Rambles in Brittany

by M. F. Mansfield

From the mouth of the Loire, around Finistère to Lannion, thousands upon thousands of the inhabitants live by the harvest of the sea, whereas, if it were not for this, they might be forced to emigrate, or to hie themselves to the large towns, there to herd in unsanitary quarters, which is worse.

The pilchard fishery is practically at its best directly off the Quiberon peninsula, opposite Lorient and Concarneau. It is important also just offshore from Audierne, Douarnenez, and Camaret.

It is well to recall just what the sardine really is, inasmuch as we mostly buy any “little fishes boiled in oil,” which a pushful grocer may thrust upon us. The “corporal’s stripe,” or the “cavalry corporal,” as the sardine is known in France, is quite a different species from the “armed policeman,” or common sea-garden herring. The Atlantic, the North Sea, the Baltic, and some parts of the Mediterranean are its home. It winters between 50 degrees and 60 degrees north latitude, in a zone where the temperature is constant, but from March to October it emigrates toward the north. Sometimes the future sardines are known as pilchards; on the coasts of Normandy and Picardy as hareng de Bergues; as sardines in Brittany; as royan in Charente; and as sarda and sardinyola in the Pyrénées Orientales.

The best and most common method of preserving the sardine is by slightly heating the oil before placing it with the fish in those little tin boxes known the world over; then the boxes are soldered and put into a double boiler and boiled for the better part of an hour, when the exceedingly simple process is finished. So simple is it, and so readily accomplished without a great capital investment, that the wonder is that imitations of the “real Brittany sardines” are not more successful elsewhere. Up to this time, however, nothing rivals the Breton product.

Each year, at the feast of St. Jean, the barques set out from the various ports, all richly decorated, and often sped on their way by a religious ceremony, at which a priest officiates and gives his blessing.

The profits vary considerably one year from another, as may be supposed. The catch is by no means constant. Its ordinary receipts approximate twelve million francs, and, when it drops below this figure, distress is likely to ensue, particularly if a hard winter falls upon Brittany, which in truth it seldom does.

The little fish return each year, their feeding-ground scarcely varying thirty miles in any direction. Thus, in season, the boats with their red sails and blue and brown nets put off for the same spots where they took their catches last year, only to find that the habits of the sardines have not in the least changed. Five or six men to a boat is the average crew, and, if the wind be contrary, their speed is much the same by means of oars. Once arrived on the ground, the skipper of the boat throws overboard at intervals some handfuls of rogue as a bait; this is a paste composed of the roe of the cod, and the only drawback is that its cost is great. It comes mostly from Norway, and, after passing through many intermediate hands, finally reaches the Breton fisherman, who pays from sixty to seventy francs per hundred kilos. When the price rises above this figure, the ingenious skipper fabricates a substitute, a mixture of the real article and a local vegetable product known as farine d’arachides. Its results are not so good as those from the real article, and the local fishermen have a saying which is doubtless so true as to have become a proverb: “One must bait with fish to catch a fish.” Moreover, the fish caught by this means do not rank as a first quality product in the markets of the Breton fishing ports, owing to the after-effects on the fish, which shall be undefined here. It may be well to recall the fact, however, and, if you get a sardine which is not what you think it ought to be, and is too much like a bad oyster, you may depend upon it that it was caught with farine d’arachides.

The Breton custom is to fish with buoyed nets, disdaining the drag-net, though occasionally the latter is used.

The buoyed nets merely scoop the surface of the water, but the drag-nets are sunk to a depth of from forty to fifty metres. When the skipper estimates that the net is full, or, at least, that he shall have a haul worthy of his trouble, all hands, singing as all sailor-folk do, pull the net inboard, and, with a clever turn, empty it of its freight of silver-scaled fish, which are forthwith scooped up and placed in great baskets. On the return to port, the fishermen still in harbour, the factory hands, and all the inhabitants who are not otherwise employed, even though they ought to be, to say nothing of curious peasant-folk from the inland towns, and always a generous sprinkling of tourists, and the inevitable American artist, are in waiting, curious as to the luck.

Here the dealers come and bargain for the catch. Thirty to thirty-five francs a thousand is usually the market price, and the choicest fish naturally sell first. Speculation comes in now and then, and a scare as to the prospect of the catch being too abundant is as common and as disastrous as the fear that it may not be large enough. Sometimes the price will fall as low as a franc and a half, and then come “trials without number for the sailors,” as an old fisherman told the writer. Certainly, if thirty francs a thousand be only a paying wage, a franc and a half must mean about the same as utter failure to the crew, who generally work the boat on shares.