The road drops down through a cluster of small houses interspersed with windswept trees, the horizon opens out and the flat, sandy road slips in-between a series of grassy dunes. It’s a warm, still evening and the sun is still high in the sky. Two women in swimsuits skip light-footedly along the path from the beach, barefoot, shaking saltwater from their wet hair. We’re introduced to Pauline by Nico and welcomed to her impromptu housewarming party. I contacted Nico over the internet, one idle night in the pub in London having seen amazing pictures of him kayaking in the rough tidal waters of Brittany, on the off chance that he might want to join me on the Biscay leg of my journey. In broken, internet translated French I think I had said I wanted to kayak in the wild seas. Lets just say, what followed reminded me, you have to be careful what you wish for. I’m with Michal, a friend and skilled kayaker who is also joining me for this part of the journey. We met Nico for the first time earlier in the day after a few exchanges discussing plans and options. We have decided to cross to the notoriously difficult to get to island of Ushant, Ouessant in French.
Ushant is 12 nautical miles off the coast of Finistere steeped in rich maritime history, myth and foiklore and a well known feature for any seafarer crossing or entering the English Channel. It is the site of many a shipwreck. It is almost directly south of Lizard Point in Cornwall, often cloaked in mist, surrounded by strong, fast moving tides, with submerged rocks and exposed to anything the Atlantic throws at it. Ever since reading about it, I’ve been intrigued by this mystical place, which due to the difficulty of getting there, doesn’t have a section in the otherwise comprehensive Brittany sea kayaking guidebook. Advice from other paddlers has ranged from ‘Don’t go there’ to ‘only when it’s perfectly calm and not spring tides’. We plan to use a strong downwind force and the tidal flow to push us offshore and towards our illusive target, we’re all experienced in big seas but nevertheless it’s still a significant undertaking, perhaps literally, throwing caution to the wind. We met earlier in the afternoon to look at charts, tides and bearings whilst Nico searched for a more agreeable weather forecast. Nico is a thoughtful and gentle man with a wry smile and a mischievous look in his eye. He is very chilled out and exudes calm. He has short, greying hair and a distinctive laugh. He’s Kindly invited us to gatecrash Pauline’s party and we’ve driven north to Plouguerneau in North West Brittany, stopping at a local butcher to buy Breton sausages for the barbeque.
Pauline has recently moved into the house and works for a French surf brand. The house is a single story lean to annex of a larger stone house. It has a flat roof and a large patio with steps and a steep bank down to a brilliantly overgrown garden or field. Large glazed, sliding doors lead onto the terrace, the sofa and chairs are outside and a small group of people lounge around the table. Paulines explains there’s not much stuff as she has just moved in. A surfboard sits propped against the wall in the simple lounge with some select bits of furniture, white walls and a concrete floor. The place exudes, simple effortless cool. Michal and I begin to wonder what we are doing there. Pauline is tall and thin with long blonde hair in a loose ponytail. She has a long face with distinctively white teeth and a friendly smile. She is saunters around and lays out salads and bread on the outside table. Other guests start to arrive and the party gains momentum. Women offer hands to kiss on being introduced and respond with ‘enchanté’ which I thought was reserved mainly for spoof French films. One man brings a small gas powered barbecue and the meal gets started, Nico explains the group is mainly formed of people working for the surf brand and others working for the French agency responsible for environmental protection and marine ecology.
