My mind is playing catch up with my body. The latter lands in a grey and wet autumnal Europe. The former is still lagging behind in Hongkong market stalls selling teapots and arcane talismans, lurking, like a ghost, through deep cool urban canyons with stubborn clinging roots and hopeful greenery, is still wandering among gumtrees and hearing the Australian magpie, is still leaving footprints on black sand beaches lined with palm trees. It's not jet lag, it's reality lag, an impossible collision. For at least a month, I will have images popping up, unbidden, pushing with sunny Austral sharpness through the fog and storms of my final destination.
When I land in Brest, Phil picks me up with his boat, Zingara, the gipsy. Giddy with joy, we sail to Camaret, at the far western tip of Brittany, western France, at the end of a cross-shaped peninsula. The Finistere, Land's End, 'le bout du monde', as people call it here, the last cafés, library, pharmacy, supermarket before you hit, on a straight line, the north of the state of Maine, USA. OK, you get it. It really is the end of the road.
Camaret nests along the seafront and up the hills and cliffs that shelter the bay from the westerlies. A spit of land, le sillon, breaks the swell and is home to an old granite chapel that has bravely resisted the battering of waves and a fort, built by Vauban in the late 17th century to spot approaching foes. Standing stones line the top of the hill, an eerie beacon of a long-forgotten, mysterious past.
Proud and stubborn, the small Finistere harbour sits there, doing a good job of welcoming the moderate onslaught of holiday-makers, who, from June to September, will more than quadruple its population of 2600 souls. Until the 1960s, at the height of lobster fishing in Mauritania, it had its hour of glory and people had money coming out of their ears. The enforcement of fishing quotas by the European Union brought this to an end. Camaret retreated within itself and left the langoustiers (lobster-fishing boats) rust and rot on the sillon.
I left its shores for my travels in November 2018 and it feels like I am coming back to an unchanged world. There are still cheap oysters and fresh fish at the end of the quay, yachts are still bobbing in the two marinas and, when the sun is out, a cigarette smoking, newspaper reading crowd huddles at the terrace of various cafés with maritime names such as La Chaloupe (the rowboat), La Touline (some sort of mooring line), L'Espadon (the swordfish) or incongruous ones like Cocoon and The Donegan, an Irish pub that serves pizzas and has Murphy and Kilkenny on tap. The baker, Tam Bara (the piece of bread in Breton) is still reputed to be the best and a steady line of worshippers can be seen walking the cobbled alleyways through the artists' quarter on a Sunday morning, clutching their croissants and baguettes. A weekly 'feuille de chou', the town leaflet, is still published every Friday with local info, such as the doctors' phone numbers, the school dinner menus, the cinema program, card game tournaments, yoga lessons, fridges for sale and patchwork quilts charity draws.
When I was in the Kimberley, I decided I would never again complain when it rains. I am hanging to that promise with my fingertips. Where high pressures usually sit, huge weather systems crouch in the middle of the Atlantic, sending grey tendrils, an army of lead clouds and accompanying gale force winds to the whole western facade of Europe, from Galicia to Ireland. The weather forecast runs out of words to describe the wet muck, from mizzle to drizzle to hammering stair rods, heavy showers, cats and other dogs. Hiking paths are a muddy, boggy, flooded obstacle course, the fiels are so green it hurts and the sky so grey it weighs. I think with sadness of the fires that plague Australia, the Amazone, central Africa, Borneo, the loss of wildlife and flora. It feels like the earth has become bipolar, a displeased, imbalanced entity.
What more could I do? I don't own a car, use public transport, eat meat rarely, fish sometimes, recycle my rubbish, try to be as low impact as possible on the whole. Ah but, yes, I fly. Well, the Corona virus will take care of that soon enough, I guess. I am writing this from the island of Lombok in Indonesia, where I landed on Friday 13th (Yes, I know...), barely ahead of borders closing in Europe, just to learn my return flight was cancelled. Oh well, I might be stuck on the shores of turquoise waters and under palm trees swaying in the breeze. Shame, that... I have been finding here the time and solitude to reflect about the past months and how I thought I would slot back without effort into my own country.
I settle into a live-aboard routine, punctuated by morning petits crèmes and a natter at the Café de la Place, a daily pilgrimage to the supermarket and trips to the showers on slippery pontoons that heave at high tide like a drunken dragon when southerlies blow. The showers are a shivery experience until, one day, oh heaven! the heater is eventually repaired. I rush to the capitainerie (the marina office) to congratulate Ophélie, the secretary. Her weeks of pestering the Mairie (town Hall) have been bearing fruit, thank you, thank you! Ophelie always wears a bright smile and clothes to match, peacock blue, shades of ochre and mustard and vivid reds. 'No, I haven't seen or heard anybody repair anything. It must have fixed itself. Aha, I quip, through the works of the Holy Ghost, then!' We both agree that the works of the Holy Ghost probably are more efficient than the Mairie.
