Bastille Day July 14

Imagine a group of your friends, say a dozen, who decide to gather for the Independence Day weekend. What can you picture yourselves doing for fun? A backyard picnic, a long dinner replete with conversation that turns political and escalates into loving discord? Sure thing, very American. Then get up Sunday morning to take a 13 mile hike. Yikes. Three day post Brocéliande hike, and I’m feeling old and American. Our leaders have detailed topographical maps that take us across the stretch of beach at low tide, through woodland paths and down country roads. We picnic courtesy of the delivery ladies bringing our leftovers from last nights’ potluck, and stop to rest on the way home at this old well. As we traipse past the bay alive with yachts sliding by on a fresh breeze, I playfully reproach Agnès for having landlubber friends instead of the seafaring variety. She assures me that she has those friends, too. And the pride, in hindsight, of having managed to complete the challenging trek.

This day requires that I face cultural differences that I know on an intellectual level but find challenging nonetheless. These are folks accustomed to a day in the wilderness, so stepping behind a haystack is the order of the day. I opt to avoid the possibility of my knee going down and not coming back up and wait. When the day ends at the beach where the non-hikers meet us with suits, I am faced with the famous changing act on the beach. Yikes. All of this would have been easy if I were not now built like the typical American. Enough said. The water is simply wonderful, healing and invigorating. The families on weekend are a delight to watch, and we do get home to plumbing, eventually.

Broceliande July 12

The University classes met in the wild on Thursday July 12 to visit the sites of Arthurian legend in Brittany, a topic of special interest to me. We dressed for a day of rugged hiking in the unseasonable chill and welcomed the stop for hot coffee in the town of Paimpont where we picked up our storytelling guide for the day. I nosed around the abbey, transported as usual by the realization that it was first built in the 7th century, with 12th and 16th century additions and renovations. A former forest brigand, Gueslin, held sway in the 11th century.


We made a photo stop at the Chateau de Trécesson, a 14th to 15th century fortified manor built during the war of succession in Bretagne by the Duc Jean IV on the site of a 6th century castle, complete with water filled moat. There is a legend of the White Lady who appears to believers, stemming from the story of a young girl killed by her brothers in the field beside the castle, buried alive for her alleged transgressions.

The 12th century Arthurian myths are based on the 5th century figure, who wielded enough power to hold at bay the Saxon incursions into England and then to take the battle to the Saxons on the continent. The stories weave heroes into the mystery of local phenomena, like the Fountain of Barenton, said to be the threshold of Merlin’s home. The mystery of this small spring is the contrast of its exceptionally cold water with the periodic release of bubbles from under the surface, giving it the appearance of boiling. I imagine the Science Babe could explain the phenomenon, but I can see why the locals turned to legend. There is a group of small school children with their teachers waiting their turn to see the fountain as we hike on.


The smallest church of the region boasts a décor and a modern tradition that blend the early Celtic, the Christian, and the Arthurian into an amazing whole. In order to get the troublemaker of a young ecclesiastic out of the way, the church sent Abbé Gillard to this backwater parish in 1942, where he served until his death in 1979. He oversaw the restoration of the little church built to honor Saint Onenne, a 7th century martyr, with paintings and stained glass windows that combined images of the last supper with the Round Table and the Grail. One corner of the front window makes a political statement: the bunny is shushing to indicate a secret beside the shield symbolizing Bretagne with 5 departments, though the southern one was governmentally assigned to a different province. The tourist traffic to the little church has increased exponentially, and tours troop through regularly. Only the most sacramental services are held here now, such as local weddings or baptisms. Local believers attend weekly services at a nearby community church.

When we settle beside a still pool to hear the story of the fairy sisters who chose to live under water rather than compete in the world of men, I catch sight of one of the school children stooping pensively by the seven sisters pond, a young Arthur awaiting the guidance of his Merlin.

My fellow French teacher/students, Christina, a Brazilian, and Stella, a Nigerian, are enrolled in the didactic classes rather than the linguistic and culture track that I chose, so we find each other at lunch and enjoy this day together. The camaraderie of this international group is priceless, though all are worn out. The pensive portraits are my Czech classmates Katerina and Alana, Spaniard Anna, and Villanova student, Dan.

Mont Saint Michel July 8

I have visited the Mont Saint Michel numerous times as a member or leader of a group, but this is my first personal tour. I left the main street up to the cathedral this time and discovered a whole network of winding pathways that connect the village clinging to the rocky hillside of the Mount. I found another walk along the ramparts with access to restaurants and an elegant hotel that I had never seen and felt foolish to have never delved further than the superficial here. The parish church of St. Peter is still one of my favorite spots, a dim quiet corner under the towering figure of Saint Michael. It was here that I first met Saint Roch and his dog, whose portrait I always take for Sue. Here too I met a Benedictine monk when inquiring about my chapelet honoring Saint Michael. I still have his mailing address from having sent him the beads.

