THE CÔTES DU NORD
The north coast of Brittany, the present-day Department of the Côtes
du Nord, is the great stretch of coast-line between Morlaix on the
west to the Bay of Mont St. Michel at Dol. Its large towns are few in
number, but the whole region is unusually prolific in the memory of
deeds of a historic past, and accordingly it has become the favourite
touring-ground of a great number of French and English summer visitors
who, it is regretfully stated, have become responsible for a good deal
of the claptrap and many of the catchpenny devices.
It is possible to avoid casinos, tea-rooms, and golf-links, but they are
more abundant here in the neighbourhood of Dinan, St. Malo, and Dinard
than in most other parts of Continental Europe. This is a pity, for the
region is one of the most delightfully picturesque anywhere, although
there is little of the grandeur of desolation about it.
A great national road runs northwesterly from Guingamp to Lannion and
Tréguier, two outposts of the Côtes du Nord so far off the beaten track
that they are not as yet overrun with the conventional tourists. There
is little at either place to amuse one, except the local manners and
customs, but they are quaint and interesting beyond belief, and the
wonderful combinations of sea and sky, which will make the artist’s
heart leap for joy.
Lannion boasts of six thousand inhabitants, most of whom play at bowls
on Sunday or a feast-day, and other days engage in the sundry humble
pursuits of the usual Breton large town.
The name Lannion first appeared in the twelfth century, when the
seigniory of Lannion formed a part of the domain of the house of
Penthièvre, which was united with that of Brittany in 1199.
There are three quaint and charming hotels at Lannion, at any of which
you will get the best of local fare at prices ranging from 120 to 220
francs per month--all found. One will not go wrong at any of them, and
one does not differ greatly from another, in spite of the difference in
price. There is an abundance of what is commonly known as good cheer,
by which is really meant good fare, and there are comfortable beds, a
sound roof over one’s head, and genial hosts, of course.
This estimable person is literally everywhere at once, showing the
guests to their rooms, presiding at the table, or, at least, at the
serving of it, and generally overseeing everything that goes on.
“_Allons, messieurs, à table_,” is called, in a melodious voice,
instead of the ringing of the usual brain-racking bell, and one by
one travelling salesmen, the permanent guests, and the mere tourists
seat themselves at the long table, which literally groans--like those
in the historical novels--with the best of country cookery. There is
nothing Parisian about it; there are no ices, no forced fruit, and no
savoury messes with mushrooms and truffles, but there is the abundant
and excellent local fare of sea food, hung mutton, new potatoes and
asparagus, and little wood strawberries in heaps, and that delightful
golden cider, which, if it be not an improvement on the Norman variety,
is just as good, and a delightful summer drink.
The fine location of Lannion, on the right bank of the estuary of the
little river Leguer, accounts for much of the local charm, and the habit
that the population has of grouping itself picturesquely about the
quay-side--without the least provocation--accounts for a good deal more.
There are many old houses in the town, and other more pretentious
architectural monuments, offering enough variety to the artist or lover
of architecture to occupy him a long time.
The port is a harbour of refuge, of which there are not many on the
north coast of Brittany, and the traffic in salmon and sardines is
considerable, though not rivalling in bulk that of the greater ports in
the southwest.
Tréguier has much the same attractions as Lannion, though its population
is but half as large. Its origin was some huts which anciently grouped
themselves around the monastery of Trecar, founded by St. Tugdal in the
sixth century. It has an imposing cathedral, a really great religious
edifice, and one which for the beauty of its parts is scarcely excelled
by that of Quimper itself.
The history of Tréguier was very lively, from the time of the Norman
invasion of Brittany down through the troublous days of the Revolution.
The men of Tréguier, one learns from history, accepted the law of
the “rights of man” but coldly, and indeed M. le Mintier, Bishop of
Tréguier, was one of those churchmen barred from the National Assembly
by the manifesto. He fled to Jersey.
