The View from Here by Vicky Weston

7/29/2019 The View from Here by Vicky Weston

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The View from Here


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Vicky Weston grew up in Tanganyika and Kenya

partially during the Mau Mau uprising. She is a

Watercolourist, with a love of the sea and nature. Shelived in France for several years travelling in winter in

a motorhome through Spain and Portugal. She is now

retired and lives in New Zealand.


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V i c k y W e s t o n

The View from Here


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Copyright V i c k y W e s t o n

The right of Vicky Weston to be identified as author ofthis work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by anymeans, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, orotherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to thispublication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims fordamages.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and anyresemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the BritishLibrary.

ISBN 978 1 84963 224 9

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2013)Austin & Macauley Publishers Ltd.25 Canada SquareCanary WharfLondonE14 5LB

Printed & Bound in Great Britain


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For Jan without whom the journey would not have

been made.


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Chapter 1

Sips of Nectar

Writing out here on the terrace isnt easy there are too many

distractions and the page seems dull after the bright sunlight.

If I raise my eyes I am confronted by a great bronze-green

head, it belongs to one of our resident lizards a big fellow whose

home is among the boulders beside the pond he emerges to takethe sunblink at passing fliesand he watches me.

Every few moments he lifts one foot or another to cool it

resembling as he does so a fastidious old gentleman taking his

first seaside paddle of the year and wary for his trousers. He

knows Im here but as long as I make no move he is content to

stay, the moment I rise to my feet he is gone.Two jays argue noisily over some titbit of food or gossip

and with the Hoopoes form a pleasant backdrop to the distant

murmur of the grass cutters and the rat-tat-tat accompaniment

of a woodpecker up in the copse, overhead buzzards soar on

silent wings and nearer, the hanging baskets of verbena are alive

with swift bees, butterflies, and a pair of humming-bird hawk

mothswhos vibrant wings carry them from flower to flower andthrum with an amazing energy as they probe every bloom.


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They serve to remind me of the title of this chapter and the

fact that I must get on, the moving shadows create the illusion of

other landscapes, there are corners to be looked around journeys

to record and recalland Id better get down to work.

But first we must transpose ourselves briefly to a time thirty

years earlier when, as young and eager hopefuls we decided to

leave England for a time and take our small yacht down to the

Mediterranean via the western branch of the French canal

system, we were different people bent upon a journey of survival,life was not easy but the journey then paved the way for the

journeys in this book for that too became one of our Sips of

Nectar

I wrote at the time

Canals are shy creatures retiring of nature nodding to

modern man and his works only when forced to do so andgrateful for bridge or tunnel which allow them to pass unseen or

at worst doff an apologetic cap at warehouse, factory or quay,

You may have lived in a town or city for years yet be only

vaguely aware of the wateryTraveller in your midst.

Sometimes as you wait at traffic light or junction you may

catch a brief glimpse of a reach or see from the corner of your

eye the line of a lock gate or graceful arch of a bridge showing

tantalus glimpses of red brick wall and weed-flecked tree lined

stretches glinting in the sunlight.

Here in France you encounter them often for the larger part

of the country was and still is networked with waterways, indeed,

its possible to traverse much of the system still and by means of

them, reach into a much wider Europe, even Switzerland is notbeyond reachBelgium and Germany just a few days away, You

may moor in the centre of Paris or any other large city, on a


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village quay or far away from civilization in regions that have

nothing whatever to do with modernity.

In the south-west the canal winds away among the fieldsand copses, and in the warm regions of the south you may catch

glimpses of quiet locks and moored craft seemingly alien among

the sunflowers and cornstalks of Van Goghs canvases.

Truly the canals are Travellers passing through the country

and providing upon their waters a slow silent means of

journeying across a landscape.

Borne upon their Magic carpet you inhabit an ancient world

slightly divorced from reality your engines note throbs back at

you from the banks, its sound echoing, and you glide gently and

without fuss over the kilometres with only the momentary

interruption of the passing of bridge or lock, man and his works

are far away and only when you pass through a town or village is

a brief touching of fingers possible.Few see you come fewer still see you pass, only the lonely

angler or dog walker, or a solitary cyclist thrusting his way

towards another life are aware that you are among them.

And the canal has made this journey countless times its

waters mingling and changing bearing you onward as lock

follows lock.

An unhurried voyagereflective and introspective nodding

at the sky or slowly winding away ahead of you content in its

own being, it is not unusual to see a stick you passed yesterday

waiting with you in the morning to enter the next lock chamber

and flushing out into the reach with you as you leave borne

onward by its restless host.

We are reminded of this as we sit beside the Canal Lateral a

Garonne near Montauban in the Lot, thirty years ago we came


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this way in our tiny yacht, and it does no harm to remember

some of those glowing mornings.

The rising sun slants diagonals of shimmering light betweenbank side trees touching the gold-brown carpet of leaves and

smoky tendrils of mist climbing from the still water.

Alongside the grasses are diamond-bright with last nights

dewfall, a myriad colours flashing and changing, the mooring

lines are taut with dampness in the grooves they have worn

overnight among the herbage.

