Breton walk from Rennes to Morlaix
Armor or Arvor, country of the sea or country of the woods, Brittany has two faces,
Armorique's coastline, scalloped with harbors that Avel is clamoring with its proud lighthouses,
Watching a sea of glas with blue reflections mixed with green and gray ageless,
The Argoat with raised stones between moors and peat bogs that dictated the cosmogony to its druids, demi-gods.
By its power of cultural and economic attraction the Breton capital seduced by its attractions,
In the heart of Rennes the medieval half-timbered houses tease the austere constructions,
The Mordelaise gates give entrance to the ducal capital where stands the restored Parliament of Brittany,
The Vilaine formerly serving as a border between the notables of the promontory and the laborious of the river.
Eternal quarrel of steeples, the Mt St Michel is it in Brittany or in Normandy,
The Couesnon is a link between the two countries sharing the passion for the sea,
In the bay, the sky, the earth and the water compose shades of gray,
Under the eye of the archangel returning nature to the top and the infinite of the extrasolar spirit.
Whether you're walking down the alleyways or watching from afar, in this fascinating bay this icon,
A pebble which charms as much as it intrigues where the Wonder contemplates the sea to advance,
The waves repainting the sand carpet and encircling the rock of foam that bubbles,
Whereas in the months of equinox the miquelets on pilgrimage cross the bay on foot.
Mont St Michel
Between heaven and earth at the end of a long windy road,
Like a star by the sea, it shines with its light,
Leaving the bay and its dangers along the winding river,
At the foot of the fortified walls, we are finally on the rock of the gods.
A thousand years ago, the archangel commanded with his voice,
A chapel that man will make, where Peace and Wisdom will live under his roof,
The mason thus commanded, built by winds and tides,
Mont St Michel, a symbol and a pearl of beauty.
Wonder of stone lace, jewel set with its turrets,
Pyramid in our West, its arrow vibrates in the wind,
You are so beautiful in your splendor you the proud citadel,
Ambassador of France, a sentry in all weathers.
Off well nestled in its bay, Cancale the Breton is divided on two floors,
At the bottom where the sailors lived in the low houses with not wide facades,
Above stood the captains and shipowners in stately stone dwellings,
But far from the forgotten folklore of the bisquines, it is the hollow oyster that makes the city proud.
Nestled in its cradle of greenery on a hillside, Combourg is reflected in the lake Tranquille,
Immortalized by the most illustrious romantic, Chateaubriand painted his description,
Like "a quiet lake touched by the agile swallow where the wind bowed the moving reed"
Dominated by the impressive castle of the ancestors of Du Guesclin medieval towers of exception.
It was on the Aaron Rock that was born in the 12th century. a market town with a strong grip,
Between fluffy, Newfoundland and vilous cod mariners of the Route du rhum, here is St Malo,
It was on the banks of the Rance that the bourgeois built their Malvinas in the countryside,
Vauban protected the city from the English and Dutch by a line of ramparts and forts on the islets.
At the confluence of 2 estuaries St Brieuc makes coexist between its walls the two traditional Brittany,
Side land next to the cathedral, Place du Martray beats the heart of the market town,
Port side Briochins have the choice between fine sand and beaches set between the eternal rocks,
But it's the Cité Baby where in the 30's they built their haven paradise mirande.
On the coast of Trégor overlooking the circular cove, a chaos of rock stands on the moor,
Natural sculptures bloom the Pink Granite Coast with daring forms,
Recorded on its base of pink granite, Mean Ruz, red stone, with the medieval keep tag the pass,
Off in Bréhat the secret, the walk is blooming among the hydrangeas and agapanthes in bands.
At the bottom of its fjord, in its deep valley Morlaix hides behind its high viaduct,
The house of the Duchess Anne, illustrates in her alley the Renaissance architecture pondalez,
But it is from the top of the railway bridge that one overlooks the roofs of the salient city,
Where at its feet the half-timbered houses with corbelled facades shine like silver.
It's aboard the Nebula, a cruise that the river reveals mansions and small castles,
But between the two lighthouses marking the channel, at high tide, the Bull seems to rest on the water,
Imagined by Vauban this building will act as Bastille of the seas for political prisoners,
Transformed into a summer resort, then carefully restored, the building is open to visitors.
In this country of Morlaix, a people of stone jostles around sorcerers' calvaries,
From St Thégonnec to Gimilliau, the parish enclosures are the scene of a dialogue with the afterlife,
Between Léon and Trégor Finistère, the parishes compete in the splendor of the gala sculptures,
Thanks to the trade of linen and hemp, the altarpieces have been able to trace the life of the time in color.
Pierre Loti with "Fisherman of Iceland" describes the epic of the galériens tracking the cod,
Paimpol placed at the bottom of its bay offers shimmering landscapes according to the sky and the tides,
In August, the Chant Marin festival awards Paimpolaise by Théodore Botrel to the honor of the streets,
In a beautiful atmosphere, in the middle of hundreds of old elements from around the world.
At the confluence of Jaudy and Guindy, the major stage of Tro Breiz is in Tréguier,
Pilgrimages have highlighted peaceful streets with half-timbered houses,
Its St Tugdual Cathedral, in pink and gray granite, stands in the middle of the old quarter,
Here tourists appreciate the crunchy trégor, crispy seaweed, cookies kings.
Going to Cape Fréhel we walk by colorful heather and gorse heather dear to the browsers,
Its jagged cliffs of shale and pink sandstone advance steeply into the bubbling sea,
Marrying the shape of the rock, its secular beauty in pink colors seduces the walker,
With its curtained battlements serving as barrel batteries, Fort La Latte, astonishing fortress.
Emblematic of the epic lighting of the French coast, the lighthouses guided the caravels,
Often shaped like towers, they are equipped with a lantern sheltering the fire at their summit,
Hell or purgatory, manhandled by storms with roaring and surreal waves,
At the rhythm of the relays and the quarters, the guards played the role of watchman of the sacred fire.
ARIÉ ... .JOIE