The island offers a treasure of architectural history, from the primitive hermitage in the early centuries of this era up to the gothic marvel of the cathedral that towers above the sea as a landmark visible in a shimmering haze from far across the Norman plain. This place was home to centuries of Benedictines who preserved and carried on the work of book making. It also carries on the tradition of visions urging the dedication of a chapel to Saint Michael, whose first sanctuary was consecrated to him in Italy in 490 by the bishop of Siponto in a grotto on Mount Gargon. Monks brought relics from that site to the new Mount off the Norman-Breton coast in 709; those relics of Saint Michael disappeared in 1791 during the French Revolution. There is also a Saint Michael’s Mount off the Cornwall coast at Penzance, and the Tor of Glastonbury is crowned with the tower of a church once dedicated to Saint Michael.

The beheaded statue is a common sight in French monuments. During the French Revolution, the political power of the church sided with the power of the monarchy, putting all that represented Christianity in the line of fire of the revolutionaries. It was as foolish of them to find satisfaction in crippling the artwork as it was of the church leaders to lust for the trappings of temporal power. The legacy is a stark reminder of the role of faith in our lives, and the potential for abuse, a seemingly endless trail of new and twisted abuses in the name of faith down through the ages.

There is a magic about this place that defies description and makes of it one of the wonders of the modern world.

Rennes, Capital of Brittany July 1-27

Rennes is the capital city of Bretagne, but the Bretonne character is complex enough that even this diverse city cannot be said to encompass all that is Brittany. Historically, there was even a language barrier between the inland Bretons and those on the north and west coasts of this western arm of France: the Celtic peoples linked to the sea spoke Breton, and the Rennois and inland inhabitants Gallo. When French became the language of the cities, the countryside still spoke Gallo or Breton, adding to the divergent cultures. Brittany nonetheless feels a cohesive region with a provincial cultural tradition within its national identity as French.

The sea on the north and south coasts exerts, of course, an enormous influence on the life of the coastal towns of Brittany, by shaping the professions and the cuisine, clothing, and family structure. The traditional finely embroidered gowns of the women of Finistère speak of fishermen’s wives with much time waiting. They say that the black dresses of the island women come from the mortally dangerous fishing conditions, which meant that they were virtually always in mourning for someone in the family.

Rennes is a modern city, with roots deep, deep into the past. The contrast seems stark to the newcomer, but to the local, living with the monuments and treasures of the past is a norm. From the presentations in the Brittany is Universal and Brittany in 1001 Images museum exhibits, it seems that Brittany sees itself as shaped by a history going back to prehistoric times, with stone age archeological remains to 4 million B.C., Neolithic cairns, and Megalithic stone henges, Bronze Age tools, and Celtic goddesses who blended seamlessly with the Roman. After enduring Roman rule and British immigration and the eventual merger with France, Brittany was the last of the duchies to come under the crown when the Duchess Anne married Charles VIII and later Louis XII ( the only Queen to two French kings.)


This 1930s mosaique exterior done by an artist named Odorico faces the Lycée Emile Zola. Zola is the writer who courageously stood up to the storm of public opinion that convicted Captain Dreyfus of treason in a trial conducted here in Rennes. Zola decried the blatant anti-Semetic smear, crying out for justice. His books were burned in the streets, but in the end, he is honored and Dreyfus was exonerated.

The categories in the 1001 images exhibit are self-descriptive: yesterday and today, earth, rock, legend, waterways, light, sound, scents, songs, dances, combats – here photos of the Black Tide as well as of war, mounts, wind, sea, isles, birds, cities, citizens. The photos of people are also telling of Breton identity, beginning with writers and poets, singers, musicians, painters, engravers, sculptors, factory workers, religious processions, and striking protesters. The exhibit ends on a global note, describing Brittany as “Open to the world, to the echoes of the cultures of the planet.”

This sense of Brittany as a close-knit community steeped in tradition is balanced by a recognition of that very openness to the wide world. The people are warm and friendly, delighted to hear even the roughest effort to speak French and effusive in their compliments for the French teachers’ rusty endeavors. Shopkeepers, waiters, regulars on the daily bus route to the university, ask about America and Americans, our ways in daily life, our work and the vastness of our continent with an eagerness to verify what they have heard.









Our courses at the University of Rennes give me an insight into the pedagogy of the French system and its reflection of the culture. We study phonetics and the methods of oral and written argument, with enriching courses in film and architecture, and a wonderful cultural study of 19th century romanticism. The international students are Spanish, Czech, Danish, Brazilian, Italian, Nigerian, Japanese, a delightful diverse group united by the common study of French.









Any temptation to simplify or to categorize the people of Brittany fails in the face of my own personal experience. My connection, my belonging to Brittany, comes from the Lessart family whose ties to the land are profound. Papa and Marylise and the Lefèbvre cousins still live close to the roots of their grandparents. But Christine went to Spain for a Master’s degree and stayed for a lifetime.

My new host family adds another dimension to my perception of the Breton people. Agnès was born to Breton parents in Morocco while her father was in the military, so she did not live in France until she came at age 18 for her university years. She traveled extensively and studied in England, where much like Christine, she married an Englishman. They moved back to Brittany eventually, but one of her daughters followed her mother’s pattern and moved to Iceland where she married and stayed. Certainly Brittany, a land steeped in ancient tradition, is open to the world!