Ad Lib 76

 

A projection of power fashioned from stone. To the height of available technology. Reflecting the depth of its builders' purse.

Like Carnac’s Le Géant de Manio, Vannes’ Cathedral Saint-Pierre crowns a hilltop. The two separated by just thirty miles, as the angel flies. But five thousand years in time.

Both dwarf their human creators. Reminding them to remain humble in the face of a higher authority. Saint Vincent Ferrer (see Ad Lib 75) stands at the cathedral's imposing double doors. His eyes drawn heavenward.

To the slender spire. . . .

. . . . chased with intricate gothic detail. . . .

. . . .which spears above the city rooftops.

Within, a stained glass story is told of the Christian scriptures: A lowly birth; the servant lord become peaceful shepherd; who tends a flock of saints and apostles.

Along with a suggestion that a more assertive and hierarchical interpretation, of the sacred texts, is possible. One of triumphant armed conquest, supplication and venerating crowds.

Perhaps rooted in more ambiguous religious times? Before the dawn of written history.

Ad Lib 75

Close set streets, built for exploration by human foot or horse's hoof, straggle up a shallow hillside. Cool shadows and warm pools of sunlight shake hands, from overhanging upper storey windows.

Space is at a premium within the mediaeval walls of Vannes. The city's spacious green lungs and lounging spaces lie beyond its ramparts.

With mighty gate arches granting, or denying, access between the two. The most imposing, Vannes's 'front door' if you will, gives onto the harbour.

Stargazer's skipper is able to marvel, daily, at its grandeur, seated in her cockpit. (Gate arch between the main and mizzen masts of the ketch)

Albeit from a low perch. Which necessitates a certain craning of the neck.

High above the milling crowds, Saint-Vincent Ferrer, after whom this ancient portal is named, raises a protective hand. Should he ever lower it, so local legend goes, Vannes will be swallowed in one gulp, by the Golfe du Morbihan.Like a lost Atlantis.

Ad Lib 74

 

Shutters are thrown open, in the stately facades of Vannes. The better to catch a cooling breeze and to bask in the embers of the setting sun. Languid evening strolls are enjoyed, around the quayside at which Stargazer rests.

We sailed from La Trinite with the long armed oyster boats. Not long after low water. 

When the aquatic farms, which they tend, have uncovered and wader clad 'field' hands set about their work.

Two hours later, Stargazer arrives at the mouth of the Golfe du Morbihan. Sucked in by a swirling spring tide. Seventeen knots of breeze on her quarter.

Stargazer's skipper saws at her tiller. Eyes rigidly fixed upon the white Petit Vezid daymark. Jib furled, to aid forward vision. Tide whirls and cross currents shake Stargazer's bow this way and that. Like the proverbial dog chewing at a tasty bone.

We bear off, for Ile Longue and Gavrinis. The current across us now. Running faster sideways than we are sailing forwards. Urging Stargazer toward hungry granite teeth.

We crab past Ile Berder. Into the heart of the inland sea. Stargazer's course straightens. Her skipper's heart rate reduces. 

The scenery slips by at a more sedate pace. Allowing time for the splendour and scale, of this watery wonderland, to strike home. Islets and pinnacles stud blue waters. Small craft put out from countless craggy coves.

A Breton lugger companionably keeps pace alongside. Withies, oyster racks and pastureland line the southern horizon.

Stargazer lopes along the Arradon shore. North of Ile Aux Moines and Ile d'Arz. Her skipper still attentive to pilotage, but venturing to brew a soothing pot of coffee. 

Before we gybe to clear the chapel topped Ile de Boedig. Clearing the Roguedas shoal. Stargazer's skipper once more alert at the tiller.

His eyes locked on 'the pink house.' Which indicates the leading line, to clear an unmarked reef, that lurks on the inside of the bend.

The close set, tree topped, cliffs of Port Anna blanket Stargazer's wind, for a while. Before an obliging tide, and a gentle zephyr, carry us to the head of the Vannes channel.

