Looking for Arthur and Merlin

I wanted to visit the Forest of Brocéliande, to take photos and appreciate the magic of the place. Regrettably the Breton weather behaved as it often does with rain, drizzle and sea fog. It was too wet to visit the forest, such a disappointment. It’s a fair drive from Binic using indirect roads but we decided to at least drive to the area on our way back home. There are many cute little stone villages but a dearth of toilets.


We arrived at the Chateau de Comper which is now a centre dedicated to Arthurian legend. How much of the Arthur story is real and how much is fiction? I’m reading a book in French about that very subject but it doesn't really answer the question, alas.
The centre was established 20 years ago, behind the ruins of medieval ramparts and a dried moat.
At the back of the Chateau is a vast lake. Could it be The Lake containing the Lady of the Lake who loved Arthur and took back the sword Excalibur and ferried the dead Arthur to Avalon? It certainly looks as if it could be.

The ancient oaks had structures of character, the weather was damp, mysterious. The rocks were pink and the stream a noisy tumbling thing beside the castle. Yes, you could imagine the knights of the Round Table having fights and assignations, ladies in elaborate sleeves and headdresses. I was intrigued by Arthur’s genealogy displayed inside the building and a chronology of writings and films through the ages, relating to Arthur, Guinevere, Lancelot and Gawain, and Morgan le Fey and her nasty son Mordred.

I miss all the books I used to have on these tales and legends. I had to give them all away to schools in Auckland in preparation to move to France.

The trip home required extreme resignation to going nowhere fast. The great migration back to Paris and other places had begun and it was as bad as it could have been. It took us 3-4 hours longer than our outward journey. It’s as well JC’s car is automatic. I forget how many times we listened to The Corrs and Rod Steward CDs as we inched south.

I hope one day I can explore the Forest of Brocéliande and its Fountain of Youth, Merlin’s Tomb, The Valley of No return, The Fountain of Barenton and the trees themselves, just 30kms west of Rennes. There are less of them now.

 In 1990 a terrible fire devastated more than 400 hectares of it. A golden tree (sculptured branches really) was created at the entrance to the Valley of No Return in memory of the ancient forest. Paimpont/Brocéliande reminds me somewhat of the forest of the elves in Tolkien’s Middle Earth during the time of the tales in the Silmarillion. The geography is remarkably similar to Brittany.



You will note from one of the photos, the odd-shaped trees. These are examples of trees I mentioned last time we were in Brittany. Many years ago the villagers would cut the faggots for firewood. JC remembers this distinctly, but this practice has since stopped and the trees now have scrubby growth on the sides and crowns on their tops. There are many of these deformed trees throughout Brittany, still.











All well and good, but it took over six hours to get home. JC needed a pee and so hopped across to the side of the road and voila! What was I to do? No trees to hide behind on this public road. JC simply opened both doors on my side of the car, thus creating a pseudo room, and I had to down my knickers there and then. Actually, this is not a bad strategy ladies, if you can get over your initial reluctance.

Most people are too busy driving to momentarily notice the details of what you are doing. It wasn’t much different to the toilets in a shop we had earlier visited. I was surprised to see the cubicle consisted of only a hole in the ground that you have to squat over. Not clean for the jeans and shoes because things can splash and past visitors leave remnants of their activities. You are hereby warned.

Kilometres after kilometers of traffic jams saw us so desperate we had to take time out for McDonalds. The chips are consistent but the burgers are at least as horrible as I remember, maybe worse-how the french can eat them is beyond me but there's less competition for them in France than in NZ.

Times they are a changing. I enjoyed spending more time with the lovely JC and experiencing more and deeper explorations of La Bretagne.

Photos show the deformed trees, Chateau de Comper, medieval ruins.

Isle de Brehat

After having lunch with JC’s dad we set off again to explore the northern section of this part of the coast, in particular Bréhat. The Isle de Bréhat is a large island set amongst an archipelago on the northern coast of Brittany. It is reached via a ferry which runs between the main island and la Pointe de l’Arcouest which is at the extremity of la Côte de Goëlo. The pier or landing is made of rose granite- a feature of this landscape and a popular building material for ‘bad taste’ houses of the end of the nineteenth century.


