Paimpol is situated at the head of a well-sheltered bay on the banks of an infinitesimal little river known as Quinic. There is nothing to mark Paimpol as a tourist resort, and accordingly it is almost an ideal resting-place for one wearied with the onrush of the world. It is not even a bathing-place, as it well might be. Its long Rue de l’Église is its principal thoroughfare, and through it all the small traffic of the town circulates at a most sedate pace.
The church dates from the thirteenth century, and is a lovely old structure with admirable Gothic pillars and arches in its nave, and a fine fourteenth-century rose window.
The port of Paimpol has a most interesting rise and fall of life, particularly at the season of the setting out and the return of the Iceland fishermen. In the trade in codfish caught off the Icelandic coasts, this place occupies the first rank, being the home port of those who fish in Icelandic waters, and all along the quays of the sad little town of Paimpol (sad, because there are so many widows there,—the lone partners of those who have lost their lives at sea) are to be seen the Iceland schooners. Everything in the town smacks of the memory of Iceland: the schooners, the ex-votos in the churches, the widows, the sturdy but gloomy fisherfolk themselves, and the stones in the churchyard. “The Iceland fog enshrouds everything,” the native tells you, but still the work goes on, and each year, with the coming of the spring days, the exodus begins, after a winter’s hard work at refurbishing and refitting of the little two-masters and three-masters of the fishers. It is here that one may hear that Breton sailor’s prayer, which is so devout and full of faith: “Mon Dieu protège nous, car la mer est si grand et nos bateaux si petits.”
Cod, whale, mackerel, and herring are all marketable products to the nets of the Paimpolans.
The Isle of Bréhat is near Paimpol, lying just off the coast. If one seek to arrange a passage, thereto, he goes by public carriage, and not by boat, until he gets to the tip of the Pointe Arcouest, when he transfers himself and his luggage to a sailboat, and travels as one did before the age of steam.
The Isle of Bréhat is another of those rocky islets which dot the coast of Brittany, and look not only as if they were barren and uncultivated, but as if they were also uninhabited. All the same, their appearance from a distance is misleading. There are close upon a thousand inhabitants on the parent isle and the attendant flock of little islets sheltered under its wing. In the olden time, the island was a strong place of war, with batteries and fortifications against which the English, the Leaguers, and the Royalists tried their strength in turn.
The isle is what the sailor-folk roundabout call “a good port of refuge,” for there are divers little sheltered harbours to which ships of all classes can run from the storms of the open sea.
The principal town is known as Bréhat, and possesses a church dating from 1700, a tiny hotel, and an inn or two, mostly catering to local customers. If one would leave the mainland, and its questionable attractions of civilization behind, and live the simple life to the full, he can do it here to the most exquisite degree,—if he does not mind the sea-fogs of the winter.
Guingamp, lying inland in the rich valley of the Trieux, is the market-town of the arrondissement of the same name. It is of feudal origin, and was the ancient capital of the countship, later the duchy, of Penthièvre, and of the ancient Goëllo land.
Guingamp Castle is a great square building, flanked by four massive towers, of which one has been practically destroyed.