S is for Scallops...

We eat a lot of scallops here, in Brittany. Which is why the recent spat between the French and English fishermen caused a bit of a stir.

                               
                           
                     
                          (Pic Reuters from bbc.com)

The main point at issue was the size of the British boats coupled with the fact that they are fishing all year round, whereas the French, quite sensibly, allow the scallops some respite between May and October to keep stocks at healthy levels.

Of course, I am on the side of the French fishermen, And the scallops.

The environmental mayhem wrought by commercial scallop fishing is truly terrible.
Large boats dredge the sand, scraping up everything in their path, destroying countless communities of sea creatures, laying bare huge swathes of the seabed.

In addition to being so destructive, dredged scallops can spend anything up to two weeks languishing in the bottom of the boat before they even make it to terra firma and your dinner plate, during which time the flesh begins to deteriorate.

But reading about an agreement reached between the UK and French got me thinking about scallops...

A scallop is a marine bivalve mollusc of the family Pectinidae.
scallop -> noun 1. an edible bivalve mollusc with a ribbed fan-shaped shell. Scallops swim by rapidly opening and closing the shell-valves.
# short for SCALLOP SHELL
# a small pan or dish shaped like a scallop shell and used for baking or serving food
2. (usu. scallops) each of a series of convex rounded projections forming an ornamental edging cut in material or worked in lace or knitting in imiation of the edge of a scallop shell.
3. another term for ESCALOPE

-> verb (scallops, scalloping, scalloped)
1. [with obj] scalloped ornament (an edge or material) with scallops
# cut, shape or arrange in the form of a scallop shell
2. scalloping gather or dredge for scallops
3 bake with milk or a sauce: [as adj] scalloped

- DERIVATIVES scalloper noun
- ORIGIN Middle English: shortening of Old French escalope, probably of Germanic origin. The verb dates from the 18th century

(That's for those of us who like words, courtesy of the Oxford Dictionary of English)

And for the biologists:

Scallops are hermaphrodites; capable of switching sexes. Both sexes produce roe, whose coloring depends upon the parent's (current) sex. Red roe is that of a female, and white, that of a male. 





After fertilisation scallop ova sink to the bottom of the sea. After several weeks, the immature scallop hatches and the larvae drift until settling to the bottom again to grow. They reach sexual maturity after several years, though they may not reach a commercially harvestable size until six to eight years of age. 

Scallops may live up to 18 years, with their age reflected in the annuli, the concentric rings of their shells.(Wikedpedia)

One fascinating fact about scallops is that they have many, many eyes..

The eyes are very tiny, and occur along the curved edges of the shell, just inside, about one eye per shell corrugation. Each eye is rather remarkably like a certain kind of reflecting telescope complete with a spherical mirror to reflect incoming light rays onto a retina, after being corrected for spherical aberration by passing through a lens
(From Everything 2)

Blue-eyed beauties!


                            .


Personally I'm bit of a shell-person and scallop shells are, to my thinking, The Epitome of A Sea-Shell. Keep your conches, wave away your winkle shells, lose those limpets, give me a scallop shell anyday.

I've used scallop shells as ashtrays, bead boxes, pin holders and, of course, serving plates for seafood dishes back in the 70's when we ate prawn cocktail on a bed of that nasty iceberg lettuce as a starter for quite a few of the dinner parties that we hosted. The main course was probably a veal scallop and scalloped potatoes and desert, a pie with a scalloped edge...

Now I collect them whenever I'm walking on the beaches here. It seems wrong not to. How can people just walk past a scallop shell? À chacun son goût, I guess, and my goûts are definitely shells.

Here's how to clean a scallop:
An Illustrated Guide To Cleaning A Scallop
And here are some links to scallop recipes:
Fisherman's Express ('all wild and all natural')
About.com:Home Cooking
Recipe Zaar

Enough already?
Ok, just one more, my favourite recipe, Scallop Bisque

Care to make an angel from scallop shells? Then look no further than this link

I'd post a picture of the blanket that I crocheted when I was 17 years old, if I hadn't lost it along the way. The stitches resembled scallop shells. Maybe I'll crochet another one one day soon...

