enlarge-imageBinicBinic
Binic
Binic, a small fishing port of Brittany, has all the attractions of an unworldly seaside village, for it is not much more even to-day. After Binic, Etables, and after Etables, Binic. Each is much the same as the other. Binic has been a great-little port for the fitting out of ships for the Newfoundland fisheries ever since the beginning of the seventeenth century, and things go on in much the same way as of old, except that the master of the craft now has a megaphone and a patent log in his equipment, whereas formerly he went without theserefinements of navigation. To the Newfoundland fishermen of Binic is due a special preparation of the codfish known asbénicasser, of which the dictionaries will tell one nothing, but which is simply a species of cured codfish.
The high altar of Binic church was bought with funds contributed as a result of the Sunday fishing on the Newfoundland banks. It can, therefore, be said to have a real reason for being, and, as it is an unusually ornate affair, one infers that the Sunday haul must be of goodly proportions.
From St. Brieuc eastward, until one actually comes within the confines of that delectable land known as the Emerald Coast,—the summer rival of that winter paradise, the Blue Coast,—is a verdant land of crops and cultures which would quite change the opinions of any who thought Brittany a sterile, rock-bound land, where nothing could grow but onions and new potatoes.
Lamballe is a sort of a faint shadow of St. Brieuc. It was founded in feudal times, and from 1134 to 1420 was the capital of the county of Penthièvre. As late as the eighteenth century, the oldest son of the Duc de Penthièvre bore the title of Prince of Lamballe.
The town is divided into the upper and lowertowns. In the latter are found those old settlers of ducal times, the houses of wood and stone still standing to delight the eye of the artist and to arouse the wonder of the general tourist.
There is a fine Gothic Church of Our Lady, its foundations cut in the very rock itself, and bearing, from more than one point of view, the aspect of a fortified edifice, which has a battlemented roof that is nothing if not an indication that the church of Dol was a truly militant edifice. As the chapel of the old château, this church grew up from a foundation of St. William Pinchon, Bishop of St. Brieuc in 1220.
St. Martin’s is the church of an ancient priory belonging to the parent house of Marmoutier. It was founded in 1083 by Geoffrey I., Count of Lamballe. Its primitive nave shows a remarkable series of horseshoe arches, and in every way, not excepting the great sixteenth-century towers, St. Martin’s is quite the most interesting architectural monument of Lamballe.
North of Lamballe lies Val André. A charming watering-place much frequented by families, is the way the all-powerful Western Railway advertises this little seaside beach and its attractions, with the added few lines to theeffect that there is a large hotel with a casino, regattas, nautical celebrations, concerts, etc., which are supposed to amuse the fastidious summer visitors.
It is all very delightful, particularly as the coast-line near by is charming of itself, but Val André, with all its attractions, has not half the charm of the little fishing port of Binic on the opposite shore of the Bay of St. Brieuc.
THEEmerald Coast is the passion chiefly of those who come to live during the three summer months of rustication, but the sister cities of St. Servan, Paramé and St. Malo, Dinard and Dinan, are lovely spots and attractive of themselves, were one forced to camp out on one of the barren, jagged rocks with which the coast hereabouts is strewn, instead of living at the Hotel of France and Chateaubriand, which encloses the ancient maison of Chateaubriand, at St. Malo. Starting thence, one explores the wonderful country round about, and nourishes himself and makes himself comfortable with all the modern refinements. This hotel is about the only modern thing in St. Malo, however, for, while highly interesting to the antiquary or to the student of architecture or of art, it is commonly thought to be a vile, dirty hole, with a few shops convenientfor the inhabitants of the more aristocratic suburbs of Paramé and St. Servan.
St. Malo is a curious little city, with its ever apparent past not in the least disturbed by the steamboats and electric trams, which bring visitors to the base of its ancient fortifications and gateways. Among its chief reminders of the past are its proud château, redolent of the memory of the beautiful Duchess Anne, its fine cathedral, its quaint old houses and narrow streets, and its wonderful encircling ramparts.
Not only is St. Malo a city of the past, but it is above all, to-day, aresort, as that elastic term is known which covers any place where tourists congregate for pleasure.
Kiosks, coffee-rooms, and bathing-cabins have taken the place of whatever may have gone before, and to-day, truly, one may be as comfortably up to date—if there is any real comfort in being up to date—as if he were in Budapest, Paris, or San Francisco. St. Malo is considerably more than this; it is the actual, if not the geographical, centre of the whole Emerald Coast.
enlarge-imageRamparts of St. MaloRamparts of St. Malo
Ramparts of St. Malo
The praises of the Emerald Coast have been sung by many poets, and pictured by many painters. Jean Richepin, that rare vagabond, comes frequently for his inspiration to St.Jacut-de-la-Mer, and in his “Honest Folk” there are superb descriptions of this entrancing combination of sea and shore, which in all France is not elsewhere equalled, unless it be on the Riviera.
