Finding peace in Finistère
It was a special kind of place. The locals called it ‘Finistère’, meaning “the end of the world”, as they believed there was nothing further north or west belonging to Europe.
It’s a quaint place, this Finistère. It’s a region in northwestern France, in Bretagne. The towns here overlap. I was not sure where one ended, and another began. Towns were separated by farmland, or the farms were broken by towns. Either way, they stretched like a patchwork quilt over the French landscape. As you pass by you can see bright orange pumpkins growing in a backyard patch.
Hedges grow tall, and maize grows taller. But when the fields are open, the clusters of houses simmer in the sunlight like pearls, offering a sheen to onlookers. The steel windows also glint in the sun, adding to the underwater feel. It is rare to have the sea open on your right and farmland on your left – but here it works well together. I guess that means the people of Kerlouan get the best of both worlds.
Late summer sunset along the dunes.
The Village Life
There is something so small town and homely about this place. It reminds me of where I grew up. It is the kind of town where everyone knows everyone. And everyone is friendly. “Bonjour” echoes through the streets on a regular basis.
Now and then, neighbours would bring freshly caught fish to share or some vibrant vegetables for the table. It got to a point where we ran out of fridge space and were forced on a strict fish diet. Not that I minded, I have been thriving on the pescatarian diet.
A crisp morning on the northern coast of France.
There is always something to be done, but never too much.
The mornings I would spend working; then we would meet for lunch at 12 pm sharp. It was usually one or other amazing seafood dish that Martina whipped up, accompanied by wine or water. The afternoons were spent not too far away. We lived right on the water’s edge, and the beach was on the other side of the little coastal road. Around 5 pm a volleyball game would roll out with a local crowd, and proceed for hours. Evenings were for drinks and company, and lavish dinners. And the next day we would start again.
A languid afternoon next to the Atlantic ocean.
Finding Little Meneham: an old French Hamlet
Kerlouan, our town, is a commune with medieval history. Its coastline is rich with granite intrusions that stick out of the landscape like a sore thumb. Large, granite boulders protrude from the ocean and scatter among the farmlands. Located along this rocky coast, is the little hamlet of Meneham. This collection of structures was erected in the 17th Century and has been flawlessly preserved.
It is a charming collection of houses. Up until recently, Marc’s uncle had lived in one of these houses, and he recalls making a fire in a fireplace that now sits behind glass in the Meneham museum.
The old Meneham Chapel nestled between the granite rocks in Kerlouan.
There is even a chapel squeezed in between two large granite boulders, next to a stone sentry house. It is called Chapelle Pol and is well camouflaged in the grey landscape.
Everything about this little hamlet was cute and quaint. The buildings were made for much smaller people. The doorways hang low, and I can imagine my brother would be sore from knocking his head on all the beams.
Something about the style of these cottages made me think of McGregor, my home town. The cute, A-frame thatch-roofed cottages were cosy. I could imagine residents huddling by the fireside in winter, bracing against the chill of the northern wind. They would have been dining on fresh fish caught from the Atlantic Ocean and vegetables grown in the fields. These two industries are still very vital to the survival of Kerlouan.
The is a quiet charm that lies along this coastal region. I cannot wait to explore more.
Soninke Combrinck
I write about connecting with nature as I chase my own adventures around the world.