[Illustration: OLD HOUSE TRÉGUIER]
Tréguier is the native place of Ernest Renan (1823-92), and his quaint,
timbered house may well be considered a literary shrine of the very
first rank.
[Illustration: <u>_House of Ernest Renan, Tréguier_</u>]
Convents, where women may find a quiet refuge away from the world, are
not so numerous as they once were in France. “Boarding-houses kept for
unprotected women by nuns, with a supposed Christian devotion and a
profound appreciation of ready money,” was the way in which an English
writer once spoke of them, and it was most unfair. Certainly, the
writer of those lines never knew--and she professed to know France--the
Convent of the Cross at Tréguier, where women can live in quiet
seclusion, “all found,” for a matter of seventy-five francs a month. To
those interested, the above may be worth investigation.
Not far off is the Manor of Kermartin, where, in 1255, St. Yves, the
patron saint of advocates, was born.
On the nineteenth of May a procession sets out from the Tréguier
cathedral for this shrine, to render homage to the patron of the men
of law. On the eve of the nineteenth all mendicants and vagabonds
presenting themselves at the manor are fed and lodged, which makes the
perpetuation of the ceremony one of real benefit to humanity, though its
endurance is brief.
St. Yves is the only canonized Breton saint. He was born on the seventh
of October, 1253, and accompanied Peter of Dreux, reigning duke, to the
seventh crusade.
In the Breton tongue his praises are sung as follows:
“N’hen eus ket en Breiz, n’hen eus ket unan,
N’hen eus ket eur Zant evel Sant Erwan.”
This in French comes to the following:
“Il n’y a pas en Bretagne, il n’y en a pas un,
Il n’y a pas un Saint comme St. Yves.”
The last will and testament of St. Yves is preserved in the sacristy
of the Church de Minihy, and also his breviary. His tomb is in the
cemetery, surmounted by an arcade through which the faithful pass,
crawling upon their knees when they seek his aid.
[Illustration: <u>_Shrine of St. Yves, Tréguier_</u>]
Not many travellers in France have ever even heard of Seven Isles,
situated five kilometres or more off the coast near Tréguier. The
corsairs of Jersey and Guernsey took refuge upon this little
archipelago in the olden time, and long maintained a form of government
quite of their own making, and even erected fortifications, of which
that on the Île aux Moines has still some suggestion of strength.
Usually quite deserted, there are two seasons of the year when the
isles take on a population of residents from the mainland entirely
out of keeping with their size and number: in February for seaweed
gathering, and from June to September for the gathering of sea-mosses,
or _jargot_, as the natives call it. One who would experience something
out of the ordinary could not do better than make this little excursion.
The passage from the mainland does not look so very terrible to the
stranger, but not even the hardy fishermen will attempt it if the sky
is the least threatening. He says simply, “Only go out in very fine
weather,” and sits tight and prays and whistles for that same fine
weather, though he evidently does not expect it to come very soon, for
with every bit of fleecy cloud that crosses his vision, he exclaims:
“Big storm soon!”
Paimpol is situated at the head of a well-sheltered bay on the banks
of an infinitesimal little river known as Quinic. There is nothing to
mark Paimpol as a tourist resort, and accordingly it is almost an ideal
resting-place for one wearied with the onrush of the world. It is not
even a bathing-place, as it well might be. Its long Rue de l’Église is
its principal thoroughfare, and through it all the small traffic of the
town circulates at a most sedate pace.
The church dates from the thirteenth century, and is a lovely old
structure with admirable Gothic pillars and arches in its nave, and a
fine fourteenth-century rose window.
