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In Which I Track Down The Hattifatteners

August 19, 2007 by Mike

Concarneau

Route: Douarnenez - Pointe du Van - Plozevet - Penmarc'h - Pont-l'Abbe - Benodet - Concarneau

.. that's about 40 miles, tops, if you take the direct road. I've ridden about 120.. and it took half the day. Lots of wiggly coastal bits to enjoy but this is France: there were lots of suburbs and a couple of stonking traffic jams as I drove in and out of tiny towns with appalling road lay-outs.

I spent the longest time behind one slow, wobbly motor-home in particular, contemplating the profusion of bicycles strapped to the back, all in clashing primary colours: daddy bike, mummy bike complete with baby seat and two small kids' bikes. It seemed to me they were advertising their fecundity just a little too loudly.

Some of the towns and villages I've navigated through in the last couple of days: Plozevet, Plonevez, Plouhinec, Ploeven, Plougastel, Plouguerneau, Plougrescant, Plouescat, Plougonvelin, Ploudalmezeau. It's making me dizzy.

Add to that the fact that most places here have both a French and a Breton name. Thus Primelin is also Prevel; Esquibien is An Eskevien, Audierne is Gwaien. And I'd be really interested to know how Plogoff (in French) manages to be Plougon (in Breton). Is the Plog- off or on? Come on, folks -- you're the same people! Make up yr minds!

Concarneau is a "ville close" -- a walled town -- that I've been looking forward to for another trip down memory lane.

<Another Trip Down Memory Lane>
When I was hitching to Brest to see Miles Davis, my last ride was in a van of crazy young music fans. We stayed together to watch Miles, and they offered me a bed for the night afterwards. They lived nearby. I ended up staying a week. They taught me that if we stayed up really late, and slept through until lunchtime, we missed breakfast - thereby saving enough money to be able to drink again that night. One of Life's Mysteries explained to a wide-eyed 18-year-old.

They weren't much older than me, my new best friends. There were four or five of them sharing an old house in a small village. Very relaxed. They ran a bar, when they remembered to open. I remember a couple -- he was tall and thin and funny, she was the proudest Breton -- and I think his brother was there some of the time. To be honest, memories fade, and the house red is as much to blame as the passing of the years. It was a woozily wonderful time. We all drove down to another Festival - somewhere on the coast, featuring Miriam Makeba, Roger McGuinn, local hottie Alan Stivell and (I have no reason for remembering this) bassist-extraordinaire Colin Hodgkinson playing back-up for someone I can't recall.

Actually, go off and watch that Colin Hodgkinson clip and you'll understand why I remember seeing him.

But I digress. As usual. The point was -- this mysterious week in my life was somewhere down here. Concarneau, Quimper and Quimperle are all names I remember. It was a little village and I can't for the life of me remember the name, despite poring over the map. I can't remember their names either. But whoever they are and whatever they've been doing for the last 20 years and more, I bet they came down to Concarneau tonight for the dancing and the drinking - any excuse to avoid breakfast tomorrow.
</Another Trip Down Memory Lane>

I arrived in Concarneau on the last day of the Festival des Filets Bleus - the Festival of the Blue Fishing Net. The old heart of the town is a well-preserved 'ville close' -- a walled city, which I wandered round, Breton sausage in hand, loving the atmosphere. Too late for the daytime festivities thanks to the traffic, but early enough to watch the merry remains dance and drink late into the night. Many people were wearing traditional costumes - elegant 19th century head-dresses and skirts for the women, fedoras for the men along with white shirts, embroidered waistcoats, black jackets and trousers.

Yes, I'm tempted by the fedoras but sadly no, I didn't find any for sale.

I didn't find any flung to one side by out-of-their-heads locals either. Not that they hadn't been drinking all day, but somehow (remember I'm from England; that's my frame of reference) they managed to enjoy the grapes and hops without turning into monsters. Nobody was throwing up over the side of the docks into the sea. Nobody was fighting, or crying, or passed out. Nobody was wearing a football shirt.

Instead they were playing accordions and clarinets and dancing a strangely silent, synchronised dance: long, weaving lines of dancers, old and young, hand in hand, gently bobbing and ducking in time to the music, two steps forward, two steps back, bob, bob, two steps forward and to the left, hundreds of dancers now; all the time those hundreds of pairs of feet moving silently across the cobbled street, not a sound, and every face a study of concentration, anxious even, to stay in line and in time, nobody talking or laughing or singing along.

It was like watching the Hattifatteners dance.

It's been cold today, as low as 15.5 degrees according to one of the many digital time-and-temperature displays that punctuate the towns here. Add the wind-chill factor, the speed I've been riding and the moisture in the air and..... atchooo. Where'd my summer go?

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Track Down The Hattifatteners

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