What else can I say about scallops?

The scallop shell is often associated with the act of pilgrimage. It is said that this comes from the Way of St. James, also known as el Camino de Santiago, the pilgrimage to the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain. Legend says that it is here that the remains of the apostle Saint James are buried.

                                                
                                                   

The shell features a single point from which ribs radiate outwards, a symbol of pilgrimage. By tradition dating back to the 8th century pilgrims would bring back a scallop shell to prove that they'd completed  the journey. This then developed into the symbol of pilgrimage

Something for the linguists...

In some languages the scallop shell is called the muscle of St. James.

The German word for scallop is "Jakobsmuschel".
The Swedish word for scallop literally translates to pilgrim mussel.
A French name for a dish containing scallops is coquille St. Jacques (in Québec, pétoncle is more commonly used).
The Dutch name is Jakobsschelp (James being English for Jacobus).
In Danish, ibskal refers to scallops worn by pilgrims from Santiago de Compostella (Ib being the Danish name for St. James)
(Wikepedia)

Once, on a trip to the coast to find a sawmill my then-partner and I stopped by a lake to take a walk with the dogs. The lake is around 5kms from the sea.

As we walked amongst chestnut and pine trees something in the fallen leaves caught my eye.
It was a beautiful scallop shell.
Ever the forager I bent down to pick it up and in so doing I unearthed a veritable treasure-trove of scallop shells.

By the time that we'd finished digging we had filled a large carrier bag

We brought them home to sit in their bag and wait for me to clean them, drill a hole in each and string them up somewhere, they're still waiting....

I have no idea who left them or why they were there.
One of life's mysteries.

By the time that we'd finished digging we had filled a large carrier bag. We brought them home to sit in their bag and wait for me to clean them, drill a hole in each and string them up somewhere, they're still waiting....

I have no idea who left them or why they were there.
One of life's mysteries.

                                               

The scallop shell is also associated with the cult of Venus, as seen here in Botticelli's beautiful The Birth of Venus.
                                   

The painting avoided the flames of Savonarola's bonfires that reduced all such 'pagan works' (including many books) to ashes.

It obviously pays to have friends in high places and the Medici Family were very high indeed. Such a shame that the same Florentine family abandoned poor old Galileo to the wrath of the Catholic Church for daring to suggest that the earth revolves around the sun.

So, there you have it.
The simple scallop.
Amazing what you discover when you dig a little deeper.                         

              

Le Sentier des Douaniers on Sunday

I hadn't been to the coast for a few days and I was in need of a day communing with nature, and it's been shown that spending time out of doors in green spaces is good for your mental and physical wellbeing:

This Is Your Brain On Nature from National Geographic

The Effects of Nature on Well-Being from Natural Resources Institute Finland

In Japan they talk enthusiastically about Shinrin-Yoku, or, forest bathing, it's becoming quite the thing as people seek to reduce the stresses of life.

Me, I love being outdoors. Especially at the coast.
Thalassotherapy!
Sea bathing.
Or simply sitting on the sand and listening to the waves make the small pebbles dance and sing. I have a special spot for that, round the orner from Tourony. I'm often to be found there, sitting by the edge of the water with my eyes closed in a semi-yoga state. It is deeply relaxing.

This time I made a big mistake though.
I arrived at Trégastel at 9:45, popped into Super U for some bits and bobs, drove to Ploumanac'h and parked the car and noticed, from the beach there, that the tide was ebbing. And I was so pleased to have parked in the centre of the village that I decided not to drive to Tourony to swim but, instead, to walk and have lunch first.

People, that car park fills up so early and to have found a spare place was, well, it was like Christmas with snow, and elves and reindeer!

I'll do the Sentier des Douaniers from this end for a change, I thought to myself as the dog and I set off walking.

Note, there will be many pictures because it is just so picturesque, n'est-ce pas?

Et voilà...