It’s a trendy crowd that wouldn’t be out of place in East London. We watch the sunset over the beach silhouetted against the pink, orange sky and taking photos worthy of a catalogue or album cover. The evening rolls on and conversation moves between views on the taste of different wines (for the surf shop) Antarctic penguins, the sea, Breton and Celtic culture then back to the sea. One couple have brought their son, Marlo with them who looks like a drawing of a French child from school books, wild curly hair and thick, round blue glasses. He happily kicks a ball around as his dad explains to me he was named offer one of the seven Breton saints, St Marlo, now somewhat disappointingly the name of a major carpet retailer as well as the name of the the local town, which obviously got in there first. At one point I’m quizzed on my level of Englishness as someone has spotted a ginger tinge in my beard, I explain that my mum’s family are Welsh and I have some Celtic heritage which seems to go down well. Nico’s girlfriend, Margot asks how we know each other, ‘We don’t’ is the simplest answer. The night drifts on and darkness rolls in with a cooling breeze. Music from the lounge wafts through the air, a mixture of chill out, remixed piano jazz with a slow beat and soft vocals drifting in and out, mixed with French hip hop and dub step. As the beer we’ve been drinking runs out, I find a bottle of Cognac in the car that I’ve been given by some friends from London, on holiday in France. It goes well with a fancy desert of coconut ice cream with peaches and raspberries. We briefly look at the conditions and plan again as Nico crushes ice and mint for Mojitos in the kitchen. We need to wait for the tidal push in the right direction, which coincides with the increasing wind strength. At this point of the evening, the prospect of paddling seems like an abstract idea, let alone in big conditions but there’s a chink of wild energy and excitement in the air between the three of us.
I wake up, disheveled, groggy and confused, having fallen asleep on the grass under tarp strung between cars. ‘Up, up, up’ someone shouts, I realise it’s daytime and crawl out from under the tarp mumbling something about too much cognac. Clutching my alcohol addled brain and shying away from the bright light of day like a nocturnal animal, I sit with the others around the table and check the tides, forecasts and distances once more. We’re un deterred by the BMS warnings on the radio (Bulletins Météorologigiques Spécials) 5m waves and a rising F7 wind from the North East. Nico says the waves never get that big from the North because of the comparatively small fetch. We have time to kill and drive out to the coast near the lighthouse at Île Vierge, at 35m it is the tallest in Europe. A low cloud has descended with light drizzle so we can’t see the top of it. Pauline is working in a brach of the shop nearby and we call in to say hello. Its a small shack painted black, all sofas, coffee, lifestyle magazines and expensive wetsuits. We look around aimlessly for a bit before leaving to drive on via several other bays. it’s raining and cold in Brittany whilst the rest of France suffers a 40 degree heatwave. People have been joking that the borders will be closed as so many others are seeking refuge here. It’s still raining as we stop briefly at Portsall and then continue around the coast to Argenton where we will launch.
it is a long U shaped harbour with a scattering of boats on moorings bobbing around and a small promontory with steps of a ruined fort leading up to a view point overlooking the sea. I walk up to check the view over the bay. You can just see the lighthouse at La Four, but the visibility isn’t great. I’d noticed cirrus clouds in the sky yesterday, signalling the expected change in the weather. A collection of coloured tenders are clustered around the slipway one of which is totally water-logged and doesn’t look like it’s been used for years. We still have time to spare so get a coffee at the ‘Tabac’ facing the harbour and watch as the cloud lifts revealing a blue sky beyond. A series of postcards are on display of huge waves in winter storms crashing over the tops of an assortment of lighthouses on the Brittany coast including the iconic image of La Jumet. Caught as the keeper opened the door to investigate the helicopter noise then closed it again just as a monstrous wave rears up and envelopes the whole structure. In contrast, a group of people on a painting class stand with easels against the harbour wall painting the summer scene that is emerging in front of us. It’s very French. One person may have even been wearing a beret. We pack and carry boats, get changed and check our safety kit, launching around 2pm with blue skies and a brisk wind outside the shelter of the bay. Nico has a small orange sail on the back of his kayak which flaps and billows in the wind, there’s some movement on the water and it’s possible to surf the waves intermittently surging forwards. There is some shelter behind the lighthouse and we gather to have a quick break. It’s exciting and lively ’Super fun conditions!’ Shouts Nico at one point giving a thumbs up and grinning.
