The Search for the Holy Grail

Bretagne, France.  A great part of the world, even besides the crêpes.  And the place to being a search for the Holy Grail. I drove down to Paimpont Forest (né Brocéliande) in a hunt for Merlin and the Holy Grail.  My quest started in the rather dull, modern town of Moron (actually Mauron –apparently the sister city of Newmarket England (but I think it should be the sister city of Taft, CA (né Moron))) in search for lunch, but I failed in that my first little mini quest, and had to make due with an apple (but it was a magical apple, so that was ok). 

Next stop was the Chateau de Comper, the mythical home of Viviane (the Lady of the Lake) and the childhood home of Lancelot.  Turning into the car park, just past a field with a cow baying at the moon (it really looked like it was baying at the moon, sitting on its haunches, head thrown back in classic wolf pose – perhaps it was just trying to stand up or perhaps these Breton cows are a special breed), I was greeted by a  woman in polyester Gwenevere costume, backpack on one shoulder, munching on a sandwich … clearly I had now entered the realm of King Arthur!

Inside the castle, a rather dull exhibition of Arthurian lore, mannequins dressed renaissance costume (?!) and bus loads of French school children all in capes and with magic wands running about the chateau casting spells on walls, potted plants and whatever else they happened to pass.  I guess it was some sort of Harry Potter convention (although, since this is France, they were Henri Podders).  I took a quick look into the lake out back (no ladies in evidence under the water) and got the hell out of there.

Next stop: Le Tombeau de Merlin and Le Fontaine de Jouvence.  After driving through some lovely woods and fields, imagining the crazed old Druid shaman, Merlin, sitting on a stump all hairy and ragged, gnawing on some half cooked chunk of meat, wondering when some sucker would come along who he could dupe into some steady business,  I came to the “Tomb of Merlin” … really a druid religious site, a little circle of stones covered with notes, flowers and prayers for Merlin.  While I was there contemplating the meeting of Merlin and the naïve young Arthur, three French guys, avec rottweiler, wandered up, wrote pithy little notes on scraps of paper, and tucked them into the rocks around the tomb.  Someone had actually left flowers for Merlin, a yellow rose, with a note saying “Merci Merlin” in a flowery feminine hand – I wonder what the old rogue did for her?

I followed the French guys and their dog back into the woods to the Fountain of Youth – a rather drab dirty little hole in the ground with some water trickling out – no reason why the Fountain of Youth should look especially flashy I guess.  Apparently this site was an ancient Druid fountain where at a nighttime ceremony the priests (or Merlin) would essentially baptize dirty little baby druids … but it is now surrounded by little cairns of rock left by escapees of the Renaissance Fairs from around the world in remembrance of something or another.  After the French guys has tromped back off into the woods, I knelt down and had a sip from the fountain … one cannot come all this distance to find the fountain of youth and not take a sip!  (and I guess catching some sort of bacterial infection and spending the rest of the day shitting myself will be the closest I come to regaining my infancy).  Then it started to rain.

Time for real lunch.  I made my way through the heart of Paimpont Forest to the village of Paimpont.  After a leisurely stroll down the main street (the only street if truth be told), looking at the souvenir shops mostly plastic swords and little gnomish figurines that could be found at any local Renaissance Fair, I found a likely looking little restaurant, “Le Bar de L'Abbaye,” with a nice terrace where I could sit quietly in the rain and have some lunch.  From the full menu, I opted against the “Salade de Viviane” (with tuna) and the “Salade de Morgan” (Salmon) for the “Salade de Merlin” (ham) – somewhere Merlin is no doubt howling in outrage that a stinking salad is named after him, and not a hearty meal of BBQ pork or something.  The salad was fine, but apparently in this part of France “sans sauce” means “smothered in oily salad dressing” … in Paris it means something else entirely.

I decided to forgo dessert, the Germans at next table had a rather impressive looking towers of flaming ice cream (the “Flambé Merlin perhaps?) and I headed back out on the quest.  Next stop: La Fontaine de Barenton.  This Fountain was where the nephew of King Arthur, Yvain, supposedly defeated the dreaded Black Knight and married his widow (he then left her for a year, came back to find her a bit annoyed. He was thus banished. Then he met a lion (apparently lions wandered the Brocéliande back then), and with the lion’s help won back his wife).  It’s another lovely drive through the forest, passing through the quant hamlet of Folle-Pensée (Madness Cured – I kid you not) and then and a misty, rainy 30 min walk though some lovely fern filled woods to reach the fabled and magical Fontaine de Barenton, only to find that the bus load of Henri Podders had beaten me there (perhaps they really did have some magical powers).  The clutch of them was sitting in a ragged circle around the small stone wall that surrounded the spring; they were having an impromptu lesson on druid culture or some such from a teacher dressed as Gandalf, fake beard and all.  Le Fontaine de Barenton was supposed to be enchanted; as the story goes if one with strong magical powers (like Merlin, for instance) would take the water from the spring, say some incantations and then pour the water on the alter stone next to the well, they could create terrible storms.  From the look of the weather, I think a few of the Henri Podders had already been mucking about with that spring water. 

