Yesterday we set out for a drive, a circuit intended to take us about 3 hours, since we wanted to go to a nearby village in the evening. So first off, we elected to take the scenic route to the first village on our circuit, which added four minutes to the highway. So. First village: not far. We stopped at an estuary, at very low tide. In fact. you might say, no tide. Note the mud. And note the sailboat, resting on its keel.
After parking the car for a look, we noticed a antique shop nearby, and decided to pop in. We found many lovely items, well priced and beautifully presented. We walked out a few minutes later with three square pillow cases with lovely embroidery. And Madame also gave us some touring advice -- to take a small detour in the opposite direction from our planned route to see a new suspension bridge being built. So of course, we set off, stopping once to visit a bee and honey museum. I left the camera in the car, and in truth, there was not all that much to photograph inside (a 20 minutes film in French about bees?). But the tasting was an experience.
Not one for honey as a rule, it usually just tastes sweet to me. I've tasted different kinds before, and some I like, and some I don't, but mostly, they are sweet. So I tasted each of the four samples provided. The first was acacia honey, which had a deep smokey flavor like some teas I have tasted, but unlike any honey I recall. I never have tasted all the flavors that people talk about with wine -- a start, a finish, that sort of thing. But this one started out dark and complicated, almost salty, and then became smokey. The second was spring flowers, starting out light and floral, ending citrusy. The third was the best -- summer flowers, tasting very strongly of butterscotch, real butterscotch. The last was chestnut honey -- an acquired taste said Madame, and she was right. Strong, bitter, woody. Who knew? Honey in distinctly, strong flavors.
Next we headed for the bridge, which was not quite finished (another two years we had been told). No good photos, since they were blocked by construction, and I expected a return visit on the way back. But then we noticed we were near Argol, a village that has a living museum of artisans showing off ancient trades, so we thought to check it out. Sadly, the museum was closed, but we happened on a wedding just taking off for the reception. The bride and groom was already tucked in their car, a jeep started off the procession to make sure everyone got on the right road, and all the participants were tying colored ribbons to their car antennas, we suppose to show that they were all together. We headed off with them until our turn, and made out way home another route. Our original itinerary would have to wait for another day.
But then. A very early dinner and off to a pardon, a religious observance, in this case of the Assumption of Mary, a very big day around here. We saw that one was happening from a great distance four years ago on our last trip, but it was late in the day, we didn't know exactly where we were, and the parking was a zoo. So passed it up and felt like we had missed something special. So this time we meant to make up for it if we could.
The parishioners start a distance away from the church in procession with the priests and assorted clergy, and walk together to the church. After that, we had no idea. The big deal is that the people wear their traditional dress, and in Brittany that means the lace headdresses of the ladies, a very special an d rare sight. We went to the town where the pardon was to be held, and mass was indeed going on, b ut no crowds and nothing special. We walked around a bit, and found two ladies who told us, with a very French flick of the wrist and wave of the hand, that the pardon was off thataway about 3 kilometers, and we were a few minutes late, but it would be lovely. When we didn't bolt, the older lady told us to get a move on. So we did.
Without any real directions (we pondered the nuance of the wrist and the flick), Tom found a church in the distance, with many cars jockeying for position, and parking guards. So we figured we (he) had found it. By the time the car was parked and the camera grabbed, the procession was almost at the church. We followed along, and merged with the crowd as it filed into the church for what turned out to be a mass, mostly in French, with many songs. The Gloria was familiar to me. We were both taken aback to recognize "Amazing Grace" sung not in English or French, so it must have been Breton, the ancient Celtic language that is still spoken a bit. It also gave us a chance to study the traditional dress -- for the men, black pants, some with embroidery on the sides, and ribbons and/or buttons sewn on near the bottom of the leg, and a jacket with a distinctive blue design on the back. For the ladies, either a black velvet jacket and skirt ensemble with black and gold embroidery (some embroidery with glass beads), and a smallish white lace coif, or the same type of ensemble but in cream satin with white embroidery and beads with the same lace coiffe. many had white lacy aprons on as well.
Mission pardon accomplished.
And today? Suffice to say that today I have about 500 more photos than I did yesterday, and we have seen dozens of different traditional costumes, have seen dozens of coiffes, and close up, saw the best parade we have ever seen, and heard as many bagpipes in one place as we saw and heard at the Robert Burns competition in SF. So stay tuned...it will take me a while to get through 500 photos.
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