It was too good to be true, I was sent
on a trip to Brittany to write about a food festival and a yacht race.
That was grand, but the allocation of a baggage allowance, a check-in suitcase,
that was too exciting for words, books could be packed, extra shoes, summer and winter wardrobe, any amount
of toiletries and the new mosquito armoury, not to mention the stripy Breton dresses, jumpers and t-shirts I've amassed and never wear in Ireland. I’m back home two days and the
suitcase is still in Paris.
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| Star of Entre Terre et Mer and Prince de Bretagne |
When we landed in Brest, the Intrepid
PR lady, who’ll be known as Fenella, took charge of the mini-van and in no time
we were in the quaint medieval town of Morlaix on Saturday afternoon. The sun
shone, there was music in the streets, the inlet was filled with boats of all
sizes, moored for the second annual Entre Terre et Mer festival, a celebration
of food from land and sea, a collaboration of farming and fishing. The star of
the festival was the Artichoke and I forgot to bring one home. Probably a good
idea now that the case is missing two days.
There are towns in Brittany more
famous than Morlaix, Pont Aven for instance, the historic artist colony. But
for its preservation of traditional timber houses and its authentic character I’d
definitely recommend a visit to Morlaix if you arrive by ferry. The Victorian viaduct is breathtaking in scale and execution, well it is if you get high on historic brick.
As I strolled along the quayside,
photographing vintage tractors – I have a strange fascination with farming
history – a band struck up, no ordinary troupe, the most eccentrically dressed
brass band of men and women, quintessentially French eccentric, I wouldn’t have
been surprised to see Johnny Depp in pirate gear jam with them.
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| The Winners La Route des Princes |
The yacht race was finishing in the
bay of Roscoff and we were booked into a hotel there for two nights. I’d never
been to Roscoff before, it’s the ferry route from Cork to France and I imagined
an industrial port. It couldn’t have been more different, another quaint
medieval town with tempting shops and quite reasonable restaurants. Ok, yes, I’d
forgotten that inimitable French thing, what do you call it? Irritability?
Sullenness? Abrupt service? There was a bit of that in our Taliban Hotel but
let’s put it down to the staff having an off day. Room rates were reasonable
and it was very convenient, which is the main thing on a family holiday.
On Sunday I spent two hours literally
chilling in a rib in the rather legendary fog of Finistere, photographing impressive
trimarans crossing the finishing line from Plymouth. I’ve been wracking my
brains ever since to figure out what poem I did in college that immortalises
the weather system of the Breton cliffs. I’ll let you know if I remember or
indeed answers on a tweet if you know.
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| Damian Foxall on Omanair |
Anyway, from landlady issues to
multihull-one-design yachts (or MODs to you), I got some great photos on my
phone, not as thrilling as the action shots by Rodrigo the Portuguese man in
charge, but they’ll do. I’ll be writing a review so I must gather my thoughts
on the unassuming Irish ocean sailor, Damian Foxall, who was a charming interview
subject.
Our gala chateau dinner that night was
in Carantec, the kind of place where you could bask on the lawn in the
glowing embers of a Breton sunset, if it wasn’t for the freezing fog. Some
angel hands were hard at work all day creating canapé heaven. ‘Diet starts
Monday’ was probably the most repeated phrase amongst us. Now that she’s back
from L.A. I’m at Blonde Racquel’s table tonight, so I’ll start that Diet thing next
Monday. Welcome to Dublin Landlady, Fenella, and I hope your case isn’t full of
artichoke puree.
The rain back in Dublin was ideal conditions
for writing, I’ve a review of 4 ‘beach reads’ to finish, an article on CHQ for
the Irish Independent and a review of Brittany before I forget why I went. I
also wanted to see what a Dáil vote was like, so I sat in the gallery yesterday
and watched as the bell rang and members came through all doors like
chattering, nervous schoolchildren coming into class. They grouped and tapped
each other, shook hands, nodded gravely, smiled bravely and took their seats.
The curtains opened and an illuminated theatre plan appeared on the wall, with
lights on each desk to vote yes or no. At the signal, they all pressed their
buttons, 138 green 24 red. Not so much X Factor as X Case.
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