My last stop on the search for Merlin and the Holy Grail was the “Val Sans Retour” (Valley of no Return), which is nestled just outside the village of Tréhorenteuc (the name just glides off the tongue, doesn’t it?).  I had high hopes for this valley, with such a sinister sounding name, but clearly, since I am writing this, it is a bit of a misnomer.  However the valley is indeed dark and deep and vaguely sinister … the place where King Arthur’s bitchy half sister, Morgan, turned her unfaithful lovers into stones (the rock formations called the Faux-Amants ) and imprisoned others by bewitching them.  It seemed a reasonable good place for Joseph of Arimathea, Jesus’s uncle, to steal off with the cup from the last supper and hide it this the farthest frontier of the Roman Empire.  But where would he hide it in this deep spooky valley?  The mist lay heavy over the hills and the only sound was the distant cawing of some crows.  Perhaps under that flat rock?  I turned over the rock, just bugs.  Maybe under that ancient looking bush?  Nothing, but a likely spot for a pee. 

I gave up.  Yet another in a long line of failed pilgrims hunting for the grail.  Back to the hotel. Nothing worth hunting for ends without a large measure of anticlimax.

A Weekend Trip To Normandy

After driving out from Paris, my first stop was the famous tapestry of Bayeax (1,000 years old and tells the story of William the Conqueror).  It’s sort of interesting but 100s of British school children underfoot make it sort of hard to take.  The tapestry itself is 250 feet long, with little embroidered cartoons telling the tale, embroidered Latin footnotes help those who cannot understand the pictures (French and English signs outside the display case help those who cannot read Latin nor understand the pictures).  But honestly, it’s a big rug.  Hard to get too excited.

After, I drove up to Arromanches-les-Bains (to see the British prefab harbor of Mulberry Harbors – or what is left of it – quite amazing project – the Allies dragged these giant pontoons across the English Channel to create the man-made harbor) and Longues-sur-Mer (to see 152mm German guns that were part of the Atlantic Wall – they are still there – fascinating).  But I found Omaha and Utah Beaches a bit anti-climactic, as I have found all famous battle sites I have ever visited.  Most battles, apparently, take place on rather random ground which holds no inherent interest and thus years after the battle that ground reverts to its boring origins.  Omaha Beach just looks like a sort of normal holiday resort (Waterloo is just a field, as is Austerlitz, etc.)

The next day, I visited the north coast of Bretagne.  In a word: Fabulous.  Le Mont St. Michel is an amazing little island and St. Malo is a really cool walled city.

But the highlight of the day: a real traditional crepe.  It was all it was cracked up to be.  I had been told by a native Breton I met in Paris that he hated the Parisian crepes because they were always too thick.  I thought he was a bit daft, as crepes are pretty damned thin (they are crepes afterall). But having just had a real crepe, I can understand what he meant.  The thing was paper thin, if even that.  So thin that there is no way one could eat it in your hand.  It was folded delicately on a plate.  I had a traditional one of just butter and sugar, and it tasted not unlike ambrosia.  Really splendid.  If you ever get to St. Malo, you must stop at Ti Nevez Creperie at 12, rue Broussais .

On the drive out to Normandy I bought a few CDs from a Auto Route rest stop: Dalida (the chanteuse and comedienne) and Johnny Halliday.  And I must say I just don’t get it.  Either of them … pretty awful stuff.  I might have to donate them to the Rental Car gods as a sacrifice.  I can think of no reason for Dalida's fame, except for her great lungs (on display in the CD jacket photo).  I guess she might have been quite funny, and it occurs to me that her singing could be a big joke too (perhaps one that no one really understood -- they thought she was being serious).  Johnny Halliday is awful.  No other word to describe it.

For the drive back to Paris, I have bought another CD, a "Summer 2006" mix of what is hot this summer ... I am sure I will hate it (although it did have one promising song by a frog on it).