The Sentier des Douaniers. The path leads from Ploumanac'h to Trebeurden. I usually fo the bit from the car park near the camp site to Plouamac'h and then walk back after lunch, but it's good to vary one's routine sometimes and there was the matter of the car parking space so I set off the other way.

Leaving Ploumanac'h under the eucalyptus trees...

I love the way the bark peels from them, and I love the fresh scent of the leaves. They are said to cleanse the air and I'd plant one in my garden but I did that once before and the tap root was so thick I thought it might tunnel under the foundations of the house.

Since I am having my 'jungle' cleared next month I may plant one up there...
I'd quite like to make it a forest garden.

Where were we?

Right, emerging onto the coastal path with the lighthouse in the distance and the start of the most amazing pink granite rock formations...

This pink granite is only found in two other locations in the world. One is in China, I forget where the other is. It's the product of volcanic activity (soon you'll come to learn how much I love volcanoes) and these rocks once formed a mountain range higher than the Alps...

Four million years of weathering has eroded them, and sculpted them into natural artwork, and it's funny to think that in a few more thousand years they will all be just pebbles and small rocks.

But comforting, in a way... 

It's a busy place on a sunny Sunday morning.

Soon the tourists will have departed and it will be much less crowded on the sentier, especially when the weather is wet and stormy. I walk in all conditions. A colleague from Norway once told me, 'There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.'

I agree.

It's still possible to find a quiet spot to sit and write. I'd love to know what this woman was working on, perhaps her first novel? maybe a love letter to a long lost amour?

At the end of the lifeguard ramp there were people scub diving. Damn! I had meant to take that course this year and now I think it will be too late to start. Another reminder that one should not delay because life passes so quickly.

Most people ignore the collecting box on the wall of the lifeguard's building. The French seem to expect that the state will take care of such things so charities are not so well-supported here. In an ideal world they would be but I think it's good karma to help others when we can so I always pop a euro in the boat when I pass.

The Sentier des Douaniers is a protected natural space. A decade or so ago the walkers had pretty much eroded the soil and destroyed much of the vegetation and then it was decided to reverse the damage. A team of volunteers made little paths and put up small wire fences to encourage the visitors to stay on them, installed signs explaining why and now it's pretty much recovered. 

There are still those who don't respect the environment but most people are considerate. I make no apologies for being a long-time eco-warrior, and I have been known to (politely) request that people step back onto the path, and mostly they are understanding.

On this walk I discovered this sign down by a little spring on a path just off the main route.

No sign of the salamanders...
The dog and I did look.

There are quite a few in the ditches and streams near my home though, and a friend has one living in her water metre hole. They look quite exotic with their yellow and black colours.

One of the best things to do on the sentier: stand and stare.

 I spend a lot of time sitting with my eyes closed and listening to the sound of the waves on the rocks. And taking photographs of the water because the colours and the patterns fascinate me.

Heading back to Ploumanac'h for lunch.

This is an interesting sign on the way back into the village.
This part of France was occupied by the Germans during WW2 and the Resistance fought hard here. The countryside is dotted with crosses to mark the spot where a Resistance fighter died, near my home there is a crossroads at which thirteen men from my village were executed for 'disobeying the Gernans.'

And so back to the beach at Ploumanac'h

Past the notice detailing the times and heights of the tides for the day. And this greeting that made me smile. Happily it does not apply to me. I am, as I have to keep explaining to people, a resident.

Remember the people who do not respect the rules?
Dogs are not permitted on the beach between 15th April and 15th November.
Didn't seem to worry this pair, even though they risked a large fine.

I had a packed lunch but, well, who knows when I'll be back in Ploumanac'h, parked right in the centre and hungry enough to do justice to a lunch at one of my favourite restaurants? A change of plan, I decided to eat there again.

Alas, they do not take cards, only cheques and cash, so I had to go in search of 'the bank' and this was it! Unsurprisingly. quite easy to miss!

And then back to the restauarnt where I didn't even need to order, the waiter recognised me and said, with a smile; 'Kir cassis, escalope de dinde et une carafe d'eau?'
I am very predictable.
And their turkey steak is very tasty.