The boat trip occurred closer to low tide than high tide so we cruised around the outside of the Isle rather than going through a picturesque passage through the middle. We were fortunate to see a seal lounging on a group of sharp rocks. The rocks are very upthrust in this area. The island has an old gallo-roman monastry on it and a sea-powered windmill (neither of which we could visit that day). We had the option of stopping off on the island but I was much too tired to do that and lacked reasonable walking shoes so we stuck to the boat trip.


You can’t escape the plethora of lighthouses of all shapes and sizes on the coast of Brittany and there were heaps in this archipelago. I enjoyed seeing them, feeling the fresh ocean air on my face and looking out towards the English Channel wondering about all the adventures folks from France and Brittany must have shared via that stretch of water.


Evenings in Binic were spent listening to whatever free entertainment was provided for the festival. A celtic group consisting of a violinist, guitarist, drummer, harpist/vocalist provided atmospheric listening, and the harbour was pretty in the evening light. The sun doesn’t really go down properly until after 10pm there at present. Saturday night ended with a hiss and a boom as the town set off a fireworks display which we watched from JC’s room upstairs. A perfect view.

The next post will feature that sector of Brittany famous for Arthurian legends.

Hard'a Port

A long weekend of 4 days is always a wonderful opportunity for the French to get out of the Paris area and into the countryside. Many have family homes in more rural areas which they can escape to and this is the case for Jean-Claude. We were off to Binic, a small seaside town on the northern coast of Brittany. La Morue en Fete is a festival celebrating traditional Binic life and seafood. They were expecting anywhere between 20,000 and 40,000 visitors for the weekend.


The trip lasted more than three hours, rolling through countryside that was very dry everywhere. Some of the crops were stunted or patchy through lack of moisture. The flatness of the Beauce area gave way to the gentle undulations as we headed towards Rennes, administrative capital of Brittany (La Bretagne) and a major motorway junction. Yes, everyone had the same idea and there were some slow patches in traffic.

Brittany seemed greener than Ile de France, at least the trees and fields weren’t struggling quite so much with the drought that is tightening its grip on France. Crops traditionally grown here are cauliflowers and artichokes but there’s plenty of cereal too.


Sometimes you can see wildflowers growing optimistically alongside the highways and roads. They are becoming rare as farmers maximise production of crops by using herbicides so the beautiful meadows painted by Monet, Van Gogh have disappeared. The scatterings that remain comprise meadow plants and small versions of old-fashioned plants that my grandmother used to grow but which you would not see wild in NZ… the cocolicots, digitalis, daisies, centranthus, periwinkles and others I recognise but whose names have long since faded from my childhood memory.


Binic is quaint, picturesque and lively during this weekend. The main thoroughfare is pedestrian-use only and lined with merchants selling local products. The port structure was built by Louis XIV and is very tidal. There are harbor doors that open and shut during the tides to allow the boats into the inner harbor. A large expanse of sand provides relaxation for bathers but the water is very cold and the coastline rugged.


I especially enjoyed the entertainment. The traditional Breton dancing was charming but I didn’t see any of the old traditional tall lace hats Bretonne women used to wear. The instruments had a Franco-celtic sound as you would expect: celtic bagpipes, flutes, accordions, drums. Brittany is of celtic heritage, different to the rest of France and the residents are proud of the differences. There’s even a Breton black and white flag. Recently there has been a bit of a resurgence in the old Breton language. Place signs usually have both French and Breton labels.

Of course I absolutely had to have a Breton crepe; my usual choice being chocolate and banana, and it did not disappoint me. Long tables were set up all along the promenade to cater for all the visitors and despite the chilly wind they were well patronised. I was interested in the presentation of icecream too. Different but lickalicious.


I met JC’s father Marcel who is 90 years old. He lives several months of the year in the house he built 30 years ago which is atop a slight ridge and near to the church belltower. There’s a lovely view of the harbor from JC’s bedroom. The house is built on three levels in a typical style. We left the car parked outside and walked as much as was practicable up and down the hill and around-about.


After exploring the centre of Binic we explored the trail from Binic north which has a trail around the cliffs. Both of us took frequent photo stops to try to capture some of this wild and beautiful countryside. Occasionally I include a few of JC’s photos on this blog but his camera creates such enormous files that mostly I can only publish my own humble efforts here on this blog. As is so often the case, we were stymied by sea fog and haze. At other times we contented ourselves by trying to find houses and calvaires representative of Brittany, scattered about in hamlets, villages or towns like Paimpol.

