and
every available help, work early and late to get in the crops. The sun
that shines so brilliantly to-day, and lights up the harvest field with
a golden glow, will disappear in a few hours, and the fields may be a
wreck from the wind and rain. Every now and then a deep shadow is thrown
over the land from the clouds that drift eastward from the sea, but they
are high in the heavens to-day, and the sky is of an almost Eastern
blue. Before us northwards the horizon is of a colder hue, and as we
ascend the last long hill to Le Faouet, the cupola on the church tower
and the grey roofs of the houses with their backgrounds of firs have by
contrast a sombre tinge.
[Illustration]
On the road from Quimperlé to Le Faouet a stream is crossed that divides
the two provinces of Finistère and Morbihan; it is a stream well stocked
with trout; in fact, in most of these rivers there is excellent fishing,
and there are no better headquarters for sport than Le Faouet. The town,
which is well situated and has fine views of the country, contains not
more than 3000 inhabitants, nearly all but the oldest and the poorest
being engaged in agriculture. It is a great centre on certain days, when
the people collect under the eaves of the market-place shown in the
full-page sketch.
But excepting the visits of a few sportsmen and tourists in summer, Le
Faouet is scarcely ever visited by the outer world. The houses are built
of stone, old and covered with lichen; the covered market-place has
heavy wooden eaves, and is protected by ancient elms; the inhabitants
are dressed for the most part in rough and primitive fashion, the men in
white cloth jackets, loose breeches, and sabots, and the women in dark
comfortable cloth hoods, as in the sketch at the head of this chapter.
[Illustration]
It is a quiet, self-contained, dignified population at Le Faouet,
approached at intervals by the commercial traveller, and a few cattle-
and horse-dealers, but holding otherwise little communication with
towns. Here, in this neighbourhood, we may contemplate the typical
Breton, who, braced physically to withstand the shocks of the tempest,
resists with an almost irresistible _vis inertia_ the advance of French
civilisation; whom neither the progress of steam nor compulsory
education has much disturbed. He has, for trading purposes, acquired
some knowledge of French, but he keeps this knowledge to himself, and
never displays it unnecessarily; he has thus an advantage over
strangers, who may imagine he cannot understand a word.
[Illustration: LE FAOUET.]
To come into a quiet village like Le Faouet with no purpose but
observation requires a certain amount of courage, and, if it were not
that a little more than a mile north of Le Faouet there is the famous
chapel of Ste. Barbe, and southward about two miles, in an old church,
there is an elaborately carved rood-screen, we might hesitate to take up
our quarters here. Unless a man has business in Le Faouet unless he is
an antiquary, a fisherman, or a painter, he would leave it the day he
entered. It is not, however, uncommon for the landlord of the Hôtel du
Lion d’Or to have _pensionnaires_ who stay for the summer.
[Illustration]
In spite of the grandeur of its situation, the solidity of its
buildings, and the evident industry of the inhabitants, there is a
dreary, ruinous look about the _Place_ of Le Faouet even on a summer’s
day. What must it be in winter winds? On the brightest and driest day of
the year many of the houses are dark and unhealthy-looking, built close
together, with narrow lanes of mud and filth between them. What must
they be when the rains begin?
We have seen in Le Faouet some of the finest types of Bretons, both men
and women. Let us record one figure which will never be effaced from
memory. Passing down a street leading from the principal square, we meet
coming up the hill bareheaded, in the full blaze of the sun, in the dust
and heat, the strange, wild-looking figure in the sketch; his clothes
are patched, his hair is white, his face red; with crutches, and one
leg, he drags (with the help of a dog and one or two charitable
children) his house, with him about the town. It is a strange conveyance
made of sticks and dried ferns, but it is _home_. Travellers see strange
sights, but surely no sight more grotesque was ever seen than “the man
on two sticks” of Le Faouet, whose portrait is given to the life.
[Illustration]
Before leaving Le Faouet, a visit should be made to the
fifteenth-century church of St. Fiacre, to see the fine rood-screen
elaborately carved with figures representing scenes in the life of
Christ, panels of elaborate and grotesque workmanship. The work on this
screen was partly executed in 1480 and in 1627, and the whole was
restored, painted, and gilt in 1866. There is also some fine stained
glass, dating from 1552.
To the chapel of STE. BARBE is a shaded walk of about a mile and a
half—first through narrow lanes and broad avenues, then up a steep
ascent where the path is sometimes cut in steps in the rock. It brings
us in half an hour to a high plateau fringed with furze and wind-blown
pines. The view from the eminence is magnificent: the eye wanders
eastward and southward, over a broad valley with a mountain stream, the
Ellé winding first through beds of rocks, then into pastures, and
disappearing in cultivated fields. As we walk to the edge of this
mountain-side, where there is only a small hut visible, the panorama
increases in extent over the country, and the variety of colour, from
the grey of scattered boulders and blue of pines, to the deep green of
the meadows and woods, forms a scene of such natural beauty that we
almost forget the object of our mission.
