It’s boring to speak of the weather, but at the moment, I can’t help myself, as I’m reveling in it so thoroughly. After another sleepless night (the third in a row; I must get some rest in Quimper), the ferry arrived in Roscoff, about an hour before the break of dawn. It being a Sunday, nothing was open, no trains were running, so I walked along the quay until I found a boulangerie that was open early. I procured a bagette, filled my water jug from a municipal spigot near the fishing boats, and sat on a bench to watch the sun rise over the harbor.
I’ve not seen a sunrise in some time – the habits of an itinerant musician make it improbable. But I didn’t mind this one: enjoying fresh bread and fresh water, seeing the first rays illuminate the steeple of the Renaissance cathedral, the town dead silent around me, except for a few scattered fishermen untethering their boats before the tides sucked the water from the harbor. I am in France again. The gravity of it settles on me as the sun gains buoyancy.
Over the next couple of hours, I was able to watch the tides recede. Here in the relatively flat land of Brittany, the tides aren’t measured in feet, but in tens or hundreds of meters. The boats that were anchored at 6am sat in mud by noon, far from the water. While the boats became stranded, I became mobile, catching the 13h27 train to Morlaix, where I now sit on the terrace at the brasserie outside the station, absorbing magnificent sunlight and awaiting the train that will take me to Languadec and connect me to Quimper, seat of Finistère and heart of Bretange.
