Rambles in Brittany

by M. F. Mansfield

It is possible to avoid casinos, tea-rooms, and golf-links, but they are more abundant here in the neighbourhood of Dinan, St. Malo, and Dinard than in most other parts of Continental Europe. This is a pity, for the region is one of the most delightfully picturesque anywhere, although there is little of the grandeur of desolation about it.

A great national road runs northwesterly from Guingamp to Lannion and Tréguier, two outposts of the Côtes du Nord so far off the beaten track that they are not as yet overrun with the conventional tourists. There is little at either place to amuse one, except the local manners and customs, but they are quaint and interesting beyond belief, and the wonderful combinations of sea and sky, which will make the artist’s heart leap for joy.

Lannion boasts of six thousand inhabitants, most of whom play at bowls on Sunday or a feast-day, and other days engage in the sundry humble pursuits of the usual Breton large town.

The name Lannion first appeared in the twelfth century, when the seigniory of Lannion formed a part of the domain of the house of Penthièvre, which was united with that of Brittany in 1199.

There are three quaint and charming hotels at Lannion, at any of which you will get the best of local fare at prices ranging from 120 to 220 francs per month—all found. One will not go wrong at any of them, and one does not differ greatly from another, in spite of the difference in price. There is an abundance of what is commonly known as good cheer, by which is really meant good fare, and there are comfortable beds, a sound roof over one’s head, and genial hosts, of course.

This estimable person is literally everywhere at once, showing the guests to their rooms, presiding at the table, or, at least, at the serving of it, and generally overseeing everything that goes on.

“Allons, messieurs, à table,” is called, in a melodious voice, instead of the ringing of the usual brain-racking bell, and one by one travelling salesmen, the permanent guests, and the mere tourists seat themselves at the long table, which literally groans—like those in the historical novels—with the best of country cookery. There is nothing Parisian about it; there are no ices, no forced fruit, and no savoury messes with mushrooms and truffles, but there is the abundant and excellent local fare of sea food, hung mutton, new potatoes and asparagus, and little wood strawberries in heaps, and that delightful golden cider, which, if it be not an improvement on the Norman variety, is just as good, and a delightful summer drink.

The fine location of Lannion, on the right bank of the estuary of the little river Leguer, accounts for much of the local charm, and the habit that the population has of grouping itself picturesquely about the quay-side—without the least provocation—accounts for a good deal more.

There are many old houses in the town, and other more pretentious architectural monuments, offering enough variety to the artist or lover of architecture to occupy him a long time.

The port is a harbour of refuge, of which there are not many on the north coast of Brittany, and the traffic in salmon and sardines is considerable, though not rivalling in bulk that of the greater ports in the southwest.