Just ahead of the boat looms the next lock its gates

invitingly ajar; Promptly at seven a.m. we do our last checks, Oil

levels, pump bilges, make sure that theres fuel in the tank, and

start the warm engine, for a few moments exhaust smoke leaves a

sooty smear on the water and its sound pop-pops back at us

from the lock wall as we cast off and haul in our lines.

One of us usually stays ashore at such times, ready to give ahand catching ropes, heaving at gates, or opening paddles to

operate sluices according to need.

The water is a turbid brown, leaf-speckled, and surges

powerfully around us with a rich smell of waterweed and spume,

fretting the hull against the fenders while a second sluice adds its

effort to the flow and the level rises rapidly as ropes creak water

spangling from them as they pull taut, slowly we ascend the dark

walls scents of spray and vegetation strong in the nostrils.

Gates are thrust aside by a sturdy hip, lines are retrieved, the

lock-hand is picked up and we chug away down the cut beneath

Napoleons trees.

Or so they say, he is at least supposed to have been

responsible for the planting of the long avenues which dominate

roads and canals in France, it is said that he chose that his armies

should march wherever possible in the shade an humane gesture


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in a world where little else was humane, and one presumes the

kindness was continued by the canal builders to benefit latter day

bargees, for it has to be said that on a hot summer day the glare

off the water can be painful and standing at the tiller all day as

you steer from reach to reach, a blistered body and desert-

parched lips are very much possibilities.

At such times one is grateful for his forethought and you

yearn for the tree shaded stretches as much as you dread the

open ones.

In some locks a keeper does the work of opening andclosing gates etc, with just a crew member to help, not so long

ago this comfortable post was given to war veterans, or the

wounded ex-servicemen of the nation, who thus got a small and

gentle form of pension from their grateful country.

Usually they or their wives have time for a chat or try to sell

you eggs and vegetables from lock-side gardens, they wavefarewells as you depart, Another day has begun and our journey

lies ahead, somewhere round the next corner or the next, a

Dream awaits uswe are chasing jobs, England is left far behind

and the Mediterranean whither we are bound lies a long way

ahead, the year is passingif we want to work this year we shall

have to hurry.

But canals dont let you rush, and the days pass slowly, Inthe evening after a long day when bodies ache and the skin is hot

and dry or drips with perspiration after long toil you can put the

tiller over at a likely place, glide into the bankor as near as you

can get to it, someone leaps ashore or gingerly essays the

trembling narrow plank which does service as a gangway and, if

you are lucky enough to find a couple of convenient trees, tie up

to them, or if not drive two stakes into the grassy bank and moorto those.


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Lines are kept doubled and free to run for we have learned

many lessons, among them the vital necessity of being able to let-

go at a moments notice in emergency, and despite the peaceful

scene we are all too aware that all may not be as it seems, the

unexpected lurks and given half a chance can and often does

manifest itself in dire and sudden ways.

As the engine stops silence returns, there is wind in the

trees, the crackle of cooling metal, the effort has been made the

kilometres covered and we are one day nearer to our goal; theres

time for reflection jobs to finish, scents of sun and tea and foodwhile the splash of a water rat as the suns last glow limns the

distant hills.

One can wash, eat, clean clothes discuss the day just gone

and the prospects for tomorrow, lamplight gleams from the

hatchway curtains are drawn and one can contemplate the magic

of the emerging stars far from light pollutions. The immensity of

space is very apparent here, and its a good time to reflect uponones place in it all.

Every day has its tests, sometimes its scares but each has

taught us something, the kindness of a lock-keeper, the risks, as

on the occasion when, following a friendly barge into an

aqueduct and dandling along behind him, we failed to realize

that, heavily laden as he was, he had run aground, Revving hisgreat engine to push himself through, he left us in a sudden

maelstrom of seething waters and with no room to turn we were

sent crashing wildly from one side of the iron trough to the

other, finally being spat out at the far end very shaken, and

damaged in places but thankful that the friends of last evening

had not, in fact, turned out to be our executioners!

Another time, when we had moored for the night, we hearda late barge thumping along the cut at a speed far higher than

usual, evidently he wanted to spend the night outside the next

lock ready for an early start next day, but as he drew level with


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our mooring place the canal waters suddenly drained from under

us heeling us over wildly, we thudded down onto the bottom

only to be picked up again as the penned waters rose and sucked

us unerringly into his great steel side, there was a huge crash, a

scattering of our possessions down below, and the snap of a rope

parting, then he was gone leaving us rocking in his wake held

only by the stern line, and shuddering at our near escape.

Needless to say he did not stop, enquiries at the lock next day

elicited the information that he was not a local boat, which, we

were assured by a distraught lock-keeper, would Never have

behaved in such a manner..

Perhaps he was right, but such incidents make one wary.

But there are days when all goes well and all thats needed is

to keep the boat chugging along down reach after reach whiling

away the time experimenting with her self-steering qualities in the

shallow, confined waters and thinking about the days ahead and

our prospects when we finally arrived in the Mediterranean.