The Emerald Coast must indeed be the paradise for jaded literary workers, when work makes its inroads on their holiday, for it may enable them to accomplish as much as Ferdinand Brunetière admitted during a recent stay at Dinard-St. Énogat:
“What do I read?” said he. “These:
“1. The 240 pages which make up theRevue des deux Mondesevery fortnight.
“2. The manuscripts which may become future pages of theReview, and even some which may not.
“3. Works which have not appeared in theReview, whose authors I may find it worth while to know and cultivate.
“4. Journals in which theReviewis interested.
“5. TheOfficial Journal, from which one may always pick up something.
“6. The other papers.
“7. Works submitted for the approval of the French Academy.
“8. Proof-sheets of my own works.
“9. The books necessary for the preparation of my discourses, lectures, and articles.”
The puzzle is what a man like M. Brunetière will find to do in the next world. Probably he will go about to all the celebrated writers to see what they thought of his criticisms in his dearly lovedReview; and then perhaps he will regret, as Herbert Spencer is said to have regretted, that he had not gone fishing oftener.
The charms of St. Malo’s suburban social colony of Paramé, such as they are, though they differ greatly from the mere attractions of nature,—for which society folk really care for only as an accessory to their more futile pleasures,—are best set forth in the following stanzas of Jehan Valter:
“PARAMÉ“IDYLLE“Quel est de Biarritz à CalaisLe seul bain de mer, qui jamais,Faute de baigneurs, n’a chômé?C’est Paramé!“Où le soleil à l’horizonMontre-t-il en chaque saisonSon disque toujours enflammé?A Paramé!“Où le froid est-il inconnu,Où peut-on se promener nuSans avoir peur d’être enrhumé?A Paramé!“Le soir, on danse au Casino,Non aux sons d’un mauvais piano,Mais d’un orchestre renomméA Paramé!“Sur la plage on rêve d’amour,La nuit aussi bien que le jourQue de baigneuses ont aimé!A Paramé!“Est-ce l’air qui porte à la peau;Est-ce le soleil, est-ce l’eau?Chacun sort du bain raniméA Paramé!“Et c’est un miracle constant,Le plus chétif, en un instant,Est en athlète transforméA Paramé!“Du reste, miracle plus fort,Jamais personne ici n’est mort,On ne connaît pas d’inhuméA Paramé!“A vous tous, gandins rabougrisQui dépérissez à Paris,Venez humer l’air embauméDe Paramé!“Vous ne le regretterez pas:On y fait d’excellents repas,Et le cidre est fort estiméA Paramé!“Donc, sur l’honneur, je vous le dis,A défaut du vrai paradis,Il n’est sur terre, en résumé,Que Paramé!”
“PARAMÉ
“IDYLLE
“Quel est de Biarritz à CalaisLe seul bain de mer, qui jamais,Faute de baigneurs, n’a chômé?C’est Paramé!
“Où le soleil à l’horizonMontre-t-il en chaque saisonSon disque toujours enflammé?A Paramé!
“Où le froid est-il inconnu,Où peut-on se promener nuSans avoir peur d’être enrhumé?A Paramé!
“Le soir, on danse au Casino,Non aux sons d’un mauvais piano,Mais d’un orchestre renomméA Paramé!
“Sur la plage on rêve d’amour,La nuit aussi bien que le jourQue de baigneuses ont aimé!A Paramé!
“Est-ce l’air qui porte à la peau;Est-ce le soleil, est-ce l’eau?Chacun sort du bain raniméA Paramé!
“Et c’est un miracle constant,Le plus chétif, en un instant,Est en athlète transforméA Paramé!
“Du reste, miracle plus fort,Jamais personne ici n’est mort,On ne connaît pas d’inhuméA Paramé!
“A vous tous, gandins rabougrisQui dépérissez à Paris,Venez humer l’air embauméDe Paramé!
“Vous ne le regretterez pas:On y fait d’excellents repas,Et le cidre est fort estiméA Paramé!
“Donc, sur l’honneur, je vous le dis,A défaut du vrai paradis,Il n’est sur terre, en résumé,Que Paramé!”
That is about the sort of round that one gets at Paramé, with motor-cars, golf, and bridge parties thrown in, but a wonderful aspect of nature to be seen at every turn, and it is perhaps small wonder that the little summer colony has now grown to huge proportions.
Americans should have a special interest in, and a fondness for, St. Malo, “the city of the corsairs.”
St. Malo is the chief town of the province of Jacques Cartier, the discoverer of Canada. “It is a city of great men and the chief place of the Breton middle class,” said the Abbé Jalobert in his curious work on St. Malo and St. Servan.
There is some truth in calling St. Malo the “corsair stronghold,” for it was the cradle of Mahé de la Bourdonnais, Duguay-Trouin, Surcouf, and their followers, all “sea-rovers” if they were not something more.
To-day St. Malo’s “sea-rovers” are the sailors of the Newfoundland fishing-fleet, the humble“terre-neuvas,” as they are known,who go in large numbers to fish for cod on the Grand Banks of Newfoundland.