The dehumidifier hums round the clock on the boat in order to avoid dripping walls and musty cupboards. We rush outside as soon as the relentless pitter patter stops on the canvas for a hike on the stunning coastline. I devour a number of novels and become a Netflix couch potato. I devise new soup recipes and we invite our neighbour, Pierre, to taste them. I pick up my guitar but it's a whole month until I find it in my heart to sing again.
Every day, I walk to the library to Gwenaëlle's amusement. This young librarian is on first name's term with everybody, has endless enthusiasm for the printed word, an inexhaustible supply of inner mirth and a good heart. When she sees I'm well on my way to emulate another lady's comic-reading record (it should be in the Guiness book) of 77 comics in 40 days, she guesses I could do with more social interaction and offers me to join the new book club. In this small, friendly group, we follow themes (novellas, teenage fiction, fantasy, historical fiction, etc...) and discussions run freely around the books we each present. But... erm... Who is this author everybody raves about? What is this radio program on France Inter? Who is this journalist? Who? What? I feel like a meerkat scanning an unknown horizon, its head swivelling. Yes, my own culture has become alien. Even the foreign books read in France do not follow the same trends as in Britain. This is fascinating! I am in shock. Why am I surprised after 32 years abroad?
The cabin-feverish tedium is relieved by a dolphin, an unusual occurence in the harbour of Camaret. Our amorous visitor has been rubbing himself on a few zodiacs, grey, slippery but not very responsive. Unrequited passion, poor sod.
I kneel on the pontoon and we have a silent conversation, his little eyes bright and alert. Where is your family, hey, big fellow?
He is well known in these waters and generally haunts the rade de Brest, the deep sheltered bay north of us. He even has a facebook page, for goodness sake. Look for 'les amis de Zafar' or 'Zafar le dauphin'.
We hadn't seen him for a while when we set off in the dinghy on one rare sunny day. Glassy waters, no wind. Off we go.
But Zafar (almost 4 metres and very strong) is there, lying in wait to toy with us. He runs a dinghy blockade at the harbour entrance. Phil turns off the engine and grabs the oars towards the safety of the pontoon. We will never reach it as Zafar pushes and nudges us the other way. Soon, we are met by a dog, Corto, Zafar's friend, splashing happily towards us. It all gets very lively in the water. Meanwhile, people on pontoons and boats are taking snapshots. All thought of a gentle putter across the bay forgotten, we surrender and accept to be pushed back to our berth, surfing at a speed well beyond our modest outboard engine. This is when the deputy mayor spots us from the quay and sends help. The calvary, ie the harbour master and the capitaine des pompiers, zoom towards us in a powerful launch with a rescue line at the ready. Zafar sees his favourite toy slipping away from his grasp and is vastly annoyed. We have to sit low and hold on tight, trying to counterbalance the angry shoves of this rather strong dolphin. The prospect of being flipped in the very cold Atlantic waters is immediate. We hear later that it actually happened to someone last week and Ophélie had a close call, she tells us, as Zafar did a 'Free Willy' and just about threw himself out of the water across the capitainerie zodiac.
Back on the yacht, I make a hot chocolate, my hands still shaking. This is not our yacht below, by the way.
In Camaret, there is a Hell's Angel grandma. She rides a bright yellow beskulled kind of quad bike and, flowery scarves floating in the wind, vrooms at grandma's speed back and forth along the quay and the streets of the town, playing very loud French pop that we can hear from the boat. It's got more style than a mobility chair.
We are west of Greenwich and, by all rights, we should be on English/Portuguese time zone. In the depth of winter, we rise with the day at 9am. But, whatever the season, we see a local fisherman sail back at daybreak into the harbour with his tattered old sail and a Border collie wagging his tail like a windmill. Even when we have heard winds shrieking through the night, riggings frapping, ropes groaning and felt gusts slamming onto the hull, even when pelting rain has been drumming a tattoo on the coach roof into the wee hours of the morning, even when we're convinced nobody in their right mind would contemplate being out there at all, there he is, undaunted. And his dog loves it.