The waves start to steepen and build into a rolling sea, peaking and breaking in places. It’s possible to surf some of them but not all. I am bracing hard into as they slap and spray the kayak. The visibility drops and it’s no longer possible to see land, the lighthouse is far behind us, submerged in the mist. The sea turns a silvery steely grey. We’re faithfully paddling on a bearing of 300 degrees into nothingness, but counting on the push of the wind and tide. The wind increases and is relentless, for almost three hours, there’s no break from the white noise of it battering my ears. The sea stretches out into big peaks and troughs like a roller coaster. I see a sailing boat briefly on the horizon moving quickly and crashing onto the big grey waves. They become steeper in places and it’s hard to turn the boat in the wind or to keep it tracking forwards, some are easier to catch and surge forwards with speed. I keep my eyes focused ahead, looking at the others and the flapping orange sail on Nico’s boat. It feels wild and exposed.
We change our bearing slightly, the period between the waves has increased and we briefly loose sight of each other between one trough and the next. The surface of the water changes with small ridges rippling like tiny scales, the wind occasionally whips the paddle trying to take it away. Nico takes in the sail as the sky darkens and becomes ominous. I sometimes think I can see land but realise it’s just he rising waves ahead, from the bottom of the through, they seem tall and imposing, they wash under the kayak which rises and falls in rhythm. Nico looks at the GPS and starts to count down the miles to land, the others say they can see lights but I don’t. Eventually peering through the mist a feint shadowy outline starts to emerge and gives a scale to the waves. Michal sees a small weight cross on a distant headline. Paddling in these conditions requires clear focus, we can’t talk to each other, we just need to keep paddling to get though it.
The wave height picks up as we get closer and they are occasionally starting to break, rearing up, peaking and crashing, they’re too steep and big to surf with our loaded boats so judgement and timing are critical.. A tall cardinal marker in the distance marks the end of an offshore reef and we aim for a gap between it and the land, trying to give the land as wide a berth as possible as in the distance we can see the waves smashing and rebounding on the steep cliffs. We head for the shelter of the south east corner behind a string of pointy rocks stretching out into the sea. I sit, teetering on the top of a wave and paddling back to avoid catching it as I feel it rising then washing under the kayak and breaking in front of me, the smooth back trailing and washing forwards, our small boats at the mercy of the sea. At one point I look over to the cardinal marker with waves cashing into and over it like one of the photos I’d looked at in the shop a few hours earlier. A very different experience now being in it. Slowing, bracing, paddling on the back of the waves avoiding the crest with clear focus, no room for panic or hesitation, one false stroke could change things dramatically. Although the three of us could see each other, we all needed space to concentrate, each one for themselves.
Gradually the waves get smaller as we move into the shelter from the wind and the impact is taken by outlying rocks, the sea calms and there is a break in the constant noise, we’re in flatter waters with gentle surf, gliding between small rocks with the dark cliffs looming above. The sense of relief and sharp contrast is overwhelming and surreal. it’s an intense feeling of achievement and the welcoming safety and shelter of the land. Rounding the corner, a beautiful bay opens up with a small deserted harbour, white sandy beach and turquoise water like some sort of paradise.. The long outstretched limb of the the stone harbour arm offers a welcoming hug as we near the beach. We land with wild excitement, high giving on the beach and jumping on the ground, not quite sure what has just happened but with a deep sense of being alive.
It’s between 5 and 6 o’clock by the time we’ve carried boats up the beach still shaking and gabbling with excitement. We find a spot to pitch tents and go in search of a celebratory drink to check that we’ve actually made it and this paradise beach isn’t just a figment of our imaginations. The narrow road meanders past small, white houses with azure blue painted frames. I can still hear the roar of the sea rolling around my ears and gentle rising and falling motion of the waves which pummel the shoreline in the distance. Multicoloured hydrangeas and the tall towering stems of tree Echiums lurch and bend over walls and fences. The buildings start to cluster together and lead us into the small town. The place has a distinct similarity to it’s northerly neighbours across the jaws of the channel in the Isles of Scilly. The pub is a small triangular room, wood panelled with photos of lighthouses and stormy seas covering the walls. The road wraps round and up the hill to the back giving access to another room upstairs. The bar bulges out like the hull of a boat and signs on the wall note that it’s English style service. We order drinks. Coreff, an old Breton word meaning beer seems like an appropriate choice. As we raise our glasses and toast our survival, the slow, anthemic chorus of ‘We are the Champions’ rolls out through the pub and church bells ring in the background. It feels poignant and in our wired state of mind, we still not sure if it’s real.