So no apologies for always ordering it.
Besides, the restaurant will be closed soon until next spring so another carpe diem moment!

As I walked back to the car there was a queue of people waiting to parl and a tired looking elderly woman asked me, hopefully, 'Vous partirez Madame?' I smiled and said, she was lucky, yes, I was just leaving and she waved happily to her equally tired-looking partner in the car nearby and smiled as I wished her a pleasant afternoon. Silly, but it made me feel good.

And then to Tourony where, the tide being as low as it could fall, Tashi and I walked to the pink castle to take some close-ups.I think I have several thousand pictures of the chateau de Costaérès now but I can't resist taking more.

I wish I could paint. I am about as artistic as my gate post.
Probably less so.
But a couple of years ago it occurred to me that it's a shame that as asults we stop playing and being creative so I bought myelf some little canvases and a set of acrylic paint and now I have fun.

Here's the lighthouse again.
I have thousands of photos of it too.

The beach was quiet.
This group were demonstrating the seriousness with which the French take their eating. They had set up a table, complete with a cloth, cutlery, glasses etc for their lunch among the rocks.

These people were busy collecting their lunch.

I often encounter people with buckets of things in shells and since I usually have a bag of plastic and other rubbish I find on the sand, they often stop me and ask to see what I've found, thinking it's going to be scallops or oysters.

We sat on the beach and watched as the sea slowly reappeared, and I did consider staying for the tide to be full enough for a swim but, well, patience is still a virtue that I have yet to acquire.

Le Château de Costaérès

Well, this blog wouldn't be called Beached in Brittany if it didn't feature beaches, would it?

Quite a lot of beaches, actually. Beaches are my bag. (Interesting expression that, 'my bag', and I made a detour to look it up.

The OED says: A preoccupation, mode of behaviour or experience; a distinctive style or category; esp. a characteristic manner of playing jazz or similar music.

1960 J. Hendricks in D. Cerulli et al.140 Lack of acceptance is a drag... Man, that's really in another bag. 

‘Bag’ is a current piece of trade jargon for hip musicians, and means something between a personal style and a body of work.

Back to beaches.

My favourite beach here in Brittany is la plage Tourony.
I discovered it by chance when I was searching for a certain pink castle, a picture of which I had on my bedroom wall in the house in England for several years: it now hangs above the piano here. It is one of those iconic images of (for me) the loveliest place in Brittany - La Côte Granit Rose, and so it frequently features on postcards, tourist websites. even place mats. I have not yet gone so far as to buy the latter, I did recently purchase the mug though.

It was sometime in 2014, I think, and I was back for a brief visit to check the house, tackle the overgrown garden, catch up with friends, that kind of five-day break, and I'd driven to Trégastel for lunch and a walk on the sand, and thought, 'While I'm here I'll look for that pink castle', spotted this sign, et voilà. The rest is history.

Plage de Tourony is not especially large, nor does it benefit from restaurants, cafés or bars, although on Mondays and Wednesdays in summer a lady arrives with a converted horsebox and makes fresh galettes and crépes to order.

It does have parking right by the sand.

And it does have is a toilet although when the weather is hot the walls are covered in flies.

And it does have this view:

and this one:

The lighthouse on the much-loved Sentier des Douaniers, the old path used by customs officers to catch smugglers, that goes from the beach at Trestraou to the small town (village) of Ploumanac'h.

and in places the pink granite on the beach looks like this:

The plage Tourony is my No 1  Playground to which I return at least twice a week, sometimes daily if the mood takes me. It's a forty minute drive from my house along decent roads that are fast and usually empty so it's not an arduous journey. And it's well worth it. As soon as I see the sea I start to smile, as soon as I drive into Trégastel I start to grin, and as soon as I pull into the parking at Tourony I sigh with contentment.

At low tide I can walk right out to the castle and there is a little beach round the side where I can swim safely. It's half a mile walking over mud, sand and rocks.

