One goal.

I finally reached the top of Bel Air.

 

This past weekend, a movie was being filmed in Moncontour, the medieval village 2 km away. They were filming a made for tv movie – a mystery story of some sort, taking place (from what I could tell from the costumes) in the 30s or 40s. I walked up to Moncontour to join the crowd of tourists and old people and those otherwise not required to be working on a Tuesday afternoon to see what was going on. The scenes were being filmed in the square in front of the church. Signs had been painted and placed on the facades of a number of businesses in the area, changing an eyeglass shop into a furrier, and a private house into a hotel. Vintage cars littered the square, being doted over by various white haired men. Production assistants ran around muttering into their walkie talkies, carrying around pieces of construction paper, cables, overcoats, and baskets of produce. I’m sure there was good reason for all of this. An older man, who I can only assume was the director, judging from the fact that he was not carrying anything and had very chic black framed glasses, wandered up and down the street, eating an apple. Having little else to do, I watched the filming for about an hour, wherein one scene was shot. A girl, trying to adjust a suitcase that sits on top of a shiny black cab, is approached by a young man in a nice suit who offers to help her. She rejects his offer, but reconsiders and allows him to strap the suitcase down. The have some banter of a flirtations nature, she says something about Spain, tosses her shawl over her shoulder, and after throwing a coy look behind her, walks into the hotel. This scene, a total of 4 minutes long, at most, kept the spectators enraptured. A number of townspeople had been recruited to be extras in the movie. The women stood waiting for their cues very patiently in their period costumes, reapplying their lipstick and adjusting their hats. The men, too, stood waiting stoically, and I noticed a number of them had digital cameras to document their adventure. A few children, looking excited and uncomfortable, pulled at their short pants and pigtails.

Eventually I got tired of watching, and as the bar was closed due to the filming (I had planned to get a coffee and maybe try to practice small talk with the proprietors) I went instead to the patisserie. Despite being seduced on every side by the tarts and cakes in the window, I controlled my urges and got a comparatively virtuous croissant. It is a mixed up crazy world when a girl controls herself by getting a croissant, but that’s France for you. After I received my little paper bag, already going clear from the buttery pastry inside, one of the actors wandered into the store in all his sharp suited 40s finery and ordered what I understood to be 5 cakes. That’s showbiz, people. Excess. I took my one croissant, humbled by the tv actor’s complete disregard to moderation, and imagining the decadence of the night he was going to have, walked down the hill back to Tredaniel.

Hidden beach at fort latte

hidden beach at fort latte

During another trip to the coast, we stopped and Fort Latte, where I found a hidden path down to a rocky beach. It was empty except for a strange family made up of three chinese mothers and 2 small black babies. The water was incredibly beautiful.

Bikes

I’ve been riding an old Huffy cruiser that Vern and Marie-Jeanne have around – it gets me places but it’s so hilly here that its 3 speeds aren’t really that useful. The last couple of times we have gone to Carrefour I’ve eyed a mountain bike that they have displayed next to an aisle full of wine and across from the computers for sale. On Monday I had Vern drive me in the smaller car – the one with the seats that fold down in the back – and I bought it. For the last few days I have been exploring more hilly country than I had before – it’s my goal to get go all the way up to Bel Air (where the church is) without getting off and walking my bike up. It’s not very far but as I said, it is very hilly and Bel Air is the highest point in the region. On Wednesday it rained in the morning so I waited until it had cleared a bit before going out on my daily ride. I got about half the way to Bel Air before giving up and turning off onto a slightly less steep hill. About halfway up this road (though it could be barely called that, being just wide enough for someone to pass me on foot) I saw some sort of rusting metal thing off the side of the road, up a muddy track. The mud prevented me from getting too close to it so I’m still not sure what it it – something to explore further on a sunny day. As I came back to where I had left my bike, I realized that the only thing I could hear was the sound of some distant farm animals. No cars, or even tractors, could be heard or seen from my vantage point – only fields and trees and sky. I reached the top of the hill and turned left to coast back towards home, just as it began to rain.

The Coast

Yesterday Vern drove me to the coast. It’s about 20 minutes away, and the countryside doesn’t change very much on the way there, but suddenly, past the lazing cows and beyond a distant steeple, you can see the water. It was a gray day, with rain in the morning and a shower hitting us as we drove in the afternoon, and cold. In each town we stopped in, a few people were walking along the shores and promenades, but they were bundled up in their winter coats or fisherman sweaters. I love seaside towns in the winter and early spring; quiet beaches, leaden skies and no one around, which, as a secret anti-social, I really really like.