The port of Paimpol has a most interesting rise and fall of life,
particularly at the season of the setting out and the return of the
Iceland fishermen. In the trade in codfish caught off the Icelandic
coasts, this place occupies the first rank, being the home port of
those who fish in Icelandic waters, and all along the quays of the
sad little town of Paimpol (sad, because there are so many widows
there,--the lone partners of those who have lost their lives at sea)
are to be seen the Iceland schooners. Everything in the town smacks of
the memory of Iceland: the schooners, the _ex-votos_ in the churches,
the widows, the sturdy but gloomy fisherfolk themselves, and the stones
in the churchyard. “The Iceland fog enshrouds everything,” the native
tells you, but still the work goes on, and each year, with the coming
of the spring days, the exodus begins, after a winter’s hard work at
refurbishing and refitting of the little two-masters and three-masters
of the fishers. It is here that one may hear that Breton sailor’s
prayer, which is so devout and full of faith: “_Mon Dieu protège nous,
car la mer est si grand et nos bateaux si petits._”
Cod, whale, mackerel, and herring are all marketable products to the
nets of the Paimpolans.
The Isle of Bréhat is near Paimpol, lying just off the coast. If one
seek to arrange a passage, thereto, he goes by public carriage, and
not by boat, until he gets to the tip of the Pointe Arcouest, when he
transfers himself and his luggage to a sailboat, and travels as one did
before the age of steam.
The Isle of Bréhat is another of those rocky islets which dot the coast
of Brittany, and look not only as if they were barren and uncultivated,
but as if they were also uninhabited. All the same, their appearance
from a distance is misleading. There are close upon a thousand
inhabitants on the parent isle and the attendant flock of little islets
sheltered under its wing. In the olden time, the island was a strong
place of war, with batteries and fortifications against which the
English, the Leaguers, and the Royalists tried their strength in turn.
The isle is what the sailor-folk roundabout call “a good port of
refuge,” for there are divers little sheltered harbours to which ships
of all classes can run from the storms of the open sea.
The principal town is known as Bréhat, and possesses a church dating
from 1700, a tiny hotel, and an inn or two, mostly catering to local
customers. If one would leave the mainland, and its questionable
attractions of civilization behind, and live the simple life to the
full, he can do it here to the most exquisite degree,--if he does not
mind the sea-fogs of the winter.
Guingamp, lying inland in the rich valley of the Trieux, is the
market-town of the arrondissement of the same name. It is of feudal
origin, and was the ancient capital of the countship, later the duchy,
of Penthièvre, and of the ancient Goëllo land.
Guingamp Castle is a great square building, flanked by four massive
towers, of which one has been practically destroyed.
The Church of Our Lady of Good Help, of the fourteenth to sixteenth
centuries, is a magnificent work of its era, with an elaborately
furnished interior.
[Illustration: A BINOU PLAYER]
The Pardon of Bon Secours is Guingamp’s gayest event of all the year.
In numbers, it is one of the largest in Brittany, and is held on the
Saturday before the first Sunday in July. On this occasion the statue
of Our Lady, within the porch of the church, is clad in a silken robe,
and receives the pilgrims, who refresh themselves with water previously
consecrated at its source. With the fall of the sun commences a
continual round of national dances, inspired by the lonesome, sharp,
shrill wail of the _binious_, played in much the same way as are the
Scotch bagpipes, except that their music is even more shrill and
heartrending--if possible. At nine o’clock the statue of the Virgin
is brought to the public square, solemnly conveyed by an immense
procession, and three great bonfires are lighted. At midnight a high
mass terminates the celebration, and some of the pilgrims depart, and
others remain for the banquet which invariably follows.
On the eighth of September, 1857, the Madonna of Guingamp received the
crown of gold from the chapter of St. Peter’s at Rome, on behalf of the
Pope, a distinction offered to images of the Virgin uniting the three
traits of antiquity, popularity, and miracle-working.
“La Pompe,” or the Fontaine, in hammered lead, is one of the chief
artistic curiosities of Guingamp. It is a remarkable work in every way,
and dates from 1588, since which time it has only been repaired--not
reconstructed. Its preservation is wonderful, and it is an embellishment
of which even a greater town might well be proud.