At high tide I swim from the beach. During the year since I came back to Brittany I've been getting stronger and stronger and swimming futher and further with the aim of reaching the castle at high tide. Last Sunday I did it. I walked into the sea, started swimming and didn't stop until I'd made it to l'Île de Costaérès.

I sat on the beach and wished I'd been with friends who could have witnessed my success.
And then, of course, I had to swim back. I could have waited: the tide was ebbing, a few more hours and it would have been possible to walk but, well, I am sometimes impatient and my lunch was in my rucksack on Tourony and so I swam again.

Admittedly I rock-hopped a little: pausing to catch my breath on the pink granite which was, by then, emerging from the water. And by the time I returned the tide was well on the way out and this was the view.

More importantly, this was the lunch that awaited me:

Those cakes - kouign amman - are a Breton speciality and delicious but loaded with fat and sugar and so I ration them. I think I earned that one last Sunday though!

N'est-ce pas?

More Info:

Le chateau de Costaérès

If you'd like to rent the pink castle (15,000 euros per week, good luck, let me know and I'll swim over and say Hi!) 

Trégastel Tourism

Kouign Amman

Back to Business - Early September

It's three day after La Rentrée here in Brittany, that time of the year when, traditionally, the summer holidays come to an end and everyone returns to school, college, work.

The village is quiet now that the visitors have left: the Ladies from Rennes - usually three, this year only two - whose arrival is marked by the opening of shutters and the appearance of gardeners, left a week ago. I'm not sure if they'll be back for Christmas in this, the village in which they were born and raised, and where the young 'Tonton Paul' used to pull their pigtails and steal kisses. He dated one of the sisters in his senior years. Now he's in a care home and suffering dementia, I wonder if he recalls those childhood days? I hope so.

And the Germans have gone. They spent some time buying plastic boxes in which to store their linens and summer clothes because mice had taken up residence and made nests of their sheets and shorts. We have a lot of mice here in the countryside. At this time of year they begin to invade the house, I've already caught and killed one that was in the bedroom, bold as brass, sauntering across my rug. The dog will dispatch them, given the chance, he's a good mouser, but usually it's left to my battery-operated trap that lures them with peanut butter and kills them quickly.

I'd let the mice share the house if they weren't so destructive and dangerous to the wiring. And if they didn't breed so efficiently. And if they had better bladder control: mice pee constantly, they're not healthy housemates.

Dr H. was here for a whole month in July but even then we didn't get to spend many days out together. She's renovating a little house outside the village and works hard while the weather is good. When she takes time off she's my Activity Buddy - we kayak at the Pink Granite Coast, we've planned to ride horses Western-style, we explore and have adventures. Useful to have a doctor as a companion if the adventures are a little too wild at times.

And the two English holiday homes were only occupied briefly. One is, apparently, for sale, the owners don't have the time to come to France as often as they did when their children were small and I haven't seen them at all since I returned last year. The other owners have begun to take holidays in Spain in the winter: it's not always easy to relax and rest when there's work to be done on your house. And illnesses are taking their toll.

The lovely lady from Holland departed with her daughter last weekend. J. flew in to Rennes so that she could share the long drive back with her mum.

I like it when R. is here.

I like it when all of the Summer People are here. The village is lively and there's not so much a buzz, more a gentle hum, when they're back. And, of course, Summer People mean summer weather and all the pleasures that brings.

This week the swallows are also preparing to leave.

I watch every morning to see if they're still here. Happily this year they raised three broods and all their babies, and those of the house martins, are fully-fledged and ready to set off on their migration south. Some years a baby is left behind. It's sad but it's nature: if the parents remain to feed it all three will not survive the winter. Better the breeding adults leave with the flock and return net year to raise more young.

The Summer People have left, the swallows are gathering, but there are still sunny days left to enjoy another day of swimming at Trégastel, another morning walking the Sentier des Douaniers followed by an al fresco lunch at Ploumanac'h.

And maybe an Indian Summer to ripen the butternut squashes that have taken over the potager?