DOI Heft:
No. 270 (September 1915)
DOI Artikel:Almond, Francine: Impressions of Brittany in war time: Sketches by W. Douglas Almond R. I.
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.21213#0243
Impressions of Brittany in War Time
ashamed to be anything but vigorous. Slackers !
I am sure such poor worms would cease to crawl
in Douarnenez. It may be the air, which is in-
vigorating and pure; it may be the stern life of
active, physical labour, but whatever it is, it’s there
and is founded on the good old adage of “ Early
to bed and early to rise.” Douarnenez begins to
bestir itself at five in the morning, and it keeps
it up vigorously
until nine in the
evening, when
suddenlycomesa
profound silence,
a silence that is
felt—Douarnenez
sleeps. Butatfive
in the morning
Douarnenez
wakes. There is
no mistake about
it; Douarnenez
wakes without
even a remini-
scent yawn, and
clatters through
the streets en
route for its
sardine fisheries,
en route for its
tinning factories,
its early markets,
and now—en
route for its early
marches. One
wakens to the
tramp, tramp,
tramp of hun-
dreds of soldiers
passing by. The
Angelus rings;
cocks crow,
bugles sound,and
clickety-click go
the sabots. What a magnificent reveille !
And what a sight to see the fishing-fleer, eight
hundred strong, swirl around the jetty, all swinging
in on the same tack, all bent to the same graceful
angle, and each boat settling down with the quiet
precision of a veteran, that is all order and no rule.
Then the rattle of the anchor chains—r-r-r-rip !
Like a charge of musketry it echoes through the
surrounding hills, and the sails—browns, yellows,
and tawny pinks—are lowered and in their places,
fastened to the mastheads, float out the “ filets
bleus ”; vaporous in their fairy-like beauty, fine
as cobwebs, they wave and float and festoon them-
selves in every imaginable shade of grey and blue
and mauve, one blending into the other in a
bewildering, billowy mass of soft colour, until
Douarnenez harbour rivals in witchery the enchant-
ment of fairyland.
After the patrol with fixed bayonets has made its
round of the town
—for all soldiers
must beinbynine
— we
often steal away to
the quay,and from
there make a cir-
cuit of the town
by skirting the
water’s edge. At
low tide one can
almost, but not
quite, pick one’s
way over the sea-
w e e d-cover ed
rocks to the Isle
of Tristan, the
summer home
of Jacques Riche-
pin. Surrounded
by its solid
walls of stone
masonry, this
romantic-look-
ing island gives
one furiously
to think of
that picturesque
rascal La Fon-
tanelle, who in
1595 took refuge
there after
terrorising the
people of Brittany
with his awe-
inspiring brigandage. It is a moment, too, to dwell
upon the quaint legend of La Ville d’ls, that city of
fabulous culture and luxurious vice. In order to
make a spectacle to amuse her guests, Dahut,
the beautiful daughter of King Grallon, stole
the key of the ecluse from her sleeping father
and unlocked the gates, so allowing the waters
to rush in. A tragic spectacle it turned out
to be when the tempestuous waves engulfed the
mad revellers and the beautiful city, leaving only
the fleeing king with his daughter Dahut seated
223
ashamed to be anything but vigorous. Slackers !
I am sure such poor worms would cease to crawl
in Douarnenez. It may be the air, which is in-
vigorating and pure; it may be the stern life of
active, physical labour, but whatever it is, it’s there
and is founded on the good old adage of “ Early
to bed and early to rise.” Douarnenez begins to
bestir itself at five in the morning, and it keeps
it up vigorously
until nine in the
evening, when
suddenlycomesa
profound silence,
a silence that is
felt—Douarnenez
sleeps. Butatfive
in the morning
Douarnenez
wakes. There is
no mistake about
it; Douarnenez
wakes without
even a remini-
scent yawn, and
clatters through
the streets en
route for its
sardine fisheries,
en route for its
tinning factories,
its early markets,
and now—en
route for its early
marches. One
wakens to the
tramp, tramp,
tramp of hun-
dreds of soldiers
passing by. The
Angelus rings;
cocks crow,
bugles sound,and
clickety-click go
the sabots. What a magnificent reveille !
And what a sight to see the fishing-fleer, eight
hundred strong, swirl around the jetty, all swinging
in on the same tack, all bent to the same graceful
angle, and each boat settling down with the quiet
precision of a veteran, that is all order and no rule.
Then the rattle of the anchor chains—r-r-r-rip !
Like a charge of musketry it echoes through the
surrounding hills, and the sails—browns, yellows,
and tawny pinks—are lowered and in their places,
fastened to the mastheads, float out the “ filets
bleus ”; vaporous in their fairy-like beauty, fine
as cobwebs, they wave and float and festoon them-
selves in every imaginable shade of grey and blue
and mauve, one blending into the other in a
bewildering, billowy mass of soft colour, until
Douarnenez harbour rivals in witchery the enchant-
ment of fairyland.
After the patrol with fixed bayonets has made its
round of the town
—for all soldiers
must beinbynine
— we
often steal away to
the quay,and from
there make a cir-
cuit of the town
by skirting the
water’s edge. At
low tide one can
almost, but not
quite, pick one’s
way over the sea-
w e e d-cover ed
rocks to the Isle
of Tristan, the
summer home
of Jacques Riche-
pin. Surrounded
by its solid
walls of stone
masonry, this
romantic-look-
ing island gives
one furiously
to think of
that picturesque
rascal La Fon-
tanelle, who in
1595 took refuge
there after
terrorising the
people of Brittany
with his awe-
inspiring brigandage. It is a moment, too, to dwell
upon the quaint legend of La Ville d’ls, that city of
fabulous culture and luxurious vice. In order to
make a spectacle to amuse her guests, Dahut,
the beautiful daughter of King Grallon, stole
the key of the ecluse from her sleeping father
and unlocked the gates, so allowing the waters
to rush in. A tragic spectacle it turned out
to be when the tempestuous waves engulfed the
mad revellers and the beautiful city, leaving only
the fleeing king with his daughter Dahut seated
223