Aside from the fragment of the castle, there are no mediæval gateways or
walls to remind one of the military importance of the place in former
days. A century and a quarter ago, a traveller wrote: “Enter Guingamp by
gateways, towers, and battlements of the oldest military architecture,
every part denoting antiquity, and in the best preservation.” All this,
unhappily, has disappeared, and one has to go to Vitré and Fougères to
see military architecture in Brittany.
Eastward from Guingamp toward St. Brieuc, one passes--the traveller by
road or rail seldom stops--Chatelaudren. It is a conventional Breton
small town, but it is a market-town, nevertheless. It has not much
of interest for any one unless he be a keen observer of manners and
customs, hence it is but a way station between the two larger towns.
St. Brieuc is a city, although it has no tram-cars to dodge and no
restaurants or Hôtels Étrangers, which is a good thing for the native
and the tourist alike.
In reality its half-dozen hotels rise to the distinction of being known
as “establishments,” yet they have lost none of their local flavour. St.
Brieuc is the metropolis where the summer visitors--Parisians all--of
the beaches come to buy the little necessaries and luxuries which a
mere watering-place fails to supply. Then, too, one who is rusticating,
even in a delightful spot like Val André, lacks notably the inspiration
coming from a more or less frequent contact with a large centre, and
so he hies himself to a market-town, gets the fare of the country at a
hotel for travelling salesmen, and has a bit of the transmitted gossip
of the capital over a bock at the principal café; after this--_voilà!_
the seaside again for a time.
This may not be the Anglo-Saxon way of treating a similar situation,
but it is exactly after the French method.
St. Brieuc is the seat of a bishopric, suffragan of the metropolitan
see of Brittany at Rennes. Its origin is due to a missionary who came
with eight disciples at the end of the fifth century to evangelize
Armorica. As a place of pilgrimage,--the tomb of St. Brieuc having
become a shrine,--it soon began to draw throngs from all parts, and the
importance of the city which grew up around the memory of the missionary
was soon assured.
The cathedral of St. Brieuc was begun by St. William Pinchon before the
middle of the thirteenth century, and was soon finished.
Its exterior presents the severe and austere, though beautiful,
Gothic of its time, but the accessories of its interior arrangements
show plainly the debasement of the later interpolations, although
there are some really excellent details hidden away amid a profusion
of mediocrities, notably the tomb of St. William, a fine Way of the
Cross by a local sculptor, and a low, hanging gallery at the base of
the choir, which is a remarkably beautiful and effective adjunct to a
great church. The exterior is more impressive, though its two principal
doorways have been badly restored or rebuilt at some time since the
completion of the edifice. The great, gaunt, donjon-like towers are the
chief features of beauty and distinction, and tell the story of the
whole fabric in quite an unassailable manner.
At the town hall is a museum which has some good modern art works,
including a fragment of Rodin’s Portes de l’Enfer and some notable
paintings of Breton subjects.
In the Rue St. Jacques and the Rue Fardel are many old houses, one of
the most notable being the hotel of the Dukes of Brittany, begun in 1572
by Yvon Collou. James II. of England lodged here when he came to St.
Brieuc in 1689.
The carved and decorated fronts of these old wooden houses lend a
quaintness and charm to the streets of St. Brieuc, in strong contrast to
the modernity of its hotels and cafés. There is considerable and varied
local industry at St. Brieuc, and this gives the city some importance as
a manufacturing centre, but the chief events of its commercial life are
the great fairs held in July and September, the latter founded in the
fifteenth century by Marguerite of Clisson.
The environs of St. Brieuc are charmingly diversified, from the wide
open stretches of farming country at the south to the wastes of rock
and sand flanking the great Bay of St. Brieuc.
Le Légué is the port of St. Brieuc, and the coastwise traffic is
considerable. The quays and docks, ship-houses and careening wharfs
lend a novel and interesting aspect to a background of thickly wooded
river-banks. The seaward entrance of the channel is protected by a
fifth-class light. The port is the first in rank in the Côtes du Nord
for the fitting out of the Newfoundland and Iceland fishing-boats.
