A Thunderstorm to Île-Grande, Brittany

The rambling campsite on the Cap Fréhel peninsular was such a relaxed affair, we could have seen ourselves making periodic visits to reception to extend our stay. We’d eaten our fresh veg stash though, and although the nearby village had a bakers and butchers, we decided it was time to use that as a prompt to dislodge ourselves and head west, further into Brittany. As night fell the skies blew up. Heavy rain drumming on the roof woke us, along with camera-flashes of lightning above. Flash after flash after flash, there wasn’t even a second between strikes at times.

Ju got up and disconnected her phone from the charger, sensible, we’ve no surge protection in here. I glanced at the tester plug’s orange lights to check whether the site’s power supply had been blasted. Great roars would rumble along the length of the peninsular. In the dark we couldn’t see the tents pitched behind us, wondering how the canvas was dealing with the pouring rain and wind. Although we feel close to nature in here, we know you feel a whole lot closer when there’s just a bit of cloth between you and it.

Maybe an hour later the carnage drifted off to batter somewhere else and calm was restored. We drifted off too. In the morning the tents appeared to have survived and we’d suffered nothing worse than damp outside chairs, shoved under the van, but not far enough. We’d already emptied the loo the night before, so skipped the long queue for the service point and headed off along the coast. Just outside the site we passed a spot a poor lady was being treated by paramedics the evening before, having come off her moped on a downhill section.

Although we’d a supermarket planned into the satnav, another one appeared right next to the road so in we dived. A big ‘un. One of those that seems to stock multiple types of everything. It even had a ramp up to roof parking which allowed motorhomes, but ours was already safely parked at ground level when we realised. We ambled about inside collecting stuff, trying (and failing to a good degree) to avoid the delicious-looking-and-bad-for-you stuff. With baskets full of fresh crepes, cakes, rillettes and a thin covering of fresh veg, we headed for the self-service tills.

While outside the UK, there seems to be a roughly 50-50 mix in how supermarkets want you to handle veg which needs weighing. Some have scales which print barcoded stickers with the weight/cost located near the veg. You can sometimes just stab at a number, so green beans might be labelled 53 for example, and the scales know the cost per Kg. Other times you have to go through the menu system to find stuff. At this particular shop signs around the veg said the food was weighed at the checkout. Yep, that was true, if you used the manned ones. At the self-services ones, for a reason beyond us, you could weigh some veg, but not others. Confused, we called in help. Supermarket-lady took our veg to a weighing machine just before the self-service area and weighed it and popped on the stickers. Another wee lesson. Thankfully we’d seen someone else get stuck trying to leave too, so we’d worked out that you needed to scan a barcode on your receipt before the barrier would open.

Stocked up, we headed back onto the road and on to our destination. Only problem was, I’d forgotten to tell Ju I’d changed where we were heading. On this trip I’ve taken a bit more of a lead on deciding where to go, but we still chat it through. This time we’d had the chat, and agreed on a couple of options within half an hour of each other. Afterwards I’d done more reading and found (mainly based on a reader recommendation) another campsite quite a bit further west. Having not informed Ju the navigator of where the GPS was aiming for, her glances at the map as we drove were looking increasingly confused. In the end she ‘overrode’ the satnav (this happens fairly often anyway) and we turned off the dual carriageway (which was taking us west to our new destination) and starting heading north (to the previously-agreed spots). It took a good while before we found somewhere to pull in and I realised my mistake. After that we found our way back to the fast road and rolled over here. Whoops, I’m a muppet!

At some point along the way, we noticed the roadsigns went bilingual, French and Breton. The latter was brought here by Celtic Britons, over 1000 years ago, and looks absolutely nothing like French! Governments has long made attempts to stamp out languages like Breton, fearing they support separatist movements. More recently, minority tongues have been officially accepted and even encouraged by central government. Looking at a map of Breton speakers, they’re concentrated to the west of Brittany, so we’ll have to keep an ear out to see if we can pick up anyone speaking the ancient tongue.

Anyway, despite the diversions and several fiendish speedbumps which almost threw our cupboards open, we safely arrived at Île-Grande, a 2km by 1km island on Brittany’s Pink Granite Coast. No need for a ferry, it’s connected to the mainland by a small bridge. There’s an aire here for €9.60 a night, and next door a municipal campsite for €18 without hook-up or €20 with electric.

Our approach to finding places to sleep has changed over the years. On our first long tours we slept in a ton of freebie spots, in car parks, in free aires, by the side of the road, you name it. These days we’ve both (a) re-engineered our finances and (b) have gotten older, and prefer the increased comfort and lower stress of official, paid locations. Not to say we don’t do a bit of ‘unofficial’ free-parking from time to time, but overall we lean towards sanctioned places.