The bar woman jokes with some older locals at the bar, she has has a round face with a straight chopped blonde fringe and a short pony tail. She has a swagger and an attitude with a wild look in her eyes and a take no nonsense grin. I can follow the converstaion through body language and expressions. She hurls a quick comeback to a man in the corner and Nico translates that she’s just threatened to put a boot in his face. We warm to her and after a few more rounds decide to amble back. It’s dark outside now and the wind still howls, the tiny single storey cottages have red lights on the top of the chimneys to warn low flying planes, various lights flash and pan around, picking out this illusive lump of rock to the night watch. Pitching tents, we talk about the mental focus required for a crossing like the one we’ve done as important as the physical challenge. Nico is on a break from his work following what sounds like a burnout caused by stress and overwork. He has been given time to rebuild his strength. We talk about the importance of a connection with nature in doing this. In true French style, Nico produces a small chopping board, spinal knife and saucisson from one of the hatches in his boat, Sharing it out and soaking up the bear we agree to rename ‘Biscay’, Sausicon. Exhausted, content and relieved, we crash out in the tents sheltered from the wind on a patch of grass at the bottom of a small wooded valley that leads down to the beach. I lie down listening to the sea crashing on the beach gently rolling up and down as the sleepy wave washes in.
The next day we explore the island. A French family on bikes with several dogs and children pass by as we make breakfast, they’d watched us paddling in the day before from the headland and were impressed that we’d made it, Ushant is a small place and we bump into them several more times during the day. It’s still windy and the sea is riled and angry, the swell builds, rises and smashes into the hardened rocks, sparking upwards. There are smaller waves lapping onto the sheltered beach and the carpet of yellow lichen on the granite slipway just catches the sun pushing through the mist and low cloud. “Brume de Mer’ says Nico. The light reflects off the shimmering water turning the view to a silvery monochrome slide. It’s still poor visibility and the headlands hang in between the mist. My eyes are bleary and my ankles and neck are sore. I walk down the harbour wall to the end where rusted iron rings are garlanded in strings of blue nylon rope, the white mortar between the quake cut granite blocks picks them out like a drawing. Leaning on the parapet at the top of the wall and staring out to sea I listen to the sound of the morning.
Seagulls swoop and caw whilst the techno beat of skylarks pulses and trills. I can hear the familiar staccato peep peep peep of Oyster catchers jumping and busying around the shoreline where rocks are silhouetted against the sparking turquoise water between the patches of brown, swaying seaweed. It’s eerily quiet and deserted. The neighbouring island of Molenne is sitting in the mist, not quite visible. The light house Kéréon, is just visible way out past the end of the long harbour wall. No other people, no boats, no connection to what’s beyond the thick enveloping cloak. It feels like the end of the end of the earth and I soak in the sense of glorious isolation. Water runs in rivulets from a small steam into the sea, it has cut meandering patterns, channels, gorges and cliffs into the fine sand, spreading out into intertwined strands strung out to the foamy waterline. Tiny yellow flowers and grasses dance and bounce in the wind which is forecast to drop later. On the top of the exposed headland, we pass the white cross we’s seen from the water - a warning to seafarers. Clumps and bands of heather are arranged in ridges and furrows as if pushed by the wind. There are no trees. We visit the lighthouse at Stiff where there is a large apiary and honey for sale. Almost adjacent to it is a coastguard navigation beacon shrouded in fog. The sky clears in the afternoon to reveal a deep blue sky. It’s still windy but is hot walking in the sun and the effects of the Breton beer from the night before are hampering our progress. Huge crevices and slots have been been cut into the island by the sea and in places the land oversails big undercutting caves. We see petrels nesting on the cliff faces and a large service ship being tossed around in the harbour.