“I’s sont partis de Saint-Malo,I’s sont partis de Saint-Malo,Tous ben portants, vaillants et biaux.In’ troun’ dérin tra lonlaire!In’ troun’ dérin’ tra lonla!”
“I’s sont partis de Saint-Malo,I’s sont partis de Saint-Malo,Tous ben portants, vaillants et biaux.In’ troun’ dérin tra lonlaire!In’ troun’ dérin’ tra lonla!”
sings Yann Nibor in his “Sea Songs and Stories.”
The city’s older reputation as the city of the corsairs gave quite a different interpretation, however:
“LA CITÉ DES CORSAIRES“Si dans son aire, aujourd’hui tombe,Elle ouit de rudes chansons!Dont le souvenir donne au mondeDes frissons.“La gothique flêche de pierreDe son clocher audacieuxS’élance comme un rapièreVers les cieux.”—Dabouchet.
“LA CITÉ DES CORSAIRES
“Si dans son aire, aujourd’hui tombe,Elle ouit de rudes chansons!Dont le souvenir donne au mondeDes frissons.
“La gothique flêche de pierreDe son clocher audacieuxS’élance comme un rapièreVers les cieux.”—Dabouchet.
Duguay-Trouin is an almost mythical character, but many of his legendary exploits sound plausible. He took an English ship mounting forty guns when he owned to but sixteen years, and in a following campaign—practically on his own account it would seem—he capturedtwo vessels of war and twelve merchant-ships from under the guns of a British squadron. This, at least, is the French version, and since all of us, in our agile days, love a daring hero,—even if he be a bloodthirsty one,—it seems a pity to probe the assertion too deeply.
Such a man as Duguay-Trouin was, of course, popular, and his sailors sang his praises in the street in lines which came to be taken up by the “stay-at-homes” and incorporated into a kind of folk-lore. Indeed, gentle mothers sang their infants to sleep with them, much as did old Mother Goose of the nursery rhymes:
“Monsieur Duguay t’envoyéUn tambour de l’AchillePour demander à ces braves guerriersS’ils veulent capituler.“Les dames du châteauS’sont mis à la fenêtre,Monsieur Duguay apaisez vos canons,Avec vous je composerez.”
“Monsieur Duguay t’envoyéUn tambour de l’AchillePour demander à ces braves guerriersS’ils veulent capituler.
“Les dames du châteauS’sont mis à la fenêtre,Monsieur Duguay apaisez vos canons,Avec vous je composerez.”
Not always does the stranger to St. Malo hear exactly this offhand, but invariably he is met with a singsong of sailors’ chanteys which at once call up memories of seafarers of other days.
One enters St. Malo, whether by boat or train, through the city walls. The boat landsyou directly under the frowning ramparts, and a worthy porter will take your portmanteau and carry it twenty steps to the door of your hotel, just within the gateway of the city—and charge you twenty sous for the job. “A franc, really,” the man with the brass badge tied on his right arm will reply to your query as to whether you have heard aright.
“Twenty cents for twenty steps is a little high,” says the hostess of your hotel, but it is the tariff from outside.
St. Malo is still a walled city, much as it was in the days when Francis I., in 1518, and Charles IX., in 1570, held court here.
Charles IX., his mother Catharine, and his sister Margaret spent a part of the month of May here in this city by the sea. The Malouins gave the court a spectacle of an imitation naval combat, in which a galleon was sunk; too realistically, one thinks, for its occupants were drowned.
At one time, it is said by the chronicles, St. Malo was guarded by fierce mastiffs, the descendants, it is to be presumed, of the Gallic dogs of war. These municipal watch-dogs were suppressed in 1770, because of their having bitten the “calves of gentlemen.” Presumably there was a complaint of some sort, butthe only record of the incident is one in verse sung by Désaugiers as follows:
“Bon voyage,Cher du Mollet,A Saint-Malo débarquez sans naufrage,Et revenez si ce pays vous plait.”
“Bon voyage,Cher du Mollet,A Saint-Malo débarquez sans naufrage,Et revenez si ce pays vous plait.”
The disappearance of the watch-dogs in 1770 made necessary the adoption of a new coat of arms for the town, when the blazoning of argent, a dog gules, gave way to a “portcullis surmounted by an ermine passant.”
One has heard before now the phrase, “I like St. Malo in spite of its smell,” and, in spite of the truth of it,—and there is a very apparent justification of the word,—the old city is one of the most lovable in all Brittany.