Then too, there are the canal side peopleswe came to love

them, for they are an interesting if phlegmatic lot one waves to

everyone, cyclists, walkers, the women washing clothes in the

cement Lavoirs beside the canal, they look up briefly as you

pass, but seldom wave back, two hands are needed to pummel

recalcitrant sheets and pillowslips, and after all, We are onlyanother foreign yacht, appearing like a dream and passing out of

their lives in a momentary resonance of exhaust.

We pass through each new lock, these now gentled

somewhat by our downward passage, for we had passed the

watershedthe summit level, the bit where the canal reaches its

highest point, and where lie the pounds or agglomerations of

water, or a river which will supply the insatiable locks, it is awatershed for us too, for now we can truly be said to be on the

Mediterranean side, the Atlantic a memory, and the new sea

ahead with all its promise and uncertainty.


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We also began a love affair with France though at the time

we were not aware of it-

The countryside through which we were passing was a seriesof tableaueach varying in degree, here fields of crops, there a

waterside village or hilltop town, and everywhere placid

fishermen in flat caps or berets, and endlessly patient.

Vineyards too as we went south and the dry scents of sun-

smitten fields of Sunflowers Tournesol in French, for indeed

they do turn to follow the sun in its daily course, and as they dry

and go brown give off a smell so evocative of their native places,The waterside fields are often rimmed with tall poplars which

thrive in neat stands, in these valley bottoms they are the twenty

year crop a farmer will plant on the birth of his daughter, a part

of her dot or dowry when she should marry.

Our love affair has grown, matured and blossomed since

those days, but it was there that it had its beginning amid acountryside we have grown to have a deep affection for, and for

the variety of its spaces and its peoples.

They popped up like characters in a playcut-outs as in a

Punch and Judy show, there was the elderly lady in charge of

eleven locks, phlegmatic anglers who reluctantly reel in as you

pass, a youth on his bicycle dashing off to some assignation

only we find him at the next lock, which he had kindly preparedfor our coming then there was the lone sailor aboard a tiny

French yacht, He is seventy plus, his boat is his world, and there

was the crew of the wine-barge who made us free of their cabin

in the evenings as we followed them down the canal, and who

told us of their lives making around eight voyages a year from

Bordeaux to Sete and back, laden with the produce of the

vineyards in great stainless steel tanks, The husband showing offhis spotless engine room with its great warm inhabitant, and his

wife proudly demonstrating the comforts of their waterborne

home, flowers and all! They are totally content


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{I sadly have to add a postscript to this, they too have gone,

swallowed up by the cheaper and quicker road haulage their way

of life is history, their barge has been turned into a floating

restaurant So much for progress}

But we were chasing our own dream, The voyage has an end

in view, we need jobs, but many we meet along the way also

dream, want to be part of our journey, they want to change, to

do as we are doing. Their eyes almost plead with us Take me

with you but their lives will not let them, they have

responsibilities, families, homes mortgages. They sigh deeply asthey turn away, their dreams unfulfilled, sometimes you wonder

what they would do if you said, Yes, come! and all at once their

dream were to come true, but we know they would not.

We have no families, no responsibility except to ourselves,

our lives are geared to what we do our boat is our only home we

have nothing, a plastic bowl to wash in, a plastic bucket for a

toilet, a small gas cooker and the clothes we wear thats all, topursue a dream you must be freeand carry all you possess, The

work we do is allied to this lack of thingswe look after other

peoples boats we want for little, and we are prepared to go

without.

Families create barriers, possessions hang like chains upon

youbut we had one inestimable advantage, we were young, ourdream bright in our eyes.

And what was it this dream? For us it was jobs, freedom in

the sun, our work lay among the massed ranks of luxury yachts in

the south of France but circumstances had made us late, and

our journey had to be made as quickly as possible if we were to

catch that season.

The years have passed, we worked we have been broke,

we sweated in jobs we hated, we bought and sold houses, we

evolved from the simple beings we were then into a species we


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hardly recognize, and yet the dream burns as bright, its multi-

facets glowing still, with possibility and suddenly all at once, we

again find ourselves free.

Our new journey takes us by a different means of transport,

we now have a motor-home complete with every luxury. It is

harder to find the quiet places we knew, but they are still there

roads lead to other roads, to lanes, to byways, places that do not

know the thunder of heavy traffic, and hills breathing untainted

air.

One of these is only seven kilometres from Calais, walkingthere among fields of grain in a bowl of hills with a great sweep

of windswept sky overhead and the grasses warm beneath your

feet, you might be a million miles from anywhere.

Such places are made for solitude, catching-up, having time

to stand and stareand that is what this book is all about.

Another sunlight this time on an empty car park area onthe seafront of Le Touquet the nights crossing via the Channel

tunnel seems a dream, a vague memory of lights, damp concrete,

patches of jewelled darkness, and a long lit corridor at whose far

end we were positioned by a Houdini figure who then vanished

never to reappear.

Followed a fast and wobbly half hour a bit like going to

Heaven on a blancmange, and tired and a little apprehensive we

were thrust forth into the night.

Now a few hours later we can begin to appreciate our good

fortune as we watch white-capped waves driving up channel on a

stiff wind which whistles dismally, and ruffles the feathers of a

few night-weary seagulls perched hopefully on rusting railings,

they eye us with Gallic dislike and shuffle further away from thecontamination.


