Côtes-d’Armor (Bretagne, France)
In the end, everything always happens very quickly. The day before an onward journey is a day of packing and preparing, there's no time for more. The day before we were on the pink granite coast, on the small peninsula of Île Renote. And although we were surprised by the rain - we hid between the rocks until it stopped - we enjoyed the trip. It felt like a little adventure, crouching there among the rocks, gazing out at the rough sea and at a horizon that was gray and dark and yet so wonderfully calming.
That same day we drove on to Ploumanac'h. We walked past the lighthouse along the path to a rocky outcrop whose foothills reach far into the sea. There we climbed down to the water's edge, where we stood on the rocks in a safe spot and looked out over the roaring sea. It was one of those meditative and sublime experiences for which there are no words. Waves break on the rocks, sometimes shooting up two to three meters. The power of the sea is almost physically palpable in such a place and so close to it.
It is a great pity that the experience of such an adventure does not last beyond the moment. The images are still there in my memory, but the feeling of it has disappeared. Especially when I'm so absorbed in another activity that I hardly have time to reflect calmly. Of course, a lack of sleep also has an effect on this, but even if I am mentally fit and think back to an experience, it is only a shadow of its former self. It only lives in the moment in which it is lived.
The day of departure is just a series of todo's that have to be completed. Not even 90 minutes pass between waking up and departure. During this time, everything that could remind of us disappears. I take one last look at the living room where we spent so many evenings by the warm fire, but it has nothing of what we made it into. It's the same picture as when we arrived four weeks ago. A blank sheet of paper on which the next guests can draw their memories.
I don't turn around after that, my time here is over. The doors on the car slam, the engine starts and we drive off. But we only just make it up the road and have to stop. A black and white, shaggy dog stands stoically in the middle of the road and defies the horn. He looks at us innocently but motionlessly. When I get out of the car, he even lies down. Then he jumps up and runs to me, jumps at me and wants to play.
I guide him to the side, but as soon as I get in he stands in front of the car again and won't let us move. It's as if Brittany just doesn't want to let us go. I get out again and let them pull up to the junction. I try to trick him by throwing a stone in the opposite direction and he runs after it. I, on the other hand, run to the car, but as soon as I get there, he's standing next to me.
Somehow I finally manage to get him off the road and we can drive up. I can still see him looking at me with his deep blue eyes. When I look in the rear-view mirror, he is sitting there watching us until we disappear around the next bend and I can no longer see him. At that moment, I realize that I will take this little creature with me as a vivid memory. And it appears to me again and again and each time it brings a smile to my face.
In the end, everything always happens very quickly. The day before an onward journey is a day of packing and preparing, there's no time for more. The day before we were on the pink granite coast, on the small peninsula of Île Renote. And although we were surprised by the rain - we hid between the rocks until it stopped - we enjoyed the trip. It felt like a little adventure, crouching there among the rocks, gazing out at the rough sea and at a horizon that was gray and dark and yet so wonderfully calming.
That same day we drove on to Ploumanac'h. We walked past the lighthouse along the path to a rocky outcrop whose foothills reach far into the sea. There we climbed down to the water's edge, where we stood on the rocks in a safe spot and looked out over the roaring sea. It was one of those meditative and sublime experiences for which there are no words. Waves break on the rocks, sometimes shooting up two to three meters. The power of the sea is almost physically palpable in such a place and so close to it.
It is a great pity that the experience of such an adventure does not last beyond the moment. The images are still there in my memory, but the feeling of it has disappeared. Especially when I'm so absorbed in another activity that I hardly have time to reflect calmly. Of course, a lack of sleep also has an effect on this, but even if I am mentally fit and think back to an experience, it is only a shadow of its former self. It only lives in the moment in which it is lived.
The day of departure is just a series of todo's that have to be completed. Not even 90 minutes pass between waking up and departure. During this time, everything that could remind of us disappears. I take one last look at the living room where we spent so many evenings by the warm fire, but it has nothing of what we made it into. It's the same picture as when we arrived four weeks ago. A blank sheet of paper on which the next guests can draw their memories.
I don't turn around after that, my time here is over. The doors on the car slam, the engine starts and we drive off. But we only just make it up the road and have to stop. A black and white, shaggy dog stands stoically in the middle of the road and defies the horn. He looks at us innocently but motionlessly. When I get out of the car, he even lies down. Then he jumps up and runs to me, jumps at me and wants to play.
I guide him to the side, but as soon as I get in he stands in front of the car again and won't let us move. It's as if Brittany just doesn't want to let us go. I get out again and let them pull up to the junction. I try to trick him by throwing a stone in the opposite direction and he runs after it. I, on the other hand, run to the car, but as soon as I get there, he's standing next to me.
Somehow I finally manage to get him off the road and we can drive up. I can still see him looking at me with his deep blue eyes. When I look in the rear-view mirror, he is sitting there watching us until we disappear around the next bend and I can no longer see him. At that moment, I realize that I will take this little creature with me as a vivid memory. And it appears to me again and again and each time it brings a smile to my face.