The House of Duguay-Trouin at St. Malo is one of its chief romantic shrines before which strangers are wont to linger. It is simply an old wooden-fronted house, sombre and austere in its upper stories, but resplendent in white paint below. A shoe-shop and a coffee-room occupy the lower floor, and if one would conjure up the days of the past, when pirates bold discussed their venturesome plans in the very same room, let him enter and drink his after-dinner coffee by the pale light of a gutteringcandle in this old abode of romance. There is nothing of luxury about it; in fact, most worshippers are content to bow before the shrine from without; but to awaken the liveliestemotions, one must really enter and see it from the inside.
enlarge-imageHouse of Duguay-Trouin, St. MaloHouse of Duguay-Trouin, St. Malo
House of Duguay-Trouin, St. Malo
St. Malo, besides its stock sights of romance and history situated within the city itself, has a literary shrine of the first rank in the island of Grand Bé just offshore. Here is the tomb of Chateaubriand, ambassador, minister, journalist, and author. One need not inscribe the dates and titles of his works here; it is enough to mention his name. Suffice to recall that, as a conclusion to his labours, he wrote the “Mémoires d’Outre-Tomb,” which, like the simple, rough-hewn cross which crowns the summit of Grand Bé, is a fitting monument to the genius of the man whose theories, it is to be feared, have now become somewhat out of date.
Chateaubriand’s verses on his native land give an ample proof of his love for her, and, moreover, so well express the regard which nearly every one has for the Emerald Coast, that it is certainly pardonable to quote them here:
“MON PAYS“Combien j’ai douce souvenanceDu joli lieu de ma naissance!Ma sœur, qu’ils étaient beaux, les joursDe France!O mon pays, sois mes amours,Toujours!“Te souvient-il que notre mère,Au foyer de notre chaumière,Nous pressait sur son cœur joyeux,Ma chère,Et nous baisions ses blancs cheveuxTous deux?“Ma sœur, te souvient-il encoreDu château que baignait la Dore?Et de cette tant vieille tourDu Maure,Ou l’airain sonnait le retourDu jour?“Te souvient-il du lac tranquilleQu’effleurait l’hirondelle agile,Du vent qui courbait le roseauMobile,Et du soleil couchant sur l’eau,Si beau?“Oh! qui me rendra mon Hélène,Et ma montagne et le grand chêne?Leur souvenir fait tous les joursMa peine:Mon pays sera mes amoursToujours!”
“MON PAYS
“Combien j’ai douce souvenanceDu joli lieu de ma naissance!Ma sœur, qu’ils étaient beaux, les joursDe France!O mon pays, sois mes amours,Toujours!
“Te souvient-il que notre mère,Au foyer de notre chaumière,Nous pressait sur son cœur joyeux,Ma chère,Et nous baisions ses blancs cheveuxTous deux?
“Ma sœur, te souvient-il encoreDu château que baignait la Dore?Et de cette tant vieille tourDu Maure,Ou l’airain sonnait le retourDu jour?
“Te souvient-il du lac tranquilleQu’effleurait l’hirondelle agile,Du vent qui courbait le roseauMobile,Et du soleil couchant sur l’eau,Si beau?
“Oh! qui me rendra mon Hélène,Et ma montagne et le grand chêne?Leur souvenir fait tous les joursMa peine:Mon pays sera mes amoursToujours!”
St. Servan, like St. Malo, is steeped in antiquity; practically they form one town, although separated by the narrow strait which forms an entrance to the outer harbour of St. Malo. St. Servan registers over a hundred St. Malo craft engaged in fishing and in the coast trade. As the ancient Gallo-Roman townof Alethum, St. Servan, from very early times an archbishopric, was ravaged by barbarians and by floods and had a varied career, but at last the steady growth of the comparatively modern St. Servan made it a prosperous town of perhaps twelve thousand souls.
The chief of St. Servan’s architectural monuments is the great Tower of Solidor, built far out upon the rocks at the mouth of the Rance. It was built in 1384 by Duke John IV., at the epoch when he was combating the pretensions of Josselin of Rohan, Bishop of St. Malo, for the sovereignty of the town.
It is a great triangular hold with a cylindrical tower at each corner. Within is a stone staircase winding spirally upward and giving access to various vaulted chambers. It could oppose no great strength to modern artillery, and even in the olden time could not have been very secure, could the besiegers but get to the base of its walls. At the same time, from its isolated position, it served admirably as an outpost which at least offered a superior vantage against an attacking force, and it is unlikely that it could have been taken except by siege or by the fall of the supporting city at its back.
enlarge-imageTower of Solidor, St. ServanTower of Solidor, St. Servan
Tower of Solidor, St. Servan
The Chapel St. Peter of Aleth has built into its fabric some fragments of the ancient ninthand tenth century cathedral of the same name.
enlarge-imagePlans of the Tower of SolidorPlans of the Tower of Solidor
Plans of the Tower of Solidor
There are many remains of the old city walls, and St. Servan ranks with St. Malo as a vivid reminder of other days.
There is one popular sight of Brittany near St. Malo, which cannot be ignored,—the rock-carvedtomb of St. Budoc. This holy man lived in the days when Celtic was a living tongue, and Irish, Scots, Welshmen, and Bretons, one and all, used the same speech.
