Like a dagger thrust into the North Atlantic, Brittany turns its back to the French heartland. Likewise, the Bretons usually offer curt replies, surly as they are, living in close communities speaking their own language, sounding so beautiful, but completely incomprehensible to most. With few words they will offer you a pint of cider, sweet as the apples that lay at its origin, accompanied by a hearty pancake covered in moltens cheese, eggs and bacon.
It is a place where one can still find themselves alone. As described, among the foreign sounding villages greetings remain short, but it is predominantly when hiking over long ocean spits or on beaches flanked by ancient cliffs that you will hear nothing but the crashing waves.
Equally silent are the mysterious menhirs raised everywhere, seemingly at random spots in the countryside, but perhaps on locations once chosen with purpose. Arranged in circles, squares, crossing lines and often just as a single, lost specimen, these stones betray not their makers. These constellations draw visitors but only the wind whispers as it passes along their jagged edges.
Uniformly speechless and equally grey are more recent additions to the barren landscape. Small churches drawn up entirely from a single kind of colourless rock, covered in black lichen and sinking into the grass, hide their secrets from curious visitors.
If you are in need of rest, a place where your mind can wander and the stimulations of everyday life fall away, Brittany might offer some help. Here you can enjoy a fresh stack of pancakes as soft rain covers the undulating countryside out the window, and as soon as the sun breaks out, a long list of parks and nature reserves present themselves as ideal hiking grounds. Just remember to bring your parka.