The chapel of Ste. Barbe, approached down a flight of steps, is actually
close to our feet; it is built of granite under the hillside, sheltered
from the winds by enormous rocks and trees, and with a steep declivity
below; a solid granite structure fitted into the hillside, so to speak,
the space not permitting the nave of the chapel to be in the usual
position. In the interior—which is shown by an old man in tatters who
kneels at the altar whilst we walk round—is a gallery with carved
panels, supported by seraphim holding shields, and grotesque animals on
the mouldings; there is also some old stained glass.
There is a tradition attaching to this chapel, that a knight, hunting in
the neighbourhood in the fifteenth century, was overtaken by a storm in
the valley below, and, being preserved from falling rocks by the prayers
of Ste. Barbe, erected this chapel to her memory. From that day there
has been an annual pilgrimage to Ste. Barbe, when some of the devotees
creep round the precipitous exterior walls as an act of penance. Before
leaving, we pass up the rough stone steps in the sketch to even higher
ground, where there is a small chapel dedicated to St. Michel. It is
fortunate to have seen the view from Ste. Barbe on a clear day, for the
clouds, which gather in the distance, as white as snow, through the tree
tops, come up in a few hours and shroud the land.
[Illustration]
Ten miles in a north-westerly direction, in some of the finest scenery
of the Montagnes Noires, is GOURIN, a small town in the centre of a
district of old iron mines, stone and slate quarries. Mr. Caldecott, who
visited this district in a previous year, in bad weather, speaks of the
“wide, dirty, uninteresting-looking street of Gourin, at the top of
which is the Hôtel du Cheval Blanc,” but he has made a sketch of the
women washing at a stream just outside the town, which only wants colour
to be one of the most picturesque of our series.
[Illustration]
Excepting for fishing, shooting, or perchance to record the forms and
colours of the mountains in a sketch, few visitors will find their way
to Gourin, even in summer; but the following notes by the artist may be
interesting to travellers:—
“The dining-room of the inn at Gourin opens on to the public _Place_,
and is frequented by commercial travellers and two or three residents;
one of the latter, being a _chasseur_, is followed through the glass
door by a pack of hounds, the large sporting spaniels of the country,
and at each guest’s elbow a dog stations himself to receive gratuities.”
“After resting for the night in a comfortable room, separate from the
main premises, I hire a vehicle to take me to Le Faouet, as the morning
is wet; a long-bodied cart, drawn by a white horse, with the wheels set
forward and a shifting seat, on which is a large pillow. We drive
through a hilly, wooded country in a high wind.”
[Illustration: “MONTEZ, S’IL VOUS PLAIT, MONSIEUR!”]
The storm is so severe at Le Faouet that “slates are blown from the
roofs of the houses, men grasp their hats, women tack hither and thither
across the square, and geese take advantage of the breeze and try to
fly.” On the way to Ste. Barbe, “a tall tree crashes across the path,
which is strewn with unripe acorns, chestnuts, apples, fir cones,
leaves, and twigs.”
The hurricane that was experienced here swept over the whole of Brittany
with great violence, and, according to the _Journal de Rennes_, “laid
low at least a thousand trees.”
Up and down again on a good road, a drive of seventeen miles from Le
Faouet takes us to GUÉMÉNÉ, meeting a few reapers, and a cart drawn by
bullocks in charge of men who have succumbed to thirst and heat.
[Illustration]
We halt halfway at the poor village of Kernascléden, where there is
hardly an inhabitant to be seen, but where, abutting on the high-road,
is a beautiful Gothic church, rich in carving and grand in proportion, a
striking contrast to the hovels which immediately surround it. It is a
good example of fifteenth-century work, built at the same time as the
church of St. Fiacre, and by the same founder. There is a legend here
too curious not to repeat, that angels aided in the building of these
two beautiful churches, carrying the tools, which were scarce in those
days, backwards and forwards from one church to the other, to aid the
workmen.
At Guéméné, a little town on the river Scorff, we are still in the
interior of the country. It is in some ways more civilised than Le
Faouet, but as far removed from railways, and with as little
communication with the outer world.
[Illustration]
Let us first give our experiences of the principal inn, which is on the
left, looking up the street in the sketch, where travellers are driven
under an archway into a wide stable-yard, and enter the house by the
kitchen. The beds are clean and comfortable enough, the fare is homely
but plentiful, and there is nothing to scare away the most fastidious.
At the midday meal we have trout, caught a little way down the river
Scorff, one or two dishes of meat, an omelette if desired, and, as
usual, very good bread, butter, and cider. The dinner, or evening meal,
is rather more elaborate, especially if a fresh traveller has come in.