Many a year has passed, and St. Budoc has been all but forgotten. Besides his religious fervour, the memory of which exists but vaguely, there is left as a reminder of his existence his tomb and a prophecy which has come down by word of mouth through the natives.
To-day there is a modern hermit who lives near the tomb of the saint, and carves a sort of symbolical prophecy in stone for his own amusement and the marvel of tourists.
It is rather a cheap sort of a shrine, and one that is wholly visionary so far as its real significance goes, but it is a very satisfying one to most who view it, like the “Blarney Stone” and St. Patrick’s grave, which are frauds of the first water.
One comes to Rothéneuf—a little Breton coast village—by road, tramway, or carriage from Paramé, if he comes at all. Here just beyond the village itself the cliffs are curiously carved into all manner of human shapes,—the work of the aforesaid hermit, who, although he be not a young man, certainly is not so old as to have carved all the stones whichhere exist; at least they look much older, though the stress of weather may account for that.
Evidently there is a devotion for St. Budoc, and belief in his prophecy of the downfall of France is one day or another to become true. The old monk or priest—for in reality this hermit of to-day is a churchman—is evidently the chief disciple of the cult, for he perpetuates his version of this long-lost legend in his modern carvings.
The text of this old prophecy was vague and visionary, but enough has come down to place definitely the fact that a Napoleon was to rise and fall in the beginning of the nineteenth century, and that the Church was to be parted from its children,—referring presumably to the Concordat of 1802.
No version of the prophecy exists in Celtic literature, but the monk Olivarius published, in Luxembourg in 1544, a version which was supposed to have been handed down from the old Celtic monk himself. Since that time contemporary literature has had various references thereto, the last apparently in 1904, when one appeared in Gaston Medy’s “Echo of the Marvellous.”
This last version, or promulgation, of theCelt’s prophecy carries us even into the future, 432 moons from the foundation of the present French republic,i. e.thirty-six years, which would be in 1906. “Woe to thee, great city,” is a phrase which is supposed to refer to the fall of Paris; whether as Rome fell, from an excess of glory, or into the hands of the invader, is not stated. At any rate, the event is to come to pass in the year of our Lord 1906, 432 moons from the beginning of the great Republique Française. Let all who will be mindful.
On the opposite bank of the Rance from St. Malo is Dinard-St. Énogat, occupying a magnificent site known in part as the Bec de la Valle. The country-houses of Dinard are famous, though they are built in that vague architectural style accepted the world over as being something appropriate to a species of residence less sumptuous than a palace or a château.
It is a pity that the word is not better understood by the people, and a pity, too, that most villas in France—and in England, for that matter—are abominable, queer chicken-coops, with names like Villa Napoli, Villa Saint Germain, Villa la Belle-Issue, Villa Belle-Rive, and Villa Bric-à-Brac. All these are found at Dinard, and more, and, as may be imagined, the summer life of this town of country-housesis in many respects as gay and bizarre as the architecture and names of the villas themselves.
The aspect of the waterside of the charming little place—for Dinard is charming, in spite of it all—belies these strictures somewhat, with the warm glow of the sinking sun gilding the roof-tops, as the emerald waters of the great bay ebb and flow beneath their feet.
Dinard has another and more interesting side in an admirable architectural monument,—the ruins of an ancient priory, founded in 1324 by Olivier and Geoffroy de Montfort. The fine Gothic chapel is now ruined and moss-grown, but there are still to be seen the tombs of the Chevaliers de Montfort, who were mighty chieftains in their day. Within the grounds also is a curious statue of the Virgin placed beneath the enormous fig-tree.
The beach is of course the great attraction of the summer resident, when he is not drinking cool drinks at the casino or eating at the café restaurant on the terrace.
St. Énogat, which is usually linked with the mention of Dinard by a hyphen, has much the same aspect as its partner,—villas, Swiss châlets, and cottages. St. Énogat bears the name of one of the first bishops of Aleth, and its proximity to the great cliffs fringing thecoast, and the high rocks just offshore, make its location even more beautiful than that of Dinard itself. Westward of St. Énogat are St. Jacut, St. Cast, and Cap Fréhel, and nearer St. Lunaire and St. Briac.
All are very popular resorts during the summer months, and are attractive spots—or would be but that accommodation in all is limited, and what there is is sadly overcrowded for the three fine months of the year.
St. Lunaire has an ancient eleventh-century church, placing it somewhat on the plane of an artistic shrine. Practically, the edifice is abandoned to-day, but it contains the tomb of St. Lunaire, a work of the thirteenth or fourteenth century, made up of some fragmentary sculptures thought to have come from the primitive church.
St. Briac has much the same characteristics, though of itself it counts an all-the-year-round population of two thousand or more souls.
It owes its name to a Celtic hermit-saint, who came from Ireland in the early days of the evangelizing missions of the Irish monks, and has the ruined Château of Pontbriant for an attraction. It has not the misfortune to have become as fashionable as Dinard-St. Énogat, and is therefore the more enjoyable. Trulyis it a delightful little corner of the world, where those who are town-weary may take their ease and ruminate on the futility of attempting to put order into the universe.
