Chapter 20enty: Brittany's Cancale Oysters and the Big Savage

Brittany's Cancale Oysters and the Big Savage

Cancale, a short drive north along the coast from St. Malo, 

is the oyster (huitre) capital of France. 

We did not know that this is France's oyster city (my bad) until we went there for a day trip from our retreat in the forest.

More on oysters later

We always do some degree of research about places we travel to, but I must admit that Brittany has suffered in this regard. Brittany has been full of surprises though - good ones.

When people ask, and they often do, "What place do you like the best in France?" 

... our answer is invariably, "No one place. France is such an incredibly varied country - its history, its geography, the people, their food and drink. The language sounds good, and it sure is fun trying to speak it,  ñ'est ce pas?" 

But nowadays, having seen so much of France, many of these being return visits, I would say that I most want to return to Brittany for extended stays. Joanne's reply may be different.





I am getting ahead of myself. Our third and fourth nights in Brittany were very different than what anyone might expect. We were deep in the forest at an old manor house that goes by the unlikely name of La Grande Sauvagère.

This 16th Century domain (why is everything around here 16C?) is managed by the owner, Frédérique, a very nice accommodating hostess (pardon the pun).

We'd booked online and the directions were good, but in the blink of an eye, I missed my turn. I took a left off the tertiary road onto a dirt track that led to La Petite Sauvagère.

"No," said Joanne. "Wrong road. This goes to the Little Savagery. You just passed the Big Savagery."

our room bottom right by wisteria bloom

Sure enough, easy to miss, especially when day-dreaming about eating fresh oysters, and wondering which  dry white to pair it with ...

Anyway, another magical mystery tour: passing by fenced and unfenced farm pastures, working (olfactory) barns, farm houses, dairy cows, some mud, winding through pine forest, maple trees, and gorse. 

The forest road reminded me of fishing trips in the mountains of British Columbia back home. The difference being that the forest here is not a dense coniferous jungle, but more like woodlots and thickets that one could easily walk through.

at the back of the manor house

"Joanne, the word is not savagery. It's sauvagere, which in French means something like wild, as in a wild forest ... which this probably was five hundred years ago."



With the exception of a young mother and her little boy who stayed for a night on the upper floor, we had the place completely to ourselves. For two evenings: lunch out, dinner in. We brought our own meal of wine and bread, and good French things to eat with those staples, to the huge stone dining room in front of the centuries old hearth that had cooked many whole pigs, sheep and goats, and who knows what else, since at least, 1533. I'll return to this later.


Back to Cancale now, before relating the tale of La Grande Sauvagère. 

Never mind the red 2CV, look at the bronze statues above left. They are carrying baskets for the collection of oysters. This is Cancale. 

The parking fairy helped us once again She followed us from Antibes (See Chapter 6), and found us the perfect Peugeot 308-size parking space in the square, in the old centre of the city.

Then we walked down the hill to the harbour.

On the way, down, down, down to the waterfront, we walked by the postman/person. I said to her, "Prendre une photo?"

Her smile said, "Oui." 

Cancale is sometimes called the Emerald Bay. 

The colour of the ocean here changes with the tide and the light.  People who live near the Pacific Ocean are often surprised with the colours and the brightness of the Atalntic. It has a reputation of being cold and dark waters. Not so.

On a clear day, a really sharp eye one can pick out Mont Saint-Michel in Normandy, way off to the east. We did not see it.

The bay here is very shallow. Many boats wait out the tide, sitting on their hulls in the mud until the high water sets them afloat again. 

While eating lunch at a waterfront restaurant, we saw a farm tractor drive by, pulling a large boat on a trailer. Later we saw the tractor and trailer parked way out on the mud flats, as though abandoned. The boat was motoring out into the bay. This guy really knows his tides, I thought.

This is one brave young woman, about 15 metres up the mast. She had a small audience on the boardwalk. She ignored them and kept her composure.

The Breton language of the Cancalais, as the locals are called, seems to be alive and well. 

What does it say on the top of the fishing boat 

above the three windows?

At every one of the many waterfront restaurants oysters are on the menu.

It is much more fun to buy them fresh from one of the many vendors at the tents adjacent to the jetty.

We ordered a dozen shucked of the No. 2, for six euros.

Joanne loves raw oysters. She is picking a small piece of shell from her mouth, I think.

Together, we shared the seawall with other oyster eaters. You just squeeze some drops of fresh lemon onto the slippery morsels, pull off the top shell and use it to slice the meat away. Joanne swallowed a couple whole. I chewed the other ten, savouring each one. So raw and fresh!

Everyone recycles their shells by tossing them on the ground. When in Cancale, do as the Cancalais do.

We left Cancale for a drive to nearby St Malo. Alas, we did not get into the old walled city. Sometimes there is so much traffic on a weekend that we just give up. There was no parking inside the walls of the city, and all the parking lots around the perimeter were full. As we have done before, in places that everyone wants to see at the same time, we look at each other, and say, "Do we really want to do this?"

We turned the car around, and headed back to La Grande Sauvagère.

Just as well, because I really feel the need to get back to the story of the wild forest.




And the cat missed us. If you look closely, you will see her on the roof of our car ... purring. You cannot hear that, but I bet you could imagine it.


By way of replying to my many questions about the property, its origin, the buildings, the surrounding woods, Frédérique handed me the only documented history she had - a booklet that the previous owner had given her, based on his research.





She regretted that it was only in French. I photographed the pages and did some simple translation, the results of which I have to continue in the next and final chapter on Brittany. 

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