George East is a writer and humorist. His latest book about the culture, history, and food and drink (especially the food and drink) of Brittany comes out this summer, and he has kindly agreed to give our readers some sneak previews in the run-up to release. The previous excerpt explored the mythical Isle of Ys in the Bay of Douarnenez. This time we have moved on to Morlaix. Over to you George….
Morlaix
If the ancient town of Morlaix were a woman, I think she might be a sophisticated, elderly but still game former university lecturer in fine art. Madame Morlaix would have a very developed sense of style and presence, a bit of a past, and a penchant for smoking the odd spliff.
Sitting at the end (or beginning if you think that way) of an estuary opening on to the north west coast, Morlaix has an unusual and rather twee inland port. Once upon a time, the medieval quay allowed barges to pick up and discharge their cargoes for and from Paris. Nowadays, the old tobacco factory is a trendy business centre overlooking an even trendier marina. Posh yachts pass through the lock gates when the tide is right, and make their way into the great bay named for the town. The Rade de Morlaix is dotted with islands bearing forts, exclusive homes and the tallest lighthouse in all France. Along the shorelines are thriving oyster farms, a number of interesting villages with restaurants specialising unsurprisingly in food from the sea, and some corking coastal path and clifftop walks.
Back the other way, trains run over the soaring viaduct which overlooks some near-perfect examples of unspoiled columbage (beam and plaster fronted) buildings around the old market square. From the town centre, cobbled lanes or venelles climb woozily and steeply up to the surrounding heights.
Morlaix got an early taste of booze-cruising Brits in 1552, when an English raiding party sacked the town. According to legend, the raiders gained entry by dressing the most attractive of their number as women, who talked their way through the gates and let the rest in while the guards were admiring what they thought were the comparatively hairless legs and underarms sported by English females.
Obviously already knowing a bit about the British attitude to and tolerance for strong drink, the surviving locals waited until the raiders drank themselves insensible, then killed them all. This encounter is said to be the origin of the town’s motto, which is along the lines of Bite Us and we Bite Back.
Nowadays, Morlaix is more welcoming to British visitors, and obviously a town very much at ease with itself. Its artiness rating is almost off the scale and indicated by the number of older men wearing carefully uncultivated beards, pony tails, voluminous overcoats and interesting hats. Many of the older women dress as artfully, but most eschew the beards. Morlaix also continues the peculiar Breton tradition of having more lookalikes to the square kilometre than any other region of France. So far today we have been served coffee by Robbie Williams, bought a newspaper from Sacha Distel and seen Jo Brand and Graham Norton petting heavily on a bench outside the public toilets.
It is a rare interlude when there are not several concerts, exhibitions and other festivals and celebrations of the arts happening around the town, and every Saturday, Morlaix stages what is acknowledged by many to be the biggest and best market in the department. On that day there will also be a variety of artistic happenings and at least a couple of protests and demonstrations to amuse market–goers. Last week, I sat on the terrace of a café in the square as a jazz band arrived by vintage charabanc. While they were belting out a Gallicised version of Muskrat Ramble, a stunningly beautiful young woman in a bridal costume and long veil appeared at the entrance to the Town Hall. She watched the band for a moment, then threw her bouquet at a startled passer-by, picked up her skirts and ran off through the stalls. This being Morlaix and France, it could have been an artistic event or an act of pure and genuine impulse, and I am saddened that I will never know the reason for the lady’s getaway, or how the story ended.