The first town we stopped in was a resort town called Pleineuf. In the main part of town there are narrow cobblestone streets lined with restaurants with outdoor seating and gift shops selling typical seaside souvenirs. We parked by a small harbor filled with sailboats. The tide was going out, and in a couple of hours, all the boats would be lying in the mud. I walked up a steep dirt path to a war memorial, and continued along the protruding land. Vern stayed behind. The sun came out intermittently, and when it did, I could see quite clearly across the channel, to white houses lining the English shore.

Easter Sunday

Easter is a huge holiday in France, especially in an intensely Catholic region like Brittany. We went to the Carrefour on Saturday evening to pick up some food for dinner the next day, as every store would be closed on Sunday. Carrefour is an enormous hangar-like supermarket, in the tradition of Wal-Mart or Target, but somehow more imposing. I think part of that has to do with the fact that rather than food being an afterthought, as it is in those massive stores in the states, here it is the main focus of the store, with miles of aisles devoted entirely to yogurt, or cheese, or prepared meats. Walk a little father past the wine section and you find another entire aisle devoted to bicycles and electronics. I felt like I needed a go-cart to get around the first time we went. On this occasion, being the day before a big holiday, it was absolutely packed. The lines at the registers – all 39 of them – had waits of at least 15 minutes. I came out a bit shaken, but secretly thrilled. Tredaniel is very tiny, and in this store were probably more people than populate the entire town. I felt resocialized.

Marie-Jeanne had invited her friend Bea to come for dinner on Easter Sunday. Bea has 2 children – Thomas, who is 10, and Margot, who is 3. Thomas is sweet and well behaved, and as yet the only person that I can confidently speak to in French. When I first met him he shook my hand very seriously and then ran away to watch television. This is a boy after my own heart. Margot is neither quiet nor well behaved, though she is a little bit adorable. This, however, does not make up for the fact that she is an unmitigated and indefatigueable terror. Bea came along with her friend and neighbor, Martine, who also has a 3 year old girl, BooBoo. I’m not sure what her real name is. Together, her and Margot are like tiny toddler guerillas. They attack suddenly, and destroy everything. Following an incident involving BooBoo’s sharp plastic hair bauble and my upper lip, I beat a hasty (and slightly bloody) retreat to the kitchen with Thomas to watch French MTV. The French really can’t stop trying to appropriate hip hop, huh.

Children and adults left the house around 5. Vern, Marie-Jeanne and I sat in front of the fireplace. It was very quiet. It usually is, around here.

Brittany

The day before I flew into France, I had been celebrating my friend Caroline’s birthday in a pub in London for 12 hours straight. It was not in the best form, therefore, that I landed in Dinard on Monday afternoon, coming out of the small plane into the bright sunlight before being herded into the baggage collection room of the tiny 2 room airport. After collecting my enormous bags and breezing (unexpectedly) right through customs, I came through the gate and immediately recognized Marie-Jeanne from the picture my mother had sent me. She was standing with a tall white haired man I assumed was her husband, Vern. She was watching the exit avidly and when I came out she stepped forward.

“Kiki?” She asked. I nodded, tired, hung over, relieved to have arrived. “You’re home,” she said.

The drive to Tredaniel from Dinard is a long stretch of road crowded between green fields. Everything looked fresh, like it had just rained, and maybe it had – but the skies were blue and the clouds banked softly in the distance. The Channel disappeared behind us as we headed a bit further in from the coast. Finally, we reached Tredaniel, and I was given a brief rundown of its amenities – the bar/restaurant/tobacconist, the boulangerie/video store, and the hair salon.

We pulled up along a gravel driveway behind the church to the property. I was told that it was built in the 1400’s by the commander of the forces that were positioned in Moncontour, the medieval town next to Tredaniel. The property consists of four buildings surrounding a small main courtyard, with gardens and some forest behind it.

I am living in the largest building, which is where Marie-Jeanne and Vern have their quarters as well. From behind a large wooden door, a cold stone stairway spirals up to the attic, and my rooms are hidden behind another massive door on the second floor. My apartment, such as it is, is made up of two bedrooms and a split bath. I have rather luxuriously decided to use one as my study, and it is in this room that I sit typing now, with the window open, looking down at the enclosed courtyard below. Spring is coming late to Brittany this year, but there are pink flowers blooming on the trees outside, and the church bells just rang the hour.