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I cant really blame themthe prom is deserted, the garish

roundabout beside us is silent, its organ, like its painted horses

suspended breathless until next year, and garnering around its

base a fringe of sand and ice cream wrappers in untidy drifts.

The season is done, the hordes have departed and there is

no longer any need for pretence.

Apartments are shuttered, tradesmen have gone off on their

own holidays and only a few Commercants cling on and do a

half-hearted trade in bare necessitiesbut their souls arent in it.

A black Labrador appears, sniffs and lifts a leg to our

English wheel, his female accomplice watches her pets expanding

puddle and responds to our enquiryA Baker? Oui, I am going

there myselfBoris! -cesse ca!

As we walk we are told how good it is to be here when the

tourists have gone, one can enjoy oneselfwalk the dog, bother

nobody, Boris meanwhile is depositing his personal contributionto the towns amenities on the sidewalk to be enjoyed by the

next passer by.

Cest Mangnifiquie? observes his owner, we hope she is

referring to the sea air rather than Boriss leavings which she

doesnt clean up.

Our bread gives off warmth and small wafts of fragranceand we devour it avidly, later regretting our lack of caution, but

French bread always has this effect on us, as if through not being

able to get it we must needs have a fix every time we return and

then pay the price in indigestion.

We lunch beside the River Seine at Caudebec, just below the

towering Pont de Brotonne bridge, readers of the Hornblower

novels will recall that it was during the night raid at Caudebec

that Bush died. The place certainly might be the scene of such

action. Today in company with a couple of lorries, we reflect


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upon this, while we eat, the car park may not be very pretty, but

the river is the Seine and there is romance enough in that, while a

good lunch makes it no worse despite the traffic hurrying by

overhead.

We have missed French food generally crunchy bread,

creamy cheeses, aromatic tomatoes, olive oil, goats cheese and

the round-red radishes that bite you back until tamed by a glass

of Rose or Pamplemoussethe grapefruit cordial so refreshing

on a hot day and so perfect with crotins of goat cheese and

butter!Then from downstream we espy three hurrying shapes,

ships forging upriver from the sea, carrying the swift tide with

them, and animating our lunch, they pass with a muted thud of

machinery and disappear round the next bendon a whim I toss

a Pooh-stick into the current and watch it whisked away to

who knows what? Even a stick may make voyages and have

adventureslong-life stick!

But it serves to remind us that we have our own journey to

make, and we must brush the crumbs from our laps and re-join

the traffic mayhem above.

This area of the Somme is always vivid, though the scars

have healed one can still feel here, as at Mons and Ypres, Verdun

and Albert, the sense of a wasted war a lost generation, and onemoves through them on tiptoe, aware of the ghosts.

But the flat marshy fields at the seaward edge are tranquil

now, nobody rips the earth to shreds nor tries to obliterate a

landscape and its people the French today still remember the

wars, it is evident in the neatly tended cemeteries new flowers

placed upon the graves, emotions can still run high in old voices

as they recall those times, its hard for us to share their

experience, Here, as at Oradour sur Glanes such places remind

us that something is left unsaidit is a covenant with silence, an


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unexpressed pain, a willingness to keep some things within, and

it is not for sharing with strangers.

Further on, beyond the sprawl of Rouen with its greatcathedral and history we take the road west, for here in the north

is not where we want to be, our wheels gobble up the miles and

we have to remind ourselves that we have come here to stay

awhile, now the sense of hurry is lessened

But we are nearly at Avranches before we resurface into a

landscape we can relate to, only when the road touches the sea

again do we begin to feel relaxed and now boat-shaped monsters the gatherers of the prized Huitres give us welcome as they

waddle home along shell pathways in a haze of exhaust smoke,

red and green eyes glaring and baleful to the uninitiated, we who

know realize that these are only the sidelights they show when

afloat on their watery business but they come as a surprise so

near the road.

They help to supply the insatiable roadside stalls and

restaurants where chalked-boards enjoin you to sample the

delights of Fruit de Mers, MoulesHuitres and other Maritime

delicacies.

But sand blows in drifts across the roads and only a few

dedicated gastronomes haunt the stalls, phlegmatic fishermen

wheel rod-hung bicycles outward bound between dreams, orsome lonely perch where they can commune with their fishy

gods, and perhaps claim some long awaited reward.

Strung garlic, woven onion strings, net bags of shallots,

recall those dark and silent men who used to come each season

to England to peddle their wares from onion-hung bikes, they

were synonymous in memory with horse-drawn milk floats,

coalmans carts, and those three-wheeled British Rail lorries, and

form a part of my recollections of post-war England.


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As children we goggled at these Breton imports and

gleefully persuaded harassed mums to buy a few of Pierres

onions, The resulting soups did much to help stave off the chills

of a north Finchley winter and have stayed firmly in my thoughts

along with a certain fondness for the rotund sellers.

