Mail On Sunday, 2010
My father never visited France—although he is buried in the tiny village of Servel, near Lannion, in Brittany. He was on his way to the Far East when he died in October 1944, the huge tank landing craft on which he was a passenger, and which was being towed in a flotilla, being sunk in the Western Approaches in what was then described as “the worst storm of the war”.
Fifty four other men were lost, his body being only one of two which were ever found. Two young Breton boys discovered it six weeks after the storm while playing ship-looters on the beach at the mouth of Lannion’s river, the Léguer. His papers were still on him, wrapped in a waterproof folder, and included sea stained photographs of my sister and me, aged 2. I still have them.
I’d visited his grave twice since it was first located for me while working on a BBC-TV documentary in 1994. But my third visit, earlier this summer, afforded me time to look around a little bit more and to reflect upon the irony that through the loss of a parent whom I never knew, I discovered one of the most lovely and dramatic stretches of coast in Europe. That is, the Côte de Granit Rose—the Pink Granite Coast, part of the Côtes d’Armor.
And what I found to be particularly pleasing is that, although there’s inevitably been some holiday building in small clusters here, it hasn’t been over-developed. There are small resorts, Trébeurden, Trégastel and Ploumanac’h, and, further on around the corner, the slightly larger Perros-Guirec, but, unlike the French Riviera, the area hasn’t been ruined by concrete mixers.
This may well be because the weather in Brittany is almost as uncertain as it is in Cornwall, a hundred and fifty miles or so due north, and the French do love their sun. But I like to think it also reflects the local pride we find through much of rural and small town France, a civic self respect.
And nowhere is that better evidenced, albeit on a tiny scale, than at my father’s grave. Lying there next to the tombs of two French soldiers, it has been tended and repaired meticulously for over half a century by both the Commonwealth War Graves Commission and the parks and funeral people in Lannion.
But then the French take heritage very seriously. A walk around Lannion itself is evidence of this. Originally a tiny port on the Léguer, the town, which still has a population of under 20,000, bustles with a thoughtful mix of the medieval and the modern and is everywhere decorated with flowers.
Alongside the river runs the market, while up a steep hill on its north side are stunningly renovated 15th century houses and alleyways, through which there are organised historical walks on Thursday evenings in the summer. What I found particularly interesting were the six storey 17th century mansions in the main square, half-timbered but slate fronted as a protection from the rain. Then there are the 140 steps to the Templar (as in Knights) Church of Brélévenez.
There’s actually a little airport at Lannion, which is now a telecommunications centre, but with no through flights from Britain we chose to go by boat and car from Portsmouth, from where Brittany Ferries now run a high speed catamaran service to Cherbourg. This gave us the advantage of calling in to see the Bayeux Tapestry, which was hugely more impressive than I’d anticipated, and witnessing again the ever ghostly apparition of Mont-St-Michel while on our journey.
We didn’t stay in Lannion on this occasion, but chose instead a modest little hotel by a beach just beyond Trébeurden, which is the next town around the coast, going west to east. With its sea view it was ideal.
Most places look good in the sunshine, but with the sun on empty white sandy beaches in numerous coves, the sparklingly clear water, the fields and hedgerows of wild flowers and, yes, the slightly rosy rocks, the Pink Granite Coast is dazzling.
Trébeurden is now a yachting centre with quite a big marina, but there are also some 4000 year old graves. In fact with engravings of breasts and necklaces there are traces of megolithic and bronze age man (and obviously busty woman, too!) right along this coast. There’s even a nudist beach close to Beg Léguer for those who have nothing to hide.
The next town along is Trégastel, one of our favourite spots which is blessed again with twelve white beaches, from where you can take a three hour boat trip to the Sept-Iles archipelago which lies just off the coast. A group of seven tiny islands, some not much more than rocks, they’re mainly sanctuaries for puffins and other sea-birds.
On the other hand if you don’t fancy sailing through what can be some pretty choppy waters, there are several beautiful walks, of varying lengths, around the headland and the lagoon, where vast, scattered smooth rocks balance on each other, some like giants’ tables. Of these the three hour Sentier des Douaniers five mile walk is the most striking.
Nor are the walks difficult, a lot of public money and work having gone into making them accessible (but never ugly) for all.
From the land the coast is mesmerising, as the sea goes out so far, leaving, in some places, maybe half a mile of rock pools twice a day. But, beautiful though it may be to look at, I’m told these can be tricky waters if you’re under sail. Indeed when a friend of mine sailed into the harbour at Ploumanac’h a few years ago, he found that in no time at all the water seemed to have gone down a plug hole and he couldn’t sail out again for some hours.
When we went to Brittany it was June and the beaches were empty. No doubt it’s busier during the school holidays, but since there aren’t that many hotels or even restaurants, my bet is the Pink Granite Coast never gets over-full.
Probably the grooviest place, although definitely in a minor key, is Perros-Guirac on the north coast. There’s even a casino here, though I can’t imagine who goes to Brittany to gamble. Children will, no doubt, enjoy the waxworks, the Musée de Cire, with its gruesome depictions of the French Revolution.
Which brings me to how un-French Brittany sometimes feels. Jutting out into the Atlantic, with road signs in both Breton and French, twelve per cent of the schoolchildren in Lannion learning Breton (I don’t know for how many years), and the Celtic sounding place names, so many of which begin with Tré, it’s easy to see the ancient links with Cornwall.
Driving back along the coast towards Servel and on to Lannion as the tide went out leaving miles of rock pools, where children peered and parents watched over them, it reminded me that my father, who was only 33 when his ship sank, never knew what it was to take his children on holiday. Nor that such a lovely, peaceful place existed—yet that is where he is buried.
For a family holiday, even an old fashioned one maybe, away from the clamour and the glitz, I can’t recommend the Pink Granite Coast highly enough. We will go again.
