Saturday, December 30, 2017
It's been a very tough year for me, dominated by illness and incapacity, so I hope for better energies and a stronger heart in the months to come. And I hope that Wayfaring in Little Britain will finally complete its troubled path into the real world in 2018... or 2019...., although as I try to remind myself regularly these days, its the journey that counts.
Saturday, December 23, 2017
Monday, November 20, 2017
It's not possible to understand a city from a guidebook: knowledge of history and architecture or even the best places to eat and visit can only take you so far. Any urban development is about shape and fluidity, the relationship between horizontal and vertical, space and structure. Walking without purpose is a fine way to start, taking the good with the bad, observing without judging. I wandered from the centre up to the Prefecture a few kilometres away without a map, moving slowly along residential streets and increasingly busy arterial roads. This was new territory for me as in the past I would take the metro or a bus out to the university area, but I felt a sudden sharp pang of recognition outside a perfectly ordinary chemist shop. This was unsettling until I later remembered a week in an appartment near the hospital with a sick friend many years ago. That was where I went to get her medicines. Cities store up emotional coinage in this way over a long period of time, perhaps more so than the countryside because urban experiences are more transactional.
That's the thing about Rennes - it's a city to observe and feel, a place to make the heart beat faster. Never mind the guidebook.
Sunday, October 22, 2017
The magical number of seven embraces sacred summits as it does founding saints in
, but whilst the saints
have their own cathedrals, the hill-tops, scattered throughout the region, are
shared by mixed religious associations, pagan and Christian, ancient and more
The westernmost is Menez Hom, end of the Montagnes noires chain, an elongated open hill offering views of the
Atlantic and the Aulne basin. It
is particularly popular with radio-activated aircraft buffs and hang-gliderists
today, but early morning visits can still give a memorable solitary experience
above the mist. A statue of a Gallo-Roman goddess, identified as Minerva/Brigit
was discovered here by a farmer in 1913.
Mont St-Michel de Brasparts, topped by a tiny chapel, is an iconic image of inland Brittany, one of the high points of the Monts d’Arrée. This area of wild moorland landscape and rocky crags above marshes and the modern reservoir has ancient connections with worship of a pagan Sun god and in more modern times, Druid ceremonies during solstice celebrations. The legendary entrance to the Celtic underworld was said to be nearby in the peat-bogs.
Mene Bré, another summit with a chapel visible from afar, this time dedicated to the blind St Hervé, is in Côtes d’Armor, near Guingamp. It offers exceptional views, especially north and west across the Trégor. Here the famous council of powerful secular and religious figures is said to have gathered to excommunicate the tyrannical 6th century lord Conomor. The earliest chapel on the spot may have dated back to that time.
Not far away lies Menez Bel-air (336m), one of the Monts du Mené, where any sense of atmosphere is marred by a large rather ugly mid 19th century chapel and an intrusive communications antenna. There are, however, great views from certain points of the rolling landscape of central
. It was once a site of
worship of Belenos, the Sun god, with Druid rituals of purification of cattle
at the Beltane festival in May. Brittany
In Morbihan, the wooded hill-top of Mane Guen – of modest height at 155m - also has a small chapel of St Michel. The name means the
White Mountain, thanks to a miracle in
1300 when it was lit by an intense white light for several days, and various other
legends have added to its notoriety. One claims that the body of a dragon lies
under the contours and the chapel was founded on its head. A granite boulder is rumoured to have been a pagan ritual sacrifice altar.
In the Marches of Brittany, east of St Malo, lies Mont Dol, a small table-shaped protuberance rising from flat marshland. An exceptionally rich historical evolution has seen pagan Mithraic rites, evidenced by the discovery of two taurobolia, altars for the sacrifice of bulls with gratings to allow the blood to shower initiates waiting below. Today a tiny chapel to St Michel, who fought the Devil for sway here, stands on the highest point, and, rather too near it, a tower topped by a huge statue of the Virgin.