{But garlic would have seemed immeasurably foreign in

those days, onions were the limit! I have recently heard that the

last of these enterprising men had just passed away after many

years of making that annual voyage to an alien land among alien

people, England will be the poorer for their going, as with allsuch things, a little colour will have been lost from life, and I for

one, regret that}

Silence enfolds the land at our overnight stop, stars glitter in

a clear sky, across the river a distant line of poplars backs the

reed beds and towards the sea the cone of Mont st Michele

etches the dark skyline, the only sound is that of the murmur of

distant waters and the brief sharp cry of a night-perambulatingvixen.

Moving forms, warm in fleeces, muddy of leg and

wandering of nature ghost the foreshore or lie huddled along the

grassy margins of the creeks, the car park is empty except for

ourselves; This is a silent night, the voyage has begun and we

dont know where it will take usprobably it doesnt matterThe View from here is circumscribedthe vista beyond is

limitless and time matters only in the weather it brings, already

autumn is here, our voyage will be one of harvest, of winters

peace and springtime renewal, Sitting on the van step I reflect

upon these things as the constellations plot their courses across

the heavens. There will be many Views many places to call

Here, for the moment though I am content with this one.

Fog whitens the morning we breakfast watching the

tendrils drift among the sea grass, low tide has revealed odorous


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stretches of weed flecked mud, somewhere a steer bellows and

the calls of the waders at the waters edge respond to its

melancholy.

Patches of fog still persist when we move off, destination

for today St Malo or perhaps beyond, but behind us in the

reaches of glowing mist a jewelled isle lies on a granulated golden

sand bed, its turrets piercing the blue, its walls still shrouded by

the miasma, and with swift tides and waves fretting its seaward

margins impatient to regain their prize; From here in the

cinematic version ofTale of Two cities the Scarlet Pimpernel issupposed to have escaped Chauvilans clutchesone might easily

believe it on such a morningalong with many another such

story, for imagination is the doorway to other worlds.


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Chapter 2

St Malo

We discovered St Malo bulging within its enclosing walls, walking

the streets one was continually thrust aside and jostled by tourists

on the one hand and traffic on the other, canny locals dodge in

and out avoiding annihilation every few yards with enviable

dexterity, outside the walls a few gawpers practice their ancient

craft along the windswept quaysides and in the marina the clack-clack of halliards is a mournful roundelay background to the

bobbing and snatching of tethered hulls.

To windward across the dock a coaster offloads yellow

powder from dusty holds via a streaming grab bucket, the

windborne dust settles on the water where it is picked up by

wavelets which drift it across to the moored yachts leaving a

buttercup fringe round jetties and waterlines, owners will not bepleasedsulphurousyes!

Vedettes the small ferries, hover impatiently at sloping tidal

ramps outside, and a newly arrived hydrofoil from Jersey

discharges a staggering load of passengers who mill around like

leaderless sheep ere they are sucked through the system and

emerge to be engorged by the city walls.Inside they will be gently fleecedshorn of their spare cash

and later regurgitated lighter in pocket and wider in experience

for the bumpy ride home.


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Above the Citadel flags are rigid boards of colour and in the

Casino Hoovers are manicuring last nights droppings from

carpets and chairs readying the place for new contests, over in

the Aquarium stone crabs carry on a prehistoric existence

oblivious of the faces peering out through the glass walls for one

must always wonder who is on display and that depends on

your viewpoint.

But from everywhere comes the smell of cooking, mainly

seafood for St Malo is a Mecca to such fare, bistros, cafs,

restaurants, satisfy the hungry lunchtime hordes, their menusdisplayed on chalk-boards or discreet behind dusty windows and

display cases langoustes-fruit de mer, calamares, and the

inevitable frites and crepes.

Piles of lobsters, oysters, and crabs await martyrdom

bubbling grotesquely and the town goes about its business

unheeding of the roar of the lorries just outside its walls, drivers

sniff appreciatively glance at their watches and pass on, Onmang a midi-not a second before, and they will be this way

again soon, St Malo can afford to wait arachnid-like for their

return, Plus ca change!theyll be back!

Somnolence descends on the city, but by that time we have

departed too, the road leads us across the barrage and onward

to the west again, we have an appointment made some weeks agowith an agent in a place called Pre en Pail he has a large folder

of properties for sale in his area, and we are in a hurry to visit

some of them for we are beginning to look for a home.

The Normandy countryside gives one the feeling of

Herefordshire, an illusion heightened by the hedged-about fields

and the ochre and duns and black and whites of liquorice all-sort

barns and farmsteads.

Some of them have been heavily restored but many show

gaping holes, fallen plaster, sagging roofs or have become


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palsied piles of bones amid nettle-beds and overgrown coppices

and all too often we see the skeletal forms of old carts peering

forlornly from such ruinous remains.

Of course its true one also sees ancient vehicles from our

own times, it is no rare thing to see and aged Citroen with an

apple tree growing through it. They are an integral part of the air

of deshabille shared by many such properties, the majority

however have good coverings even if the walls seem decayed, for

no farmer worth his salt would allow hay and other perishable or

saleable crops to get damp if he could help it.Yet they stand knee deep in emerald grass surrounded by

orchards spattered in red and yellow where pears and apples lie in

kaleidoscopic piles of colour, among which plastic buckets and

pails testify to at least some effort at harvest.

