Wizardry

Legends and other silliness…

…are cash cows for tourist bureaus in these parts. In navigating from the south coast to the north coast of Brittany, I’d wanted to make the most of it by exploring the Forest of Brocéliande, which is associated with lots of stories of Merlin and other tales of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table. The Celtic migration, the dampness, and the (relative) remoteness of Bretagne no doubt made it seem a bit strange and haunted by cultivated French standards. I should also explain to anyone from western Oregon that Europeans are afraid of forests. It is bred in the bone. Wolves and every bad, un-Christian thing lurks there.

However, that forest was too far out of my way. Instead, I chose the Forest of Huelgoat, which frankly had better photographs from visitors on Google Maps. Things here, rather than being named after Arthurian characters, are named after The Virgin or The Devil, as you do when bullied by religious fanatics.

Hans and I (my Volkswagen has too big a nose and is too unaccommodating to be a female) were still getting acquainted on the drive, but I do appreciate his ability to mind his own business and leave off  with too much of the clang-and-beep. The countryside looked like rolling rural France, except for the occasional dark grey church completely bedecked with large rosettes of pale, grey-green lichen. Sometimes slate roofs are sprinkled with pale green slates, too, I guess due to the wet climate? They seem the prototype of Disney quaintness.

We descended into a small hollow where the village of Huelgoat lay against the shores of a small lake, and I went in to have un petit café, the ubiquitous French afternoon pick-me-up. I actually just needed a ladies’ room.

Afterwards, I asked the man there “Excuse me, but have you heard of a forest around here, named after this town, I think?” His face did not change, as I apologized that I didn’t know how to pronounce the name of the town I was in. He looked out of the window pensively. 

Then suddenly, he burst out “Of course I know the forest, it is the most famous forest in the world!! Without the forest, this town would be nothing, it would cease to exist! It is just over there (gesturing), you can’t miss it!” Grinning, as I found this hugely entertaining, I answered his inquiry as to where I was from. When he heard U.S.A., he burst out “I love the U.S.A!! I have two sisters that live there! I visit every year, Miami and Indiana!” At this point I realized he was Italian. We discussed the wonders of the U.S.A. while other customers waited to pay, and then parted cordially.

It was easy to find this forest. I left Hans in a dirt parking lot and struck off down a wide trail. I saw a person or two, but it was quiet and serene. The recent rain had freshened the plants and still dampened the earth. Very soon huge grey granite boulders started to appear, and I entered the little vale of The River of Silver as its name translates directly from French. You cannot see this river, however, as it runs underneath the boulders. It was really very lovely, and I took lots of gorgeous pictures, as I always do in forests.

I clambered up and through various little passages and came upon The Devil’s Cave. Nevermind the various legends associated with it, I just focused on the stairs.

What is it with Europeans and stairs? At the bottom, I could see the black water flowing amongst dark boulders, and then resurfaced to reconnoiter and head back. I am a very good navigator, and a watercourse makes it dead easy. As I continued, I realized I had no idea where I was or where to go. I still cannot account for it. I tried using my sense of my route, which ended up with me in a room of towering boulders covered with moss.

Eventually I saw a woman I’d seen before, hiking with her son, and I asked her the way. She gestured in a direction I would never have chosen, and I eventually came out on a wide path through the woods. 

It was all good fun, and I looked forward to developing the pictures. 

However, they were very strangely exposed. My phone’s camera not only did not capture the sense and grandeur of the old trees and moss-covered granite behemoths, it made the sky odd, lurid colors that were impossible to fix in post-processing. I always process my shots as close to how they appeared in life as I can, so was not willing to use effects on the sky or rocks. The exception is today’s featured photo, which kind of called for a little Tolkien-esque filter.

I can show you one shot of the imposing bed of The River of Silver, but it just looks like a pile of dumb rocks. At least there was one photo where the sky was not too unreasonable. But there you have it.

The spirits lurk and guard the genius of the place.

On my way out, I passed a wooden house in the very middle of the forest, with a lush, hidden garden where you can eat buckwheat crepes and drink hard cider. It was closed, being a weekday in the off season. No matter how remote, it seems in Europe there will be a place to get food and drink, in summer at least.

The rest of the drive to the north coast town of Perros-Guirec, where I have my tiny condo, was mostly smooth. Based on what I saw yesterday, I would say avoid all of Brittany in the summer. It looks as if it is completely overrun. Maybe we are past “peak tourism” and like in everything else, it is in a (deservedly) steep decline. Staying put on your own estate will be the new Jet Set, just you wait.

Here is a photo of Trestraou Beach taken from my balcony. And, I still don’t know how to pronounce the name of Huelgoat.