On this particular trip we’re in ‘holiday mode’ so have splashed out on the campsite (especially when we were told we could get a pitch with a sea view) rather than using the aire (N48.79768, W3.585184). The site has direct access to the GR34 coastal path and just beyond, white sandy beaches fringed with granite blocks. None of which are pink by the way. Grey yes. Pink, no. Maybe they’re pink when they’re cut?

Said beaches are often dry of sea too. It recedes an unbelievable distance, out of sight twice a day, before gradually flooding the bay again. At low tide it’s a moonscape out there. At high tide, the water laps clear on the beaches, speed boats swoosh chased by wake boarders, and an assortment of SUPs, kayaks and swimmers splash about in the newly formed sea.

While the site’s right next to the sea/moonscape, only a few of the pitches can actually see it. Those that have a good view are generally occupied by seasonaires. Somehow we’ve ended up with a pitch in among the long-termers (who only half-acknowledged us at first but now appear to have grudgingly accepted our temporary presence :-)), and can see the glimmering water. It’s not an Instagram view mind you, not without a drone anyway. More of a ‘A Place in the Sun’, cameraman zoomed-in-a-bit on distant glimpse of sea kinda view. But it’s enough to give us a feeling of being attached to the water – when it’s there.

We’ve been here a couple of days and Ju’s been around the 7km outer walking path three times already. It’s a laid-back, low-build kinda place. Chilled out, with a really nice restaurant just by the campsite entrance, a small shop stocking the essentials as well as a daily bread delivery at campsite reception. The nearest shops are 5km away back on the mainland. The houses all seem large and well built, some with envy-inducing broad windows facing the sea.

Just along the coast path there’s the site of an old granite quarry. One of many. The island was once a major source of stone for inland building projects – churches, viaducts, houses – all used granite from around here. You can still see the squared-off edges where men once hacked at the rock, transporting it inland with a combination of boats and rails. A hard life, out in the weather, working with tons of rock and right alongside the sea. By the quarry there’s a bird sanctuary, with young brown-feathered gulls held under a large netted area. Ju’s just seen ’em being fed with fresh fish, the birds keeping a healthy distance from the feeder.

Our feeling is this is a really great place for enjoying the sea, and we’re again talking of getting a blow-up kayak or SUP, after abandoning our old Lidl one in Norway many moons ago. This is the perfect place to play, when the tide is in of course, providing a huge bay protected from the open sea. We’ll have to have a think about buying something.

Sitting among our seasonaires neighbours we feel very under-equipped, their pitches are bursting with awnings, extra tents, monkey-bikes, electric bikes, electric scooters, stand-up paddle boards, kayaks, fishing gear and cockling rakes. We’ve been meaning to get a trip into Decathlon in while we’re here, we’ll have a look-see while we’re there. For the time being, we’ve made do with walking and (for Ju) running around the island.

This morning we were treated to a flyby from the Patrouille acrobatique de France, the French Red Arrows. Eight of them flew over the campsite in diamond formation, then individually. They were too quick for us to catch on the camera, but an amazing sight. Early afternoon we set off for a walk around this island, only this time instead of sticking to the GR34 path around the edge, we walked up to an ancient dolmen. There were no information boards, or dolmen visitors centre like the one we visited in Antequera, Spain, it was just sat in a field at the end of Rue de Dolmen. It was still pretty impressive though.

Our route back through the centre of the island coincided with the local Ty Puces. We know Ty in Welsh is House (and the Breton language has strong links to Welsh). and Puce in French is flea, so I guess a literal translation might be house flea market, in reality it’s a garage sale. 70 odd homes across the island took part with maps and sign posts directing would-be bargain hunters from stall to stall. We had a nose around a couple of the stalls, but it was all very similar stuff to the Vide-Grenier Ju had a look around a few days ago at St Jact.

As we were walking past the local church we nipped in to make the most of the cool air. The sunlight made the stained glass windows glow, and hidden in the corner we found a statue of L’ankou – the servant of death. Every parish in Brittany is said to have its own Ankou. In Breton tradition, the squealing of railway wheels outside one’s home is supposed to be The Wheelbarrow of Ankou and the cry of an owl is known as The Death Bird. We don’t know why Ile Grande’s Ankou is carrying a shovel though?

I’ll leave you with the three courses of lunch we had yesterday at the restaurant by the site entrance. They do a number of set menus, this one was three courses and cost €21 each, great value in our opinion as the food and service was spot-on.

Cheers, Jay