Photos show Binic, icecream, JC's father and the family home.
The next post focuses on our trip around the Ile de Brehat, a northern promontory and collection of Islands (part of an archipelago) facing the direction of England.

Blowing in the wind

It takes a fair bit to stop me getting out into the French countryside if I have the chance.I love it. There's always something interesting, no matter how modest.

Really quite sick with a nose, throat and ear infection I visited a doctor in Gallardon which is a village near to Jean-Claude's village. The usual french doctor experience. I managed most of the necessary discussion with JC chipping in where useful. She is one of his neighbours. It's not easy to find a doctor on the weekends. There's nothing like I had in Auckland- 24/7 service so it was a big relief to be seen at short notice. Armed with anitbiotics I seem to be improving so I toughed it out and we drove about 20kms south of Chartres to see an ancient windmill.

Le Moulin Pelard-Bois de Feugeres is on the N10. It's unusual in that it's a pivot windmill where the whole thing pivots, not just the top section. It's typical of the Beauce region and dates from 1796. Until 1941 it belonged to the Pelard family who had been millers for generations. It was then bequeathed to the local authorities when the family line died out.

It was abandoned for several years before volonteers began renovating in 1976 with the help of gifts and grants. In 1977, before the renovations had been completed, it was destroyed in a violent storm. Fortunately, work resumed immediately and it was completed in September 1990 when the red sails were put in place. It's in full working order and is open to the public. Though it has no commercial activity it does mill wheat. The flour is sold in the mill itself. We climbed up the stairs which are somewhat unsteady as the whole thing responds to the wind. Standing inside is like being inside a boat with the constant motion. It has an anchor which is used to position it in the best angle to catch the wind.

Two of the arms have half sails otherwise the wind whould get too strong for it- a bit like the situation for a sailing ship. There's an old-fashioned bell to sound the alarm when the wheat supply is running low and brakes too. There remain some of the original timbers from the eighteenth century with some names carved in by those slightly literate in the nineteenth century. The engineering is rather clever for its time, I thought. The wheat box shakes the grains down to the milling stones, one only of which turns, the other remains stationary. The flour comes down into a long vertical box. There's provision for sacks to be lowered to the ground instead of humping them up and down the narrow wooden stairs.

Everywhere there is dust and flour particles so it's not good for your lungs or camera. Imagine the health problems of the ancient workers! We were guided in our little tour by one of the old volonteers who immediately forgot to speak slowly so I will have missed a bit of interesting information but I've come away with two plastic bags of whole wheat flour. Just alongside the mill are fields and fields of various types of wheat. This Beauce region is famous for cereals.

There are other windmills in the district but many are ruins now. I wonder what I'll discover in Brittany next weekend. JC is taking me to the family home in Binic where I will meet his 90 year-old father. I always enjoy Brittany.

Photos show the mechanism attached to the sails which turns the stone grinder, the flour box where the milled wheat ends up ready for bagging, me and our guide, the wheat fields.

Modesty does not exist

Oh I do hope that's the last medical procedure or test I have to have for a long time. I've had enough. OK, it's for my own good but it gets costly and every time I do something for the first time here in France it's always different to the equivalent experience in NZ.

One of the biggest differences here is the lack of provision for modesty. If you question any french woman she wonders what the heck you are on about and you get the 'prudish anglo-saxon' label.

A couple of months ago I decided to have a gynaecological checkup- it's been a while and at my age things don't necessarily work properly and create all sorts of health problems. I located a nice lady doctor here in Cafeolait. That's where I was introduced to 'The Chair' and french mammograms and ultrasound. That's when I started to learn the new rules.
1. You will never be given a sheet or blankie to cover any of you up
2. If you feel 'exposed' don't mention it
3. You will be expected to walk around topless or naked
4. If having a male doc look at your female bits there will not be a female nurse in the same room
5. You may feel completely vulnerable and helpless-too bad, that's irrelevant

In NZ if you're having a smear test you are under a sheet and or blanket, sometimes on your side and it's all very sensitive and modest. In France you will be told to take everything off and walk into a room that looks like a torture chamber and you will be confronted by The Chair. Hideous thing! So there I was, without a stitch, feeling a bit chilled, sitting in the chair with my legs in those ghastly stirrups with my knees apart. What a sight! It didn't make the process any more comfortable or efficient than the Kiwi version but there is no option and no sympathy.