The prominent tower of the Créac’h lighthouse with its black and white stripes is clearly visible leaving the small town. We walk past small fishing cottages and sheds as the meandering road cuts a path towards it. With a range of 43miles, it is reported to be one of the brightest lighthouse in Europe. From the middle of the English channel on a clear night, legend has it that you can see both the light of the Créac’h and the corresponding beam from the lighthouse at Lizard point. It sits on the rocky and exposed north west coast of the island on a stretch of land that reaches out into the Atlantic like a crab claw on the map. A similar stretch of land stretches out to the south, eclipsing a long u shaped bay which forms a harbour. The lighthouse is now home to the ‘Musée du Phares et Balises’ the museum of lighthouses and buoys. I has one of the world’s biggest collections of fresnel lenses and charts the development of these guardians of the French coastline.
The crumbly coast below the Créac’h is otherworldly. Towers of granite reach upwards forming pinnacles and stacks, the land dipping and rising between boulders and crevices. Sharp, claw like fingers reach out somewhere between drowning and grabbing, limbs, teeth and jaws gesturing at the pounding sea. The gnawed remnants of concrete buildings and structures grow out of this strange landscape, a ruined foghorn, a look out platform, bridges and steps. Twisted and mangled ironwork, evidence as if it were needed of the futility of our efforts to tame such a wild beast. Clambering over precarious stacks, boulders and ravines, this wild coasts breaks into the sea with outlying rocks strewn across the water. The tower of Nividic lighthouse is visible around the corner with a sting of tall concrete posts leading out to it like periscopes or the outstretched necks of giraffes. Now automated, It marks the western extents of the island. The concrete posts would have held a cable used for supply and relief of the lighthouse, totally inaccessible in anything but the calmest of seas and even then, a risky approach due to the number of sharp rocks just beneath the surface.
It’s late afternoon and now hot, we seek shade under the awning of a small bar overlooking a paved square forming the junction between several small lanes. Tables and chairs are arranged along the edge of the building which faces south but has some shade. Inside, a short, black haired man with a beard is on his phone behind the bar, There’s a collection of people outside but apart from a sweaty man leaning on the corner of the bar displaying his round belly beneath a black T-shirt, the room is empty of both people and furniture. He doesn’t seem particularly interested in serving me. Whilst I wait, I notice a pigeon strutting around in the corner beneath a stand with a keyboard on it, a gold stranded foil shimmer curtain and handwritten fluorescent signs pitching a karaoke night. It’s an odd scene and I’m not sure if the pigeon is rehearsing his turn. No-one seems particularly bothered. I order the drinks and take them outside through the open door. It transpires that the pigeon is actually a bit of a local celebrity ‘Bob’ a carrier pigeon who has landed on the island against the odds and only the second pigeon to land there in living memory. He struts and bobs along, appearing in the doorway and hopping down a step and onto the street, he’s one of the regulars in the bar.
A small car trundles down the hill momentarily disrupting the lazy afternoon. As we sip our cold lager there’s a loud pop, like someone bursting open a bag of crisps, we look round to see a clutch of grey feathers under the wheel of the car, the warm air hangs in the square which is filled with silence. Onlookers freeze with their gaze fixed on the car in disbelief. The pause seems to last forever. Then, in an instant the woman behind the wheel just drives off leaving the flapping, twitching cluster of feathers stuck to the cobbles. Before anyone has any time to act, another driver in quick pursuit looks at the casualty and without a second thought drives over what’s left of Bob, sealing his fate. The shocked crowd looks on, slowly processing what has just happened and the sudden demise of the most recent local celebrity. Life is harsh here. Nico gets up and prods the flattened body to move it aside from the middle of the square and save any further destruction. It seems Bob has lived out the old Breton proverb that ‘