Visible in the distance from Mont Dol is the familiar World Heritage and pilgrimage site of Mont St Michel, once in
but now by the vagaries
of river Couesnon, fractionally over the border into Brittany . It has an imposing
position just off-shore in a vast bay with one of furthest tide recoils in the
world. Recent works have seen the causeway destroyed and a replacement bridge
allowing tidal flow all around the island. Neolithic megaliths on this conical
hill have disappeared to leave the stage for the spectacular abbey perched on
the summit. Normandy
Thursday, September 28, 2017
From his perch on Mont Dol the Devil saw St Samson, an incomer from Wales and one of the seven founding saints of Brittany, busily constructing his cathedral at Dol-de-Bretagne two miles away. Furiously he tore up a huge stone and lobbed it at the offending structure, smashing one of the two towers. But the granite projectile bounced off its target and came to rest upright 3km away. It is better known today as the Menhir du Champ Dolent, a standing-stone of just over 9m in height, raised somewhere around 2500BC. It is solitary now, but actually stands in a straight line with two other large menhirs between the remarkable passage grave at Tressé in the forest of Mesnil and Mont St Michel, where once there were also neolithic monuments.
|Menhir du Champ Dolent|
Below the open plateau dominated by this enormous stone is the rural
the fontaine of St Samson in an little enclave of verdure. He
arrived in this spot from village of Carfantin via the river
Guyoult, and after curing a local nobleman's daughter through exorcism, was
given land here in an idyllic location for a first monastery. This spring might
also have a significant connection with the Arthurian legend, but I digress... Great
|Fontaine de Saint Samson|
Continuing along the river valley, now managed in a series of lakes and ponds as a nature reserve and flood deterrent system, I am soon in the centre of Dol-de-Bretagne, a town of singular historical significance and resplendent architectural remains. The oldest house in
century) still stands in the main street, surrounded by colourful half-timbered
buildings from later centuries. This Grande rue des Stuarts is a reminder that
the Scottish dynasty started here, as Walter Fitzalan, from the local noble
family, was appointed 'steward' in Scotland for King David 1st, a position that
became hereditary. Although the chateau of Dol is long gone, a powerful
stretch of ramparts looms over the flat marshland - somewhat more under
cultivation today but still unmistakably a marais - that
surrounds the city. Brittany
|Oldest house in Brittany|
The Gothic cathedral, rebuilt after destruction by King John in 1203, holds many secrets and oddities. Apart from the single tower, it has the only double well known on such a site: one shaft inside the cathedral, one just outside, the two joined by a flooded underground gallery. A magnificent 13th century window dominates the interior, and the ornate tomb (1507) of bishop Thomas James features a representation of the Holy Grail which is lit by a ray of sun on the summer solstice. It is not impossible that the Grail itself may once have lodged in Dol, but that's another story.
Leaving the town down steps from the ramparts, a little lane leads out north across the marsh, under the expressway and later the railway line, meandering through fields of maize and drainage channels lined by soft reeds and wetland flowers, all the way to Mont Dol, a table-shaped hill curiously rising ahead out of the ubiquitous flatness.
One of the seven sacred hills of
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
The dearth of large-scale Roman remains in
makes for a patchy
overview of this period of history on the Armorican peninsula and a limited
impression of legacy. Corseul, however, offers both a wider sense of
perspective and some fine individual details: the semblance of a street, the
outline of a villa, a touching inscription, domestic finds. The town is referred to as Fanum Martis, the shrine of Mars, on the
Tabula Peutingeriana (medieval version of an ancient map), although this may
refer only to the related religious site nearby. The Roman foundation is from
the time of Augustus, with significant Claudian growth and developments up to
the 3rd century. Brittany
complex, on a
hill-top 1.7km away. This was the religious ritual centre of the Coriosolites’ civitas.