If you are having an Xray or ultrasound of your breasts you will NOT be given a robe. You will walk about topless and it's likely that a guy is going to rub gel all over your boobs and explore them with a sensor-thoroughly. It's you, and him in the dark room. Thank goodness you're allowed to clean the gel off yourself.

The french are comfortable with bodies. Modesty is not an option. Hey, I'm trying to be cool about this but it takes a little getting used to.
The results are: smear test good, breasts OK, cholesterol a wee bit high (but a lot lower than it has been in the past). That should hold me for a bit. So ladies, if you think it's a hassle in NZ having these things checked, suck it up, it could be worse.

Images are off the internet- I was NOT in a 'position' to take photos myself.

Rubbing the wrong way

As a departure from the usual routine, JC and I went to the movies in Chartres on Friday evening. It was lovely to do something together during the week; in fact we had met over a meal at Buffalo Grill on the Wednesday evening.

JC had chosen Woody Allen's latest offering Midnight in Paris which stars Owen Wilson, Rachel McAdams, Kathy Bates, Adrian Brody. It focuses on the stereotypical favourite spots in Paris and adds in a bit of historical time-travel. Amusing to recognise the famous figures in painting and writing. Not a great movie of course but diverting nevertheless, a bit of fun.

We followed that up with, what was for me, our own bit of time-travelling. JC brought out his fondue set and we set to combining chunks of bread and melted cheese. It's decades since I had a fondue-most of which were the chocolate variety. Yes, it must be a good 30 years since I've dragged out my own fondue set for some serious melting. It was only last September that my two fondue sets were given away before my shift to France.

This last weekend JC's son and his girlfriend  joined us. Family and friends are very important in French society. Sure, they're important in other countries but its particularly marked in France. We had a BBQ even though the weather was a bit fresh. Of course it was challenging and tiring for me trying to keep up my focus and comprehension when native speakers get together-nothing new there. It gets particularly tricky when I am trying to defend my point of view when I feel I am being attacked, even if some of it is in English. I have been told in the past that some French people can be pretty full-on and in your face when discussing things. I can say that this is certainly fair comment and there were a couple of times that I felt uncomfortable and unhappy being told what I would be expected to do and think and how I would change my mind about things.


I don't mind debating things on a level playing field but I do appreciate it being done respectfully. Apparently some french people equate activists with terrorists. Greenpeace seems to be the whipping boy in this respect. A bit rich really when France displayed it's blatant state-initiated terrorism against a friendly country when it's secret service agents bombed the Rainbow Warrior in Auckland in 1985 and killed a man. What's the difference? Well for starters dropping nuclear bombs in the Pacific is just plain evil as is bombing a ship in another country's harbour and on a completely different political and destructive scale to anything I can imagine Greenpeace doing.


Some activist groups do silly things which I wouldn't agree with and I don't financially support any groups, but I don't think all groups trying to draw attention to injustice in the world should be written off as terrorists. As part of a work project it's important that I monitor what's happening environmentally around the world, what the issues are and what could have an effect on our own communication efforts. So I trawl the internet to learn. What I learn isn't pleasant and I have admiration and respect for many of the groups who try to fight murder, corruption, pollution and corporate arrogance.

I will need to be careful in what articles I write for the
 project and will avoid the 'A' word so as not to provoke negative responses from the seemingly rather blinkered french. In many countries, organisations which fight injustice are considered heroes because who else dares to brave the horrid process and consequences?

In NZ we have a government that wanted to mine our National Parks and most fragile ecosystems. Quite a lot of NZers needed to be activists for a short time to stop that. It worked - 'this time'. There's the famous environmental struggle to stop Lake Manapouri's destruction just to generate some electricity. NZers got active and eventually the politicians got the message. And there was also the Springbok tour activism-violence on both sides but often from the police. Sometimes the odds are stacked so much against justice that unsavory methods get used.

My own past includes fighting for a precious ecosystem at the back of my street. I won a battle, lost the war, inspired others to get involved and wore myself out with the effort. But we do need individuals and groups to get passionate and effective and not lie down and say- too hard or, it's someone else's problem or, it's just political crap to manipulate us. Cop-out!

So if you want to rub me up the wrong way: assume you understand all my motivations, accuse me of not understanding things, be black and white judgmental about groups that deliberately court the media, and tell me what I should think and do. Sometimes people's passionate ideas can come across as bullying. I hope I don't fall into that trap myself.I'll keep an eye on that and work out how to get the message across anyway.