The cattle are different too, massive pale Charolais and the

dappled cream and chocolate beastsworld maps afloat in greenseas and great deep-flanked bulls whose sheer size indicates

that their docile expressions could be deceptive, while the houses

inside are cool and dim the upper stories still used to keep hay

and straw.

Floors of tile or wood have been polished to a dull glow by

years of abrasion and kitchens too have floors often of lovely

terracotta tiles worn to permanent undulation by generations offeet and with patinas that come from years of polishing.

Oak beams sag into comfortable shapes, walls lean and

ones immediate instinct on seeing such beauty is to buy it. The

furniture and accoutrements alone. Great long tables and

benches, high-backed chairs copper utensils, functional bread

troughs and mixing paddles, and in the outhouses and barns the

simple trappings of everyday farm work, beautiful wooden hay

forks, rack, feeding troughs, cart wheels leaning against cob walls


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one is hard put to refrain from saying, Well take the lot! Just

leave it as it is

But life is changing, more and more such properties arebeing abandoned, or much reduced, or go on the market,

attracting attention from Brits and Belgians, Dutch and

Germans, the land is dying and incomers are helping kill it.

Hedged-in behind metre thick honey coloured walls we find

another such, its warm walls a mecca for flies and geckos and

the great extravagant Roman snails hiding demurely behind ivy

and trailing old mans beard.

The house hadnt changed in centuries, outbuildings were

still used a wine press stood in one, a blacksmith s shop in

another, carts, tractors and piles of shallow trays as storage from

the fruit season or for grapes, in yet another the walls were hung

with decaying harness, mildewed dull-polished surfaces telling of

former days and ways.In the kitchen a great Cantou fireplace still with its trivets

and chains, racks and hooks and the black semi-circle of a bread

oven to one side.

Beams were hung with bunches of herbs and garlic and

reminded us strongly of childhood memories of Badgers House

in Wind in the willowsindeed with its six metre long table, the

copper utensils and strings of onions and bigEvier sink with its

water barrel perched above, it seemed indeed A place where

heroes might fitly feast after victory,

Smoky lamps and candles in bottles with the wax dripping

down the sides of dull ancient glass provided the inadequate

lighting but one felt that with the light from the fire they would

have been enough and who would want to sit-up late whenreturning day would bring renewal of the hard work that

occupied ones life.


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Yet a life petrified now, suspended almost in midterm, no

fire burned, no work was being done, no clothes hung on the

backs of chairs and there were no boots by the door, something

had happenedsuddenly, and now all is for sale awaiting a new

existence and purpose a new chapter, but we are not to be its

new tenantsthe shrieks of an invisible family just over the wall

ensured that!

We flirt briefly with a couple of barns, the one set amid

green fields and orchards but too ruined, too much work needed

to get it habitable, and the cattle-shed across the meadow sendingits run-offs into a shallow brook in our field with the promise of

myriads of summer flies and a permanent odour make it

unsuitable.

{Note here gentle reader that if you ever do go looking for

such properties it is very desirable to see all such inconveniences

Before they make themselves part of your lives and that what is

seen on a nice sunny day in summer may look a good deal lessattractive in mid-winter rain with fields sodden and dismal, or

summers attendant hordes of insects, many of which bite! These

things are not explained in any brochure or listing, only

experience or a knowledgeable friend can forewarn against

them.}

The second barn was better, almost habitable, but set on asteep hillside, part of a village, and with very little possibility of

extension, nice stone floors though great rough slabs of polished

natural rockalmost what we wantor is it?

Here, winters will be cold and dark too much like

England, we feel we need sunlight, the quick crisp frosts soon

gone and the glazed caramel coatings on houses and fields found

further south, Like Ratty we feel the urge to be where swallowsfly and oranges and lemons grow and fat cacti serve glossy pears

where sunlight blisters off white-faced buildings hung in

bougainvillea and blue seas lap stony beaches under azure skies.


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But here now fruit lies everywhere for it is picking time,

figures labour among the trees garnering the seasons crop,

branches are shaken, apples cascade earthwards, grandparents,

offspring, aunts and unclesanyone who can be sparedfill the

tubs and pails, boxes and trailers and soon one sees great lorries

piled high with glowing fruit trundling away towards the

factories.

All day long the work goes on as the sticky harvest is taken,

wasps drunk on the juices abound, stings and bad backs will be

legion and everyone will be glad when the ritual is over, one bentfigure raises a weary arm as we pass seeing her there, we are

glad we are not involved!

From a point in the dunes above a deserted and rock-strewn

beach we gaze seawards to the distant black shapes of Les Sept

Isles etched against the afterglow and framed by a heat-seared

purple and peach coloured sky.

Below us the littoral is a maze of shallow channels, rocky

spurs and shattered boulders, in the deeper places a few small

boats shelter bobbing and curtseying to the outgoing tide there is

a deep peace in the air as the first stars peer palely down, behind

us the mantle of coming night is flung across the land with the

promise of a blessed cool and down where a double line of

yellow buoys mark the main landing place a crunch of feet onshell shows two men have grounded their boat and are carrying

gear shore-wards in the gathering dusk.