The lavish remains of the cella are impressive enough now, but once
measured 22.5m in height, ensuring a dominant feature in a landscape
criss-crossed by several Roman roads. The foundations of the main complex
enclose an open internal sacred space of 5000²m surrounded by colonnades and all
rooms needed for the paraphernalia of religious worship and festivities. A
strong sense of ritual and processional activity still emerges from this
elaborate sanctuary on its prominence. A footpath to the side of the cella leads
directly towards the village of Corseul, visible in the distance after a
hundred metres or so, and must have once been a straightish link, even if a
more tortuous route is needed now to connect with the street remains of
Monterfil. Temple of Mars
Corseul was the tribal capital of the Coriosolites, until dangerous times as the Empire broke up took them to Alet, near St Malo. The town was an opportunity for Gallic nobles to live the benefits of Roman rule, privately and commercially, as the area of Monterfil in the centre of the modern village shows. Here is preserved a stretch of
Roman street, orientated
east/west along the line of Roman roads entering and leaving the village. The
lay-out, shaped to the sloping contour of the land, is edged by Tuscan
colonnades and lined by the foundations of a basilica and shops on one side,
with houses behind (including the hint of a hypocaust heating system), and a
vast warehouse with a courtyard behind on the other. Originally most of the
buildings would have been two-storeyed, as the helpful reconstruction drawings
around the site indicate. Gutters line the street, with a large cistern for collecting
rain water at the lower end. It is not hard to visual this thriving business
centre in the early 1st century AD.
A smattering of column bases and half pillars are grouped together beside the mairie, including the so-called Jupiter column. Elsewhere in the village, a former school-house – standing on what was probably the ancient forum - holds a dedicated exhibition. This collection of finds contributes the fine brush-strokes to an image of life in the capital of the Coriosolites in the first three centuries AD. On the other side of the road, the villa of Clos Muton reveals its layout and evolution over time into a palaestra and bath-house.
Two inscriptions from the town record individuals, one a high-ranking religious official, the other revealing a more personal picture with a tombstone complete with faded Latin, now in the church. It was erected by the son (presumably a solider in the Roman army) of Silicia Namgidde, who followed him here – eximia pieta - from her home inOnce visible from the town was the sanctuary of the
Africa. She died aged
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
I've been thinking and writing a bit lately about the development of my relationship with landscape since childhood. The following post consists of related scraps I sent in to the project Lone Women in Flashes of Wilderness, a new work being created by a most interesting writer Clare Archibald (clarearchibald.wordpress.com).
My instinct for wild landscape and unbridled thought has always been at
odds with a persistent childhood fear of the dark and an allied, equally
instinctive concern for personal safety. I have always envied men their freedom
of movement and the resulting luxury of unfettered reflection.
|Mont St-Michel de Brasparts|
Early childhood encounters of wild brought the raw open landscape of the Brecon Beacons into my mental prospect, an eye-opening contrast to the manicured over-farmed environment where I lived. The (apparent) emptiness had a siren call for me, the lure of expanse and a powerful sense of freedom from physical restriction.
This has evolved over a life-time into deep-rooted emotional connection to heaths and moors, where wide views equate with security and my mind can fly out over the heather into unrelieved space. Solitude is essential to my true self and draws the stronger connection with nature that I need for replenishment. I like that no-one knows where I am and that my immediate relationship is only within the scope of my footsteps. This to me is wild: immunity from control, an intimacy with my surroundings that frees mind and body. Here I can meet my inner wildness, sprawl or soar.
By contrast, in the forest where I now live I feel at a basic level of instinct uneasy with the shifting perspectives, narrow sightlines and plethora of tiny movements. You never know if you are alone. My body subconsciously acknowledges the potential for danger, and holds back other process. Phrases and words for my work come to me among the trees, boulders and hilly streams, but ideas and what I call long thoughts are elusive.
Perhaps I have cultivated my own wildness on a physical scale: the balance would shift in extreme landscapes of mountains and deserts where humans can only be outsiders and interlopers. Savage wilderness is a degree beyond wild and here the proportions scare me. Except for the sky, that ultimate wilderness, my black moor, lit by firefly stars, untouchable and beyond intimacy.