This whole region is a wonderful galaxy of natural beauties, to be discovered and appreciated only by oneself. They shall be nameless here that that pleasure may not be curtailed.
The route to Dinan from St. Malo by the tidal river Rance is one of those enjoyable journeys which impress the mind in an indelible fashion. It is a matter of twenty-four kilometres as the crow flies, and about the same by the water route of the fishes.
Dinan is a real mediæval town, with a wall or rampart something over a mile in length. It is a most interesting centre for the charming country round about, and is in itself a typical feudal relic of the days when cities were enclosed by walls and only entered through fortified gates.
Originally the thirteenth-century ramparts were defended by twenty-four towers, of which a dozen, perhaps, still remain. Three great gateways, the gates of Jerzual, of St. Malo, and St. Louis, still remain in all their fortified splendour; the fourth, the Porte de Brest, has been demolished.
enlarge-imageThe Valley of the RanceThe Valley of the Rance
The Valley of the Rance
The old streets of the mediæval city still exist, too, much in the same state as they were in mediæval times.
The porches or covered passages are a feature of many of the old-time houses, and are most quaint and artistic.
The church of St. Malo dates from 1490, and that of St. Sauveur from the twelfth to the fifteenth century. The chief historical figure of Dinan’s past was Bertrand Duguesclin, the young Breton noble who so distinguished himself in the fourteenth century on the side of France against the English.
enlarge-imageDuguesclin, from his statue in the Abbey of St. Denis.Duguesclin, from his statue in the Abbey of St. Denis.
Duguesclin, from his statue in the Abbey of St. Denis.
He was born at Motte-Broons, near Dinan, toward 1320. “He had a sunburned face, with a snub nose, and green eyes, an awkward gait, and a rough and untractable nature,” one reads in the words of Simeon Luce; and from the existing portraits of him, all this is true.
He was a warrior, from his earliest days, of the most thoroughgoing type. He was the sortof small boy whom mothers find looking for trouble. He would lead on the village lads to fight, and, when victory had all but appeared, on one side or the other, he would throw himself into the breach to start the fight again, just like a wolf, after which he would lead both sides to a tavern to drink, and heal old sores.
On the ninth of July, 1812, the heart of the redoubtable Duguesclin was brought to Dinan and placed in the north transept of the Church of St. Sauveur amid an imposing assemblage.
The sarcophagus bears the following inscription, which shows that the warrior who really was responsible for the banishment of the English from France “ranked in company with kings,” as his French admirers put it.
GY : GIST : LE CUEUR : DEMESSIRE : BERTRAN : DU GUEAQUIEN : SON VIVAT CONETITABLE DEFRACE : QUI : TRESPASSA : LE XIIIeJOUR : DE : JULLET : L’AN : MIL IIIeIIIIxx: DONT : SON : CORPS : REPOSAVECQUES : CEULX : DES : ROISA SAINCT : DENIS EN FRANCE.
The great clock-tower, a fine fifteenth-century building with a massive spire, is found in the Rue de l’Horloge. It was given to the town by Anne of Brittany in 1507.
The Château of Dinan was built by the Breton dukes (1382-87). Its history was varied and vivid, as one reads in the pages of M. Gaultier de Mottay.
enlarge-imageRez-de-Chausée of Donjon—DINAN
Oliver Clisson, Gilles of Brittany, Viscount Rohan, Duchess Anne, Laurent Hamon, and many others whose names are famous in the history of Brittany have walked through these halls, of which only the hold to-day remains as a tourist “sight.”
The Tower of Coëtquen, one of the ancient towers of the city wall, forms practically a part of the old castle, but the keep, or the Queen Anne’s Tower, a hundred or more feet in height and of four stories,—the topmost reached by a spiral stairway of 148 steps,—is the most distinct feature still standing.
In the interior are a number of obscure cells which were, and indeed are still, terrible dungeons. The guard-room is on the second floor, with also a little room, which served as an oratory for the Duchess Anne. The third floor is occupied by the Constable’s Hall, and the fourth by a Hall of Arms, a fine vaulted apartment.
To-day the castle is a prison, and the rank and file of visitors may not enter this fine mediæval monument, but, if one have a proper appreciation of the architectural delights of a mediæval fortress, and be diplomatic in his request, very likely his wish to enter will be gratified.
One of the principal industries of Dinan is the fabrication of sail-cloth. It is an admirably placed industry, with its market close at hand, and most of the Breton and Norman fishing-boats of these parts sport a full suit of Dinan manufacture.
In the environs of Dinan are innumerable charming excursions mostly neglected. One such must surely be included in one’s itinerary,—a visit to the old Priory of Lehon, a dependency of the Abbey of Marmoutier.
It was founded in 850 by Nominoë, in honour of St. Magloire, whose relics were brought from the Isle of Jersey to Dinan. The ruins, as seen to-day, are most ample and beautiful, showing the best of thirteenth-century Gothic.