Behind us a German couple are pitching their tent among

the marram grass and sand hills, they nod silentlythe pageant

of sea and sky is too good to spoil with mere words and theres

nothing to be said, I am reminded of an old dictum which would

do very well if more people observed its content, Say nothingunless what you have to say is worth more than the silence you

breakits a good thought, and one which seems very apposite

here today.


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To seaward our ears detect the throb of motors and a small

darker speck leaves the land headed out into a world few of us

know, only when they return in the morning will we perhaps

hurry down to see what they have caught, its a life apart, they

will eat, sleep, spend a few sous in the bistro and put to sea once

more.

Sonia de Borodsky in her book Surge of the Sea explored

their passion in all its shades and hues, pre-dawn departures, the

days of calm, of storms, the Sundays spent tramping the jetties of

Royan one eye on their mistress impatient for her next caress,fearful of her moods defiant in their courage, and totally

ensnared in her spell.

In Sonias book we are led hand in hand from the great

pines and dunes of Bonne Anseto the wreck-strewn reefs of

the Cordouan and the deep ship channels off Pointe de Grave, to

the tossing slut of the brutal waters when the gales fret its seas

and combine to murder fishermen, for Sonia, struggling with theproblems of getting a fishing licence against all the massed male-

dominated bureaucracies of the French maritime system, the sea

is an impetuous mistress, beautiful, siren-luring and sometimes

lethal to her devotees.

The bay of Lannion sweeps away on either hand and

Loqirec provides us with our next stopping place, the wind hasrisen in the night and now it tears at the straggling pines and

tosses a few boats even in the shelter of its small harbour,

autumn is here, one feels it in the wind, sees it in the turning

leaves, and senses it in the cool of each dawn, our journey must

continue southward, but these coasts occupy a place in our being,

we are one with their rugged beauty, and that is another love

affair.

The swift tides and unforgiving rocks and reefs draw us to a

lingering farewell, we must stay awhile longer ere the affiance is

done.


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Camaret the cliff at Pointe de Penhir, the fragmented

rocks resembling the fantastical creations of some master mason,

with Gaudi pinnacles and turrets piled one on the other in zany

confusion.

Far below, the swift tides clutch and spurn jagged spikes,

here and there gulls soar effortlessly among the peaks and valleys

and gorse-yellow ledges tumble down to the seas edge in tiered

confusion.

We gaze down into a cove, its waters a translucent green

deepening to dark blue in the space of a few yards, black cavesdrill the granite and the scent of kelp lies over it all, astringent

and powerful as the seas sigh in and out of them and ruffle

gravelled beaches.

But the only access is by boat as witnessed by the coloured

pot markers betokening some fishermans lobster creels almost

lost in the soughing backwash.Out there across the glinting steel-blue windswept sea other

dreams are moving half recalled memories of a distant time

when sail was commonplace, nowgracefully bowing to a sharp

wind silhouetted against the dark bulk of Belle Isle comes a

three-masted Lugger next a square-rigged Schooner followed by

an ancient Brixham Trawler, they curtsy across our view and

surge powerfully down towards St Nazaire perhaps a festival ofsail? A concourse of old ships crewed by not so ancient sailors

speckled with a few shellbacks

The rest will be young, physical, committed, still working to

keep these old ships afloat and manned.

And there is romance in this as well as a nodding

acknowledgment of the sailing vessels that once blossomed alongthis coast venturing far out into Biscay or working the dangerous

inshore waters daily in peril of their very lives.


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The great fleets of Douarnenez, Camaret, Concarneau, their

massed sails are no more, and these now are but the remnants of

the hundred that put to sea any day from a single port.

Once the masses of towering canvas, the overhanging poles

slung out over each bulwark were commonplace in Biscay waters

as they combed the seas in pursuit of the tunnyblunt bowed

crabbers worked distant lines of pots, yet others rode to great

drift nets or trawled the banks while the sardine boats worked

their huge nets and scooped up their glittering harvest amid a

shrieking cacophony of soaring gulls and diving gannets.But the huge fish shoals are no more bottom-tearing

trawls, overfishing, the common market where buying and selling

fish quotas is just as legitimate as fishing itself if a little more

reprehensiblein these we see the rape of mother nature by her

children and nobody wins, for soon nothing is left.

Fishermen now stand in gloomy groups, hands in empty

pockets watching a little enviously those of their fellows who still

have jobs and can get to sea, for many, as with their vessels,

decrepitude rules, no fishing means an end to maintenance, ships

fall into disrepair. No fish no money, no job, no boat and no

prideand the end is not yet written.

The common market goes on cutting quotas, owners go on

selling the quotas they do have to the Spanish, who overfish

anyway quotas or no, and the dreary cycle is repeated in port

after port and country after country.

Small wonder the bars are the only refuge for such

abandoned men, and soon even the bars wont have them.

Morlaix its aqueduct soaring high above its streets its quays

windswept and wet. For me it provides a memory, of shelter

sought amid a savage storm which bade fair to destroy the craft I


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was in but the peace of its harbour healed the wounds sustained

in the tumult outside and the journey up its narrowing river

seemed like the very portals of Valhalla to us weary mariners.

