I catch a stubby Belle-Ile-Bus, for my visit to Jeanne and Jean.
The road rises steeply, out of Le Palais. Swooping through the deep valleys, which incise the island, on its way inland.
Where whitewashed cottages nestle amid vibrantly coloured heathland.
And freshly harvested hay bales dry in the fields.
The driver sets me down, at Le Menhirs stop, beside Jean de Kerledan.
Two hundred metres away, across a wild flower meadow, stands Jeanne. Erected, in the centre of the isle, by the prolific neolithic creators of menhirs, dolmen and tumuli, in whose steps we follow.
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