Besides this, Lehon has the picturesque ruins of a twelfth and thirteenth century castle perched high upon the summit of an eminence overlooking the headwaters of the Rance. The castle came to the hands of the Dukes of Brittany; Charles of Blois stayed there in 1356 after his return from England, and Raoul Coëtquen was made captain in 1402, since which time its history has been lost or hidden in the pages of the untranslated chroniclers.
In 1624 the priory monks robbed the castle for material with which to construct their beautiful cloister, but enough remains to-day, hidden away among a mass of ivy and lichen-grown ruins, to indicate its former prominence.
Altogether Lehon and its two romantic memories of other days is a “sight” not to be missed.
An old custom formerly prevailed here at Pentecost, when the newly married were supposed to present themselves before the prior of the monastery for a sort of last blessing, as it would seem.
They sang the following refrain, and went back to their home, or to the festival in the neighbouring village, with never a care beyond to-day:
“Si je suis mariée vous le savez bien;Si je suis mal à l’aise vous n’en savez rien.Ma chanson est dite, je ne vous dois plus rien.”
“Si je suis mariée vous le savez bien;Si je suis mal à l’aise vous n’en savez rien.Ma chanson est dite, je ne vous dois plus rien.”
This seems a philosophical way of looking at things, and shows an easy conscience and open mind on the part of all concerned.
Seated upon the western shore of the great Bay of Mont St. Michel is Cancale, whence come the oysters. The six thousand inhabitants of this quaintly rock-environed place have a physiognomy so distinctly their own as to mark them for a type. Feyen-Perrin and his brother have painted the Cancale people in a manner never to be forgotten by those who are familiar with their work.
Anciently Cancale was known as Cancaven, and is a survival among neighbouring settlements which have succumbed to the encroachments of the ocean.
In 1032, it became a dependency of the Abbey of Mont St. Michel. In 1758, it was pillaged by the English under the Duke of Marlborough, and the English fleet again bombarded it in 1779.
La Houle is the real port of Cancale, and the centre for the oyster industry. At low tide the boats of the fishers are drawn up on the yellow sands, there to remain until the return of the tide. At low tide all the village comes from the town above and repairs to the oyster-beds. The general outgoing, which seems to the stranger the emigration of the whole population, has been described by a Frenchman as: “Un défile, interminable, bruyant, cadencé, le bruit des pas coupé de paroles et de rires.”
This great outpouring continues until quite all the available help of the female persuasion has departed, leaving practically only the old and infirm to guard the houses and shops until the return of the tide.
Cancale is one of the most celebrated oyster-rearing districts of the world, but, if the tourist arrive there during the summer months which lack the “R,” he will eat not of them; the natives look upon it as downright crime even to think of serving them to you; the mussel will have to be your substitute. It is alwaysin season, though it looks about as perishable in hot weather as the oyster, and probably is so. Tradition and superstition account for the upholding of many institutions in this world, and the oyster season appears to be one of them.
The celebrated Rocks of Cancale lie just below the town,—a black mass of rocks, about which the waves of the ocean fawn and growl like a parcel of wolves.
The Point of Grouin is simply an exaggeration of the same rocky formation as that of Cancale, and the same which unrolls itself all around the coast up to Cape Fréhel. To the west is the Bay of St. Malo, and to the east the Bay of Mont St. Michel.
Michelet wrote of this famous mount off the Breton coast as follows:
“The gigantic rock is an abbey, a cloister, a fortress, and a prison, with exquisite sublimity and true dignity. It rises like a titanic tower, rock upon rock, keep upon keep, and century upon century. Below the monks; higher the iron cage of Louis XI. (who, it seems, left these details rather numerously about his domain); higher yet the cell of Louis XIV.; higher yet the prison of to-day. All is in awhirlwind; Mont St. Michel is a very sepulchre of peace.”
Michelet’s was not wholly a cheerful view. He was rather a gloomy man, it would seem, but it is perhaps proper enough to record his views here, as most of us will praise this wonderful work to the limit of our imagination.
Really Mont St. Michel is not of Brittany. To-day the changing of the boundary westward to the little river Couesnon brings it just over the line into Normandy, though both ramblers in Normandy and ramblers in Brittany may properly enough include it in their itineraries, and should do so.
To such spirits as like that sort of thing, there is a way open to the landing, high up in the tower of the abbey, whence there is a wonderful view. Michelet wrote of it, on the occasion of a visit, that it was a place for fools; that he knew no spot more suitable to bring on an attack of vertigo.
Michelet’s description of the quicksands which surround the mount is distinctly good. The native will tell you that you must not venture upon them, but he himself does so, and nothing happens. In spite of this, let the visitor so much as leave the causeway a dozen yards—to focus his camera—and a half-dozenburly fellows will hurl themselves upon him and drag him back, declaring they have saved his life, which means that one ultimately pays them something; a franc each is about the price that they apparently consider a life worth. Sometimes some poor soul is engulfed, but it is a first-class scare in most instances. Michelet says of these quicksands (“cendre blanche”), “It is not land; it is not sea; I myself only just escaped being engulfed.”
