| Brittany's
Watchers In The Woods |
| In France |
| by Andrew Hartnagel |
| As anyone
in the tourism industry knows, planning is essential. Perhaps no entrepreneurs
were so aware of this as the early Neolithic people who once inhabited
the far northwest corner of France known as Brittany. Their capitalist
skills were so finely honed that they erected a host of mysterious stones
and tombs in anticipation of the next 5,000 years of curious travelers.
Brilliant.
So it was that
I found myself beside just such a wonder gazing up at its lichen peppered
sides. It looked like some massive figure, completely enrobed, solemnly
keeping vigil over the unknown for some cryptic master. I couldn’t help
but wonder about the people that placed it here and the subsequent travelers,
who like myself, found themselves drawn to it. |
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| I had tirelessly
scoured the pamphlets of a visitor center in Rennes till I happened upon
a promising base camp for whatever it was that I was doing there – the
town of Huelgoat (pronounced Hewl-got, no goat). It’s a small town
in the center of Brittany surrounded by mythical forests, forgotten cottages
and pleasantly unknown. I set camp along the creek that runs through
the town center and though looking a bit wild, wooly and weary, took my
mission out into the woods.
The dolmens
and menhirs are tenebrous stone burial chambers and strange stones of a
variety of sizes sticking up from the ground, respectively. They
seem to imbue the entirety of the region with an enigmatic air peculiar
only to this little peninsula of France. The thick forests crowded
the tumultuous landscape throwing shadow and imagination everywhere.
Streams known only from their babble secretively twisted their way through
boulder strewn valleys.
Early Celtic
tourists settled the area in the 6th century B.C.E., no doubt entranced
by its ambiguous rocks and charm. Even Julius Caesar, one of Gaul’s
most famous travelers, was puzzled by the peninsula when he conquered it
in 56 B.C.E. |
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| It’s so fascinating
in fact, that after the Romans kicked them out, the Celts returned from
their life in Britain to settle the area once.
Even today
the land is an anomalous pocket of Celtic tradition in France. The
Gaelic language is still spoken in some parts and they fiercely display
their culture on or in any flag, window or menu that will bear it. It was
annexed by France in 1532, but 400 years later they’re still not keen on
the French and a strong separatist movement is still alive and well. his
is France’s Quebec.
And though
Brittany is known for its crepes and un-French traditions, it may be
best known as the location of the King Arthur legends. Every seaside village
and inland heather has a secret tale. There isn’t a cave that hasn’t sheltered
a knight or a stream that hasn’t witnessed some marvelous act of chivalry.
The lake where Arthur received Excalibur is rumored to be in the area,
his castle on a local hilltop, and deep in the forests, the resting place
of his sacred quest, the Holy Grail. |
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Offshore Resources Gallery
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| The trails
swung up and down the rolling terrain, the weather was marvelous and
the locals seemed shy, but not withdrawn. It was a wholly agreeable
day for a holy pilgrimage to anywhere. I scuttled over huge boulders
shagged with blankets of moss, through surprisingly young forests, and
even wandered into an apiary by mistake. Massive slabs of rock were
piled around every trail corner, looking as though they’d been tossed there
by some giant farmer eons ago. Occasionally I’d spot some rather
recent stone engravings of a chalice or mysterious symbols as if to suggest
I was on ‘the right track’.
As the trail
plateaued along a hilltop, I came across a large lump in the
ground. A small sign to the side explained that my lump was in fact
a medieval fort. Europe has no shortages of imposing castles and
forts, but medieval lumps in the ground are getting harder and harder to
find. Despite their construction, there is something more concrete
and personal about them than their towering cousins. I stood on top
of the fort and imagined myself up there, guarding…something, let’s say
a grail…with a only a few friends, a thin starving fire and an arrow or
two. I imagined peering off into the mysterious murk of the night
and nervously squeaking out, “Who goes there?” at a noisy squirrel,
hoping none of those menhirs had magically come to life. |
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| My feet
took me outside the forest, across the fields to a small handful of
homes. They were old houses with stone masonry foundations, vintage
doors that were probably more paint than wood and thick glass windows distorted
through the years. I heard children giggling somewhere. The
front doors were wide open, letting the breeze roll through every room.
And when I glanced in – blue print tiles covered the kitchen walls,
worn, chocolate brown wooden countertops held loaves of bread, and thick
maroon sausages dangled from the ceiling. It had all the makings
of a place well loved and well lived. I’d gone back a few centuries
in only a few miles. I imagined a copper can of fresh flowers in
water on the kitchen table and a small old clock chiming on the wall, but
realized the owners probably wouldn’t appreciate a stranger, especially
one with a striking resemblance to the land’s previous neolithic owners,
wandering through their house and so I ambled on. |
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Offshore
Resources Gallery
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| The trail
picked up on the other side of the village, but before I was even on
it, I noticed, in someone’s backyard, behind their vegetable garden, an
unmistakable stone slab protruding from the earth. It must have towered
at near twenty feet. It’s ancient gray sides smoothed by time, the
grass at its feet nicely trimmed as it loomed in a vine strewn glen.
I pressed my palm to its cold surface and looked up.
What the Knights
of the Roundtable would have made of these stones I don’t know. Perhaps
the menhirs were parts of an intricate calendar or guidance system. But
people don’t search them out to learn when to plant their crops or sacrifice
their local virgins anymore. Today, they’re a link to something beyond
ourselves, an ancient but welcomed ‘hello’ from where we came.
Under the
faded orange of the early night, I made my way back to the town center,
a small cobbled square surrounded by tightly packed buildings and dined
on crepes alone in the back one of the few restaurants open in the shadow
of a dark, worn grandfather clock that seemed to enjoy the game of keeping
time, even if it never came close, as if it had rung enough throughout
its life to know better than to take time seriously and tolled out its
chimes whenever it thought I could use a good jolt.
There are
some who will insist on seeing the hundreds of menhirs at Carnac, and
I’m sure they’re worth a look. But there is something important to be said
about finding your own personal megalith and giving it a hug. You can call
me a menhir-hugger, but the quietude and happenstance of the journey produced
such a singular, reverent moment – experiencing the same wonder as those
people who lived so long ago. I understood why people came here. They’re
not as large or complex as some pyramids or monuments and they’re not etched
with any paintings or stories, but they provide the same raw individual
bond with an unknown, but definite past that in some way we all share.
And to think, those wily neolithic businessmen knew that so long ago.
The following
is Andrew's first article for the magazine:
To contact Andrew
Click Here |
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