Ad Lib 73

 

Lazy Boy, a tiger burning bright on the La Trinite pontoons. Yann Gapais' JPK 1050 is still in residence, after seizing third place at this spring's Spi Ouest regatta (fully crewed category). In which, yard owner, Jean-Pierre Kelbert (JPK) won all four of the double-handed races. Sailing with Alex Ozon, aboard JPK 1050 PersaiVert.

The JPK 1050 (described by JPK as 'a mini Class40') has taken the thirty-five foot, short handed, offshore racing scene by storm. Since Jean-Pierre celebrated the design's launch, last year, by winning the legendary Fastnet Race. Aboard his own JPK 1050 Leon, this time teamed up with Alex Loison.

Such is La Trinite's popularity, amongst racers and cruisers alike, that space to moor a boat is perenially at a premium. All available deep water long since occupied by moorings or marina pontoons.

A problem which the town has tackled by the construction of a giant Port-a-Sec, on a stretch of open land below the bridge, over the past couple of years. 

Boats are lifted ashore between outings. Relaunched as required. Which suits the seasonal, or occasional, use to which many owners subject their craft.

A summertime high hovers above Stargazer. Bringing long sun filled days and light easterly zephyrs. Conditions in which passage distances must necessarily be kept short. Tomorrow evening, we shall make for the island-bejeweled waters of the Golfe du Morbihan. Where tidal assistance will be available aplenty.

Ad Lib 72

 

A shaft of sunlight pierces the leaf canopy, to light the glade before me. Birdsong and wind-sigh fill a silence which hangs heavy as a velvet drape. In the distance, Sunday church bells peal.

Underfoot, the sharp crackle, of twig and pine cone, seem shockingly loud. As I follow an overgrown path further into the deep green of this forest realm. 

Fashioned from a fissure in a bluff, the Dolmen de Kermarquer slowly reveals itself, from amid dappled shadows. Built, by a mysterious civilisation, long before the coming of Christianity. 

Their edifices, oft as not, engineered around the curves and contours of the living landscape. Further on, the Tumulus of Keroc'h tops a natural rise. Its entrance marked by a standing stone. 

The man made works cloak themselves in nature's infinite variety of foliage: Dark and sharp. . . .

. . . .soft and bright. . . .

. . . .dainty and diaphanous. 

A wildflower meadow surrounds the Dolmen de Kermario.

Which is of wholly man made construction: walls as well as capstones. The setting lent presence through its encirclement, by the massed stone armies of Les Alignements de Carnac.

Which emerge from the shade of the broadleaf woodlands.

To file over hill and dell.

Stretching for as far as the eye can see. Their procession three miles long. Their complement three thousand strong. 

Similar creations, of a smaller scale, are spread across the shorelines of Atlantic France, the Isles of Scilly and on north to Scandinavia. Suggesting that a seafaring society was their architect.

The purpose of this extensive and elaborate stone sculpting is much speculated upon. For, its statement still resonates powerfully, five thousand years after completion.

Ad Lib 71

A gauzy curtain, of sea mist, is swept aside by a briskly rising sun. Sleepy sailors emerge to sample the still air. Treading dew damp decks.

A swift flowing tide sweeps up the La Trinite channel. Sending out scouts to explore each rill, pool and harbour basin, as it passes.

It slaloms through the meanders beyond the bridge. Where the oyster beds, and the spider-armed flat bottomed craft, which work them, lie.

Past a group of gentleman's day sailors. Gathered for a Saturday morning get together on a marina pontoon.

Past cruising boats resting from their travels.

Below them, Armel Tripon's multicoloured IMOCA and a cluster of Class40's also put their feet up. Today's conditions insufficiently spicy for their tastes.

At the first sniff of a sea breeze, sails are hoisted, amidst a mass clicking of winch pawls. The starting gun, for the weekend, has been fired.