A fiercely fought, Saturday morning, battle of petanque rages on the Treguier river bank. Although one would not know it, from the silence in which it is conducted. The only sound, to be heard, is the clash of the polished steel boules. It is left to body language, to convey the ferocity of the combat.
At sea, an easterly gale blows. Thirty knots, or more, churning the seas high. Whilst, in the midst of the rolling Breton countryside, an occasional gust sets the broadleaf branches swaying. Its passage marked merely by a catspaw of ripples, fanning across a tranquil river Jaudy.
Stone cottages cluster on the river cliff. In a scene which could as easily come from the English West Country, or Wales.
Whence Saint Tugdual fled, in the face of the Anglo-Saxon conquest of his homeland. Founding a monastry, where the waters of the Jaudy and the Guindy join, at Treguier. In turn giving rise to a mediaeval cathedral, built on, what had by then become, a site of pilgrimage.
The distinctive piercings, of the cathedral spire, are best seen during the walk up to the village square. From within, the brightly lit shapes, set agaist the darkly shadowed masonry, must have something of the fascination of the night sky to it. (I did try to put this theory to the test. But, whilst the body of the church was open, access to the tower proved not to be possible).
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