Photos show JCs cheesy efforts and a flaming french BBQ, the Rainbow Warrior sunk by the french in Auckland, the memorial in Northland, NZ.

The cradle of my family

The story of my family and the establishment of New Zealand’s only French settlement begins in 1840 on the banks of the Charente River, Rochefort, France.

Joseph and Madeleine Libeau and their children would have stood on the deck of the Comte de Paris watching the preparations for casting off. They would have seen the old naval buildings and the Corderie Royale and hoped the voyage of at least 3 months wouldn’t be a nightmare. But it didn’t start well.

Before they reached the open sea of the Atlantic the pilot stupidly beached the boat on purpose in order to get home, thinking the next high tide would refloat the boat, but it didn’t. The passengers and crew had to take everything off. A woman drowned herself in despair. Two weeks later they finally left France, arriving in Akaroa August 1840 only to discover that the South Island of New Zealand was now British. Along the way their family had increased by another child.

Joseph had two wives: his French one (who died as a result of a later childbirth) and then an English one who ended up in a mental institution. Eighteen children in total were born and seventeen survived. Oddly enough I am descended from both wives: Julie from his first wife was my maternal grandmother’s grandmother and Josephine from his second wife was my maternal grandfather’s grandmother.

Joseph and his first wife were both gardeners. This passion for growing things runs strongly through my lineage and is my strongest interest. The two pioneers did well in creating a successful new life for themselves at the end of the world, taking on market gardening, wine-making and dairying. I’ve known I had French ancestry all my life but that heritage was never very evident in my childhood. Still, there was a tug on my heart, even a subtle one, which saw me study French for five years at High School, one year at Canterbury University, three years at Teacher’s College and then initiate a programme of including French language into my teaching class at Tawhai School in Wellington.

The parents were so pleased with results that the inspectorate allowed my French lessons to continue the following year. And then my interest in France languished for many years while I changed careers and partners. It took off again as the 20th century drew to a close and was at fever pitch from 2008 onwards.

My tiny immediate family is dysfunctional and so my heart has crossed the oceans of the world in search of other family who might be interested in me. For almost five years I have been sending out emails to the Libeau Society and French family members in France to little avail. In the past month I received encouraging definitive responses from Alain Boussiron. He organised that I meet up with another of our mutual cousins Gilles and also Michel, yet another cousin living in the Charente area.

June 18 is the day I spent exploring the birthplace of Joseph Libeau and the neighbouring countryside. It’s also the day I spent with my two cousins Alain and Gilles along with Peter Tremewen, the New Zealand author of a well-published authoritative book on the French at Akaroa. What an amazing serendipity that we would all end up in the area on the same weekend.

In a two-car convoy we travelled north towards Nantes: Jean-Claude and I with Alain and Annick, Gilles and his wife Micheline with Peter Tremewan and his wife Christine. The countryside changed to viticulture (Muscadet) as we approached the tiny village of L’Elaudiere - birthplace of Joseph Libeau. We have no idea which ramshackle building he lived in as a child, maybe his home is just a pile of rubble or maybe it’s one of those still standing.

We looked through the gate at the only mansion and large garden in the village. Perhaps he tended the garden there? The main thing I noted was the excitement we three cousins felt to be together…there. My cousins are descended from one of Joseph’s daughters who returned with another French couple to France. She stayed in France and it is through her that I am related to these cousins. The French members are very small in number but the Kiwi members of the family number in the thousands.

I feel very proud of my very direct lineage to one of the founding families of Akaroa, a settlement which was established ten years before the English established Christchurch.

We wandered around the neighbouring town of Loroux Bottereau where we viewed one of only two surviving statues of Louis XVI in France, while a wedding was taking place.

We lunched together and set off to view the mighty Loire River and the destroyed fortified village of Chateauceaux (now Champtoceaux).




This was one of the most important fortresses during the Hundred Years War. It used to comprise 30 hectares but was constantly under siege from 1141 and was finally destroyed completely in 1420. It’s located 25kms east of Nantes and when you stand on the lookout you can see Ile de Neuve island in the middle of the Loire. The water level is rather low at present.

After some rather strenuous exercise we all departed back to Alain’s place for champagne and dinner. A wonderful family day.

If you’d like to know more about the French government’s attempts to settle and take possession of the South Island and the settlers from France and Germany who came with their hopes on the Comte de Paris you can read Peter’s book French Akaroa available from Canterbury University Press.