♥♥Gone to pastures new. Thanks to all of you. You are a lovely crowd, but time does not ...
♥♥Gone to pastures new. Thanks to all of you. You are a lovely crowd, but time does not permit me to do the site justice any more♥♥
Member since:01.08.2003
Reviews:633
Members who trust:492
Dear Mother,
The weather was beautiful and the sky showed pretty fluffy clouds that drift and form pretty pictures, that any imagination can play with. The ladies were dressed in their 19th Century costumes in heavy jute, and had their sleeves rolled up at the village washing well. The sheets lay over the edges of the huge water source, as they scrubbed away with a round pad filled with something that vaguely resembled soap, laughter lines showing on their faces, and their humour filling the Breton air with a sense of fun, making light of hard work and discussing the usefulness of the male species.
Sheets washed, they lay them out on fields of green, pastures bathed in sunshine, so that the rough material would dry, ready to make fresh beds for the winter that was to come. Changing sheets only twice a year, when the weather was clement enough to dry them thoroughly, this was a meeting of minds, a social event.
Further up the steps to the village, I passed through fields of beasts and a tethered goat as
I made my way to the heart of this 16th Century village of Poul Fetan, where woodsmoke filled the air with a scent that is reminiscent of childhood memories. In the street, ladies were spinning, and it was amazing to note the differences between the methods employed in France and those that I was taught as a child in England. They let me try my craft, and giggled as I proved that the resulting wool was every bit as well spun as their own.
Chickens roamed the small street, and I entered a room where two ladies in long dresses talked amongst themselves, stirring the couldron which was held over an open fire by a huge metal vice like instrument, and I made my way up rickety steps to the grain store which kept the family warm, taking up all of the second floor, where cats meowed and teased and probed the corn in an effort to find mice.
On descending, I was offered a bowl of gruel which, although looking somewhat like porridge, tasted deliciously sweet and wholesome, followed by unleavened bread baked at the side of the fire. Sitting on a crude wooden stool, my appetite was sated, and I began to understand how folks existed in times that were barren and difficult. Men, out in the fields, left the women to fend for themselves, and this generation of strong characters made solid roots for what I now find the Breton people to be.
In the yard, under the shelter of an agricultural shed, a lady in a peasants bonnet and costume made butter, and as the blue skies threw out heat and promised a storm later on in the day, the poor girl worked very hard to make the butter take form, shaking the butter maker by hand, and producing a light fluffy textured butter that gave a taste of yesteryear.
We stopped for refreshment in the form of modern ice creams, and noted that coffee and tea were offered to the weary traveller, though little sign of the local brew of eau de vie, as the season had not yet arrived for the pressing of apples into liquid nectar.
In the pottery, travellers were shown the art of turning pots, and many were on sale at reasonable prices in order to preserve the village and present the guests with adequate entertainment for a complete afternoon.
The gardens are a special place indeed having many species of plants which were used for medicinal purposes, as well as a huge crop of hemp (incidentally one that disappointed the passing hippy who sniffed his disapproval), as this kind of hemp is one used for the making of twine and clothing, as displayed in the small museum of clothing of those times which seem so far away. Other trades were interesting to note like the production of ground flour, and the making of baskets, which would have been an essential part of village life, both for the marketplace and also for gathering of vegetables from the gardens.
I shall sign off now. My writing is so small because I have so much to say, and so little space in which to say it. My day at Quistinic in the heart of the Breton Countryside has been an enjoyable one. The woodsmoke is dying down, the village bells are tolling the hour of closure, and my weary feet need rest.
A happy traveller.
Entrance Fee : 5.00 Euros. Reduced price for pensioners and children. Cafe Prices : Very reasonable. Car Parking : Adequate parking is available. Toilets available : adequate. Contact Poul Fétan au : 02-97-39-51-74 to confirm opening times, although in Summer, Poul Fetan is open most afternoons and at weekends. Transport Links : Not available. Cars essential and coaches welcomed.
Site unsuitable for Disabled.Although it is not possible, I wish I could intersperse this review with the photographs of a very special place that has been revived and instead of merely presenting buildings that have been restored historically correctly, has given the tourist a taste of how rural life in France would have been.
Enjoy. I did.
Pictures of Poul Fetan, Quistinic
photo from Poul Fetan website.
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Fabulous review - I loved the approach you've taken, and I felt like I was there. Cheers, K.
Janej47 21.09.2005 11:21
Where exactly is this ? If its near(ish) to our house in Brittany I will have to take some time off fitting the kitchen and mowing the fields to visit
Sounds a little like Beamish , which I love
Jane x
Majiggy 17.09.2005 04:23
Great op. Sounds lovely and really beautiful. A nice way of showing us your experience. :+)
xx maj xx
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