As a sort of side-show to the wonderful Abbey of Mont St. Michel is the stern and barren Isle of Tombelaine.
It lies, also amid its own desert of sand or water, according to the state of the tide, about a mile, or perhaps a little more, to the north-east of the mount.
It is a simple islet of granite, uncultivated, and as wild as it always has been. It rises perhaps 125 feet above the sea-level, like a giant stepping-stone, between the mount and the neighbouring coast before Avranches in Normandy.
Its history is intimately bound with that of the mount itself, but to-day it has few, if any, visitors. It played a certain minor part in the war of the Hundred Years, when it served as a sturdy buttress for the English fleet.
From the tenth to the seventeenth century it was occupied by a religious colony from the abbey of the mount, and held a diminutive priory bearing the vocable of Our Lady la Gisant; “a gentle Madonna,” says an imaginative Frenchman, “standing beside the archangel with the sword.”
In the midst of the Marsh of Dol—the great Bay of Mont St. Michel—is a granite eminence some two hundred feet above the surrounding plain, at the summit of which is built the little village of Mont Dol. It is supposed to be the site of an ancient shrine consecrated to the druids.
Two kilometres from Mont Dol is the great menhir of Champ Dolent, a relic of the stone age which was pagan, but is to-day surmounted by a Christian cross, which seems paradoxical. It has no pretence to beauty or architectural grandeur, and is to be regarded only as a mysterious curiosity.
When one first comes to Dol in Brittany he is in a quandary. Which is it, city or village? The writer does not know even yet. It has all the quaintness and rustic picturesqueness of a mere hamlet, and again, in its station, its hotels, and its tree-lined boulevard, it takes on the aspect of a city. At any rate, if it belongsto the latter classification, it is somnolent, and accordingly delightful.
“Here, my good fellow, can you direct me to the Hôtel de la Poste,” one says to the first native he meets after leaving the station. “Certainly, my good man,” he replies in an equally patronizing tone, “I will take you there.” He declines all remuneration, of course, and will not be patronized in any way. Decidedly he is a most independent individual, but polite withal.
Stendhal, in his “Traveller’s Memories,” said of the great frowning cathedral of the episcopal city of Dol: “It is the most beautiful example of a Gothic edifice which I have seen.” It is not difficult to follow his reasoning, for the grim walls of its façade, in the simplest and severest style, are indeed magnificent examples of the undecorated Gothic of a very early period. Most folk, however, will not call it beautiful when Chartres, Rheims, Beauvais, or even Sées are in mind.
Dol, at any rate, forming the gateway to Brittany, from Normandy through the Cotentin, was a most important centre of Christianity in the sixth century.
The foundation of Dol dates from 548, when a colony of Britons coming from Ireland settledhere under the leadership of St. Samson, from whom the present cathedral is named. This is but another of those links which bind the history of Brittany with that of the Celts from overseas. Legend continues the story thus: “Thou goest by the sea” (St. Samson was told), “and where thou wilt disembark, thou shalt find a well. Over this thou wilt build a church, and around it will group the houses forming the city, of which thou wilt be bishop.”
All this came to pass, and for long ages the town has been known as the episcopal city of Dol. William the Conqueror besieged Dol in 1075, but retired after forty days, having failed to sustain his attack. Henry II. of England invaded the city, and Jean Lackland fortified himself here in 1203, but it was retaken by Guy de Thouars in the year following.
Up to Revolutionary times the career of Dol was unceasingly riotous and bloody, but little evidences of a part so played remain visible to-day. All that reminds one of its antiquity is the charmingly severe and simply outlined Cathedral of St. Samson, and the numerous timbered houses with their street-front galleries, always a most interesting feature of a mediæval town.
Sixteen kilometres south of Dol is Combourg,not an important town in many ways, and yet very important, if one demands a sixteenth-century or earlier label on all he admires.
As a French visitor to Combourg has said, “La gare de Combourg is not Combourg; you have yet fifteen hundred metres to go.” This is not a great distance, but, as the town is so completely hidden from the railway, the sensation is that of alighting far from a centre of civilization.
The Château of Combourg is one of those indescribable picturesque fourteenth and fifteenth century structures which owe much to situation and environment. It has a picturesquely disposed market clustered about it, so that the cries of porkers and their venders mingle with the stately pealing of the bell of the great clock, which rings out not only the hour, but the “quarters” in a most sonorous note.
The costumes of both the men and women of the region around Combourg are exceedingly picturesque and novel; the men with blouse and jacket, and the women in black and the coifs of Becherel, Hédé, Tentêniac, and Miniac; all somewhat resembling one another, and that of Miniac looking more like a great white-winged bishop’s mitre than anything else.