You know you are very early when the baker's is not open, not even awake yet as no warm smells, comforting as a cuddle, waft from the basement, when you amble past the supermarket and only a few lights blink in the shadow and nobody is there stacking the shelves. You are on your way to the early morning bus to Brest on yet another administrative round, one hand in your pocket, the other keeping the hood of your raincoat firmly on your head. You remember why you left France in the first place, all those years ago, while you drag your feet from one office to the next, where you will be kindly welcome and asked to complete yet more forms and provide yet more proof of address, photos, relevé d'identité bancaire, feuilles de soin and suchlike. You gain arcane knowledge. You learn again to clear a trail through the administrative jungle and realise this one certainly has not suffered any deforestation. Unknown vigorous roots have since grown along the way. You fear the worst will be your pension application and you are right, as it involves countless jobs in three different countries, a pinball career. You try to meet conflicting diktats and notice some civil servants are as confused as you are in that paperwork-deluged rainforest. It all moves at the speed of continental drift but it will all get done in the end and done well. Keep faith.
The days leading to Christmas are a tale worth telling, the story of continuous dynamic weather fronts and the swinging of the barometer down to almost the lowest possible. Le marché de Noël has to be cancelled on the quay. No mulled wine is to be had, had you fancied struggling against gusts and driving rain. Santa can't make his usual entrance on the lifeboat nor give sweeties to kids on the quay. Phil, gifted with solid optimism, leaves the festive lights hanging on the rigging but, after a fast and furious night, we discover they are half torn, and no wonder, though a few bulbs remained bravely lit, surviving force 11 winds. It's all very stimulating. Still, it gets to you after a while. But, at times, in-between showers, we walk to the sillon and play with the splashing waves, a favourite local entertainment of guessing which one of the approaching breakers is going to drench you. Shrieks, laughter and a rainbow over the sea.
I need a little injection of British Isles and to touch base with old friends. Baltimore, West Cork, sees the most joyful get-together with Neil and Jonnie. We are still chatting and laughing at 3 am though Phil and I have been up for almost 24 hours, an early start from Brest airport. Corks pop, wine is poured, walks are taken, sunsets are admired, friends are met in pubs, umbrellas are opened and closed, succulent dishes are sizzled on the stove, music is played and sung.
Su catches me at Newark train station, Nottinghamshire. We reminisce, speak about everything under the sun, cook and pop corks here too. I bounce between pubs, tearooms and restaurants trying to catch up with as many good friends as I can.
I reacquaint myself further afield with my home country, spend long overdue quality moments with my brother, sister and nephews in Paris and share the familiar and the new with my beautiful daughter on a visit from Hongkong for a cousin reunion, 'une cousinade', some of them I hadn't seen in twenty years. Wine flows, the table groans under the weight of patés, soups, salads, quiches and nifty desserts. I meet wives, husbands and partners and grown children I didn't know and swap memories with the others. 'Hey, do you remember when I would go and play at your house? Once, we got up in the middle of the night to do the dishes. A good surprise for your mum.' We did that? Gosh, I had forgotten. But I do recall spending nights giggling under the bed covers, wide awake with cheek.
Gwendoline and I go to La Grande Mosquée de Paris. Since the early 1900s, it stands on the left bank near the Jardin des Plantes, elegant and colourful with its minaret, fountains, courtyard full of sparrows and Moroccan tiles. During WW2, the recteur of the mosque sheltered Jews and provided them with false papers, a man who followed the spirit of his religion, of Al islam, peace. A story well worth remembering, told in the film Les Hommes Libres, directed by Ismaël Ferroukhi.
Its hammam has been recently refurbished and we enjoy the marble and the palette of vivid turquoise, greens, ochre and terracotta, the sweet mint tea and honey pastries, the hot steam and the cold pool, the orange flower fragrance of the massage oil, the pounding and loosening of taught muscles.
At the gare d'Austerlitz, we jump on a slow train to my favourite area in southwestern France, around Figeac and receive a wonderful welcome from Jacky at his pilgrim hostel : Champagne, raclette, seafood, wine from his cellar and logs in the wood burner. Gwendoline discovers a landscape of limestone cliffs and perched chapels, valleys peppered with castles, manors, farms and towers, built in the local pale gold stone, caves with millennia old paintings, rushing streams, cattle and sheep munching on sloping fields.
After 4 trains, 3 connections, we cross the Atlantic border with Spain at Hendaye to meet up with Idoia in her home city of San Sebastian, the very best of friends and godmother to Gwendoline. Our Basque family. The well-loved streets of the old town, the café on the beach. Outdoor life. Suddenly, it is not winter anymore. A jacket becomes too much and spring is more than a promise.
Time for a new start. I didn't know it would be in a closing-down world.
