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The Côte des Abers
Jun. 11th, 2011 10:30 pmAnother bright sunny week has dissolved into a grey dreary weekend, and a night of shallow dream-filled sleep has left me feeling rather grey and dreary myself. Looking forward to midsummer week on Lindisfarne, maybe it's time tonight to look back with a holiday post, cheer myself up with good memories and pretty pictures. The earliest notes still awaiting posting - given the mysterious absence of words to accompany the still unsorted photos from Iceland - date from October 2009 in Brittany; with our day-trip to Ouessant we had passed the furthest point of our tour, and now we turned back towards Roscoff.
We drove along the Côte des Abers (an 'aber' being, as I believe it is in Welsh place-names, a narrow inlet), an illustration of the impossibility of measuring the length of the coast: shall we take the direct road that runs parallel to the coast, or shall we drive within sight of the sea, taking the detour that leads to the lighthouse, pausing to walk along the beach, following the signs to a chapel or a prehistoric burial chamber?
We stopped for coffee at the punningly named 'Abri Côtier', which must have been a lively little café in season, but looked sad and deserted with the chairs and tables all folded up on the decking outside. Inside was warm and welcoming, though, and our coffee arrived on a white china tray, the cups nestled in a layer of coffee beans.
Finally we dropped onto the main road, through field after field of maize, and occasionally something green and leafy (this is vegetable-growing country). I was looking out for artichokes, but hadn't seen any and assumed the season was over, until we came to Saint Pol de Leon, and suddenly they were everywhere.
Roscoff, on the other hand, where we were to spend the night, is the onion centre. That archetype of the Frenchman with his beret, his striped jumper and his string of onions? He isn't a Frenchman at all, he's a Breton, and specifically he is one of the Johnnies de Roscoff. Civic pride is expressed by festooning the buildings with tresses of the distinctively pink-skinned onions.
We had passed through Roscoff before, since it is a ferry port, but I think we must simply have driven off the ferry and away, since the old town came as a pleasant surprise - I'd happily visit it again, and for longer than an evening. I liked the Hôtel des Tamaris, too (though another time I'd probably pay the extra for a room with a sea view). And we dined at the Moule au Pot (I'm not saying that its name was the best thing about it, but it's the thing that I remember).
Pictures of Roscoff.
We drove along the Côte des Abers (an 'aber' being, as I believe it is in Welsh place-names, a narrow inlet), an illustration of the impossibility of measuring the length of the coast: shall we take the direct road that runs parallel to the coast, or shall we drive within sight of the sea, taking the detour that leads to the lighthouse, pausing to walk along the beach, following the signs to a chapel or a prehistoric burial chamber?
We stopped for coffee at the punningly named 'Abri Côtier', which must have been a lively little café in season, but looked sad and deserted with the chairs and tables all folded up on the decking outside. Inside was warm and welcoming, though, and our coffee arrived on a white china tray, the cups nestled in a layer of coffee beans.
Finally we dropped onto the main road, through field after field of maize, and occasionally something green and leafy (this is vegetable-growing country). I was looking out for artichokes, but hadn't seen any and assumed the season was over, until we came to Saint Pol de Leon, and suddenly they were everywhere.
Roscoff, on the other hand, where we were to spend the night, is the onion centre. That archetype of the Frenchman with his beret, his striped jumper and his string of onions? He isn't a Frenchman at all, he's a Breton, and specifically he is one of the Johnnies de Roscoff. Civic pride is expressed by festooning the buildings with tresses of the distinctively pink-skinned onions.
We had passed through Roscoff before, since it is a ferry port, but I think we must simply have driven off the ferry and away, since the old town came as a pleasant surprise - I'd happily visit it again, and for longer than an evening. I liked the Hôtel des Tamaris, too (though another time I'd probably pay the extra for a room with a sea view). And we dined at the Moule au Pot (I'm not saying that its name was the best thing about it, but it's the thing that I remember).
Pictures of Roscoff.