The view, across the table at breakfast time, of the presiding genius of
the inn, the bottle of cider, the large wineglass, and the half cut
loaf, are all depicted exactly. The vacant chair is soon to be occupied
by a commercial traveller, who has been busy all the morning in the
town, doing more havoc in the one day that he devotes to Guéméné than we
like to think of. He represents a cheap clothier’s house at L’Orient,
and has tempted many of the quiet inhabitants to change their simple
stuffs and white caps for the more fashionable dresses and hats of the
town. It should be remembered, however, that it is to this very _commis
voyageur_, whom we travellers are apt to treat with scant courtesy and
whose proceedings we often regard with anything but pleasure, that we
owe the comforts of these inns, and the possibility of travel in remote
places. The commercial traveller, coming from Vannes or L’Orient is the
pioneer in such towns as Guéméné; he teaches the Breton innkeeper the
mysteries of civilised life, and the art of living differently from the
lower animals. It is a heavy penalty to pay, from the artistic point of
view, that he should bring his patterns and his sham jewellery, and
leave so much of it behind in Guéméné. But our little waiting-maid is
not yet converted to the policy of adopting modern ways. Her spotless
white cap and sleeves, neat dress, and rows of pendent coins, are of a
pattern as old and characteristic as the gables of the houses of
Guéméné.
[Illustration]
So bright and charming is our little maid this morning that it is
difficult to believe that she came out of a carved wooden bedstead let
into the wall of the kitchen (a bed of two stories, holding four!), that
she does most of the work of the hotel, and helps in the stable. It is
enough for us to record that travellers are well cared for; that
Englishmen come here for the fishing, and sometimes stay for weeks,
living at the rate of four or five francs a day, including everything.
[Illustration]
The streets of Guéméné are full of people on Sunday morning—men in short
jackets, wide trousers, and black, broad-brimmed hats, old women in the
comfortable _coiffe_ sketched above, girls with white caps and
stomachers, short dresses, and neat shoes, all coming into the church
and afterwards meeting in the street. These are principally country
people; but the inhabitant of Guéméné, the small _propriétaire_ or
_employé_, who lives in the town, often wears a semi-nautical attire, as
sketched overleaf.
[Illustration]
Five old women sit together in the road, their chairs drawn together for
company, and to make an inclosure for two or three little tottering
inhabitants of Guéméné, who at the age of three are dressed in the
costume of their ancestors. Here the harmony of costume and
architecture, both in form and colour, strikes the eye at once, and we
want nothing to complete the picture. There is nothing, it seems, to
add, nothing to leave out; let us stay for a month (we are inclined to
say) and sketch in the high-street of Guéméné such figures as are
standing talking together at an old-fashioned doorway, opposite to our
inn. But the scene soon changes, and out of one of the old houses, dark
in the interior, with a floor below the level of the street, comes a
lady with a nurse and child; she has a light dress with a train, a hat
with scarlet feathers, and a parasol. She is going for a promenade, and,
as she passes down the street, is greeted by the old women thus: “See
they carry their tails in their hands, these fine demoiselles!”
The Café du Nord is a favourite house of call, and thither the men
resort to play at cards or billiards, whilst the women bring out their
chairs and sit under the eaves, knitting, gossiping, and watching the
passers-by.
[Illustration]
There is no traffic in the streets, and no fear of being disturbed. A
newspaper may arrive in the evening to inform the inhabitants of the
last market prices, or that a workman has fallen out of a window in
Paris. A very few items of local intelligence suffice for Guéméné, which
is too much occupied with its own interests to care for what the rest of
the world calls news. The sun and moon rise and set for Guéméné alone;
it is the “boss” of _their_ wheel of life.
[Illustration]
We have seen only the high-street of Guéméné, but the town should be
viewed from above, with its grey roofs, its church tower, and the ruins
of a castle eight hundred years old, in the midst of beautiful hills,
bright with gorse, and grey with granite boulders; and a view reaching
far away over a wooded valley with the river Scorff winding towards the
sea.
On one evening there is a great gathering at the old café with
high-pitched roof, at the division of the two streets at the top of the
sketch on page 165. The daughter of the popular hostess has been
betrothed at the presbytery, and in a month she is to be married. She
has her _dot_, or portion, of a few hundred francs, and her husband that
is to be, his little farm; they have met to celebrate the occasion, and
their immediate friends make merry until far into the night. They all
sit together round a rough table in the little room, the lamps lighting
the girls’ faces, the men in blouses or white jackets, with bright
buttons; a background of timbered ceiling, smoke, laughter, songs, and
jollity, continued long after the lights go out in the street and the
moon rises over the valley. All will go well with them if the bottle
which first drew them together does not scatter their happiness too
soon.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Guéméné July 1878.]