Today rain hisses down, masts sway and curtsey, and wind

sears horizontal waterfalls across its streets and buildings and we

decide to leave exploring it again until another day, but such

moments of decision can be regretted later we never did get

back to recapture its memories.

Chez Jacky! Announces the neon loudly, though the name

is irrelevant to the occupants of the big fish tank flanking theentrance, lobsters, spiny crabs, wrasse, and many more glide and

goggle at the passing humans in their strange alien world, but at

least these dont get eaten, the proprietor is proud of them

knows each by a name and from where and how it arrived at his

establishment, this one caught just off the jetty by his young son,

that one given to him by a lobstermen astonished to find it in his

creel, that big one came from an aquarium closing down hechatters on about them as they gravely perambulate, safe in their

small world.

The creek here however is another meccathis time to the

oyster the local economy is geared almost totally around this

wrinkle-shelled delicacy and a harvest raised and packed and

despatched to feed supermarkets and restaurants Huitres thedelicacy without which Christmas would not be the same,

mounds of cash in shell purses, sold in almost every supermarket

and marketplace in France at this season, shells are prised open

the contents are gulped down by a myriad maws, and shovelled-

in by careless thumbslemon optional!

Concarneau, traffic pleating its crowded inner streets, the

parkings are full of visiting cars, motor-homes and fumes, weglance, sniff, and quickly leave aware of bruised memories, for

the quiet little town we once knew is but a faded postcard of


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former days before the world went mad, twenty-five years is a

long while.

Its the problem with any kind of going back, our memoriesstay static, we seek the rainbow traces that made a place or time

special, we tut-tut at the desecrations, yet we are as much to

blame as anyone, our own exhaust pollutes, our own purses and

expectations contribute to the tourist traps, the honey pots

which draw them in, why then should we complain?

But this coast still holds onto much of its charm despite the

changes, The new developments reflect the need of peoples tofind space, so many are tied for most of the year in cities, who

can blame them for trying to find on their holidays, that peace

and beauty we all need so much.

But it has meant changes for the inhabitants here as

fishing died it got replaced by tourism the locals turned from

traditional ways of earning to the transient but profitablemarketing of second homes, gites, hotels, campsites and

amenitiesswimming pools, squash courts, shops and a myriad

other associated ventures designed to capture the tourist Euro.

Who could blame them? But marinas overflow with yachts,

most of them used only half the year, and chalets and apartments

share the same fate though the inhabitants still have it to

themselves at times.

In summer the hordes descend and for a time the ringing of

cash registers is the only sound that matters, Tant Pisthis is

the new Jerusalem and one must change with the times, and

times too must change, at the moment there is peace, we trail

down the coast finding few places open, but we can camp in the

seaside car parks and nobody minds, we find quiet bays, peaceful

beaches and the places set aside for camping cars like ours are

empty.


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We park in a spot overlooking the waterfront, normally you

wouldnt get within a hundred metres of it, facing onto the creek

as it does the view from here is a long one across salt marshes to

the distant line of an island and the sea beyond we came here

once in high season, never again!

However, water is still laid on and working, there is even a

power point where you can plug in for a few Euros, France has

many such places, Aires de Service they call them but be

thankful you are not here in summer!

Along the back roads one finds peace in silent creeks, pinefringed landings, sandy shores, dunes, winding tracks among the

trees and if you came in by boat it would probably seem little

changed.

We trail down a line of beaches finding coves and

headlands, semi-deserted villages, walking the dogs beneath

sighing pines on undulating carpets of needles; There are greatsolid pinecones some very nearly as big as your head scattered

willy-nilly among the shifting sands.

Just gathering them would be a pleasure but squirrels stake

their claims, and their winter larders would be sadly depleted if

everyone yearned for crackling fires, we should always remember

who else we deprive with our greedy unthinking ways.

But people here do have some excuse, the Atlantic winter

winds sweep up onto this coast in great storms that must make

one glad of every bit of warmth.

The power of these winds is all too evident in the piled sand

drifts, heavy shuttered windows, and a clean look to gardens

and forecourts, anything left lying would disappear swiftly

carelessness is not acceptable, the locals know their coast and itshabits and take precautions accordingly.


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We speak to a man, grave, elderly he tells us of his

boyhood here, a story of fishing boats pulled with oars and sails,

of nights helping with the nets and days pulling onions,

unearthing potatoes, he speaks of the long days labouring in the

fields and weary homeward tramps in the dusk to eat and sleep,

above all his story was of young men leaving to find jobs in the

cities many never returning.

He too went away in his youth, Paris, vibrant and exciting,

full of the things he could not find here to calm a restless spirit,

but he dreamed too, in those years away, of long days spentwalking the coasts and dunes, of the silence of these shores and

how eventually he had been driven to return in order to quiet the

voices that were calling him home; So he returneddrawn back

by this land and its sea in all its moods, its wild days and great

calms, he is as one with his landscape, but you can see that he

dreams an older dream, eyes selectively hooded to the new.

Documents

The View from Here by Vicky Weston