The Tower of Cesson, three kilometres or more from St. Brieuc, is a
simple circular tower, surrounded by a double protecting fosse cut
perpendicularly into the rock. The walls are quite twelve feet in
thickness on the lower of its four floors. It was built by Duke Jean
IV. in 1395, and, after much strife and bloodshed, extending over two
centuries, was laid in ruins by Henry IV. in 1598.
On the shores of the Bay of St. Brieuc are innumerable little beaches
which are healthful breathing-spots for large numbers of Parisian folk,
who come thither between June and September of each year.
These are not exactly riotous resorts of fashion, but still there are
some evidences of the distractions of the world that make most of them
appear as little parochial Parises. There are two spots on the western
shore of the bay to which this does not apply, however, Etables and
Binic.
[Illustration: <u>_Binic_</u>]
Binic, a small fishing port of Brittany, has all the attractions of
an unworldly seaside village, for it is not much more even to-day.
After Binic, Etables, and after Etables, Binic. Each is much the same
as the other. Binic has been a great-little port for the fitting out
of ships for the Newfoundland fisheries ever since the beginning of
the seventeenth century, and things go on in much the same way as of
old, except that the master of the craft now has a megaphone and a
patent log in his equipment, whereas formerly he went without these
refinements of navigation. To the Newfoundland fishermen of Binic is due
a special preparation of the codfish known as _bénicasser_, of which the
dictionaries will tell one nothing, but which is simply a species of
cured codfish.
The high altar of Binic church was bought with funds contributed as
a result of the Sunday fishing on the Newfoundland banks. It can,
therefore, be said to have a real reason for being, and, as it is an
unusually ornate affair, one infers that the Sunday haul must be of
goodly proportions.
From St. Brieuc eastward, until one actually comes within the confines
of that delectable land known as the Emerald Coast,--the summer rival
of that winter paradise, the Blue Coast,--is a verdant land of crops
and cultures which would quite change the opinions of any who thought
Brittany a sterile, rock-bound land, where nothing could grow but onions
and new potatoes.
Lamballe is a sort of a faint shadow of St. Brieuc. It was founded in
feudal times, and from 1134 to 1420 was the capital of the county of
Penthièvre. As late as the eighteenth century, the oldest son of the Duc
de Penthièvre bore the title of Prince of Lamballe.
The town is divided into the upper and lower towns. In the latter are
found those old settlers of ducal times, the houses of wood and stone
still standing to delight the eye of the artist and to arouse the wonder
of the general tourist.
There is a fine Gothic Church of Our Lady, its foundations cut in the
very rock itself, and bearing, from more than one point of view, the
aspect of a fortified edifice, which has a battlemented roof that is
nothing if not an indication that the church of Dol was a truly militant
edifice. As the chapel of the old château, this church grew up from a
foundation of St. William Pinchon, Bishop of St. Brieuc in 1220.
St. Martin’s is the church of an ancient priory belonging to the parent
house of Marmoutier. It was founded in 1083 by Geoffrey I., Count of
Lamballe. Its primitive nave shows a remarkable series of horseshoe
arches, and in every way, not excepting the great sixteenth-century
towers, St. Martin’s is quite the most interesting architectural
monument of Lamballe.
North of Lamballe lies Val André. A charming watering-place much
frequented by families, is the way the all-powerful Western Railway
advertises this little seaside beach and its attractions, with the added
few lines to the effect that there is a large hotel with a casino,
regattas, nautical celebrations, concerts, etc., which are supposed to
amuse the fastidious summer visitors.
It is all very delightful, particularly as the coast-line near by is
charming of itself, but Val André, with all its attractions, has not
half the charm of the little fishing port of Binic on the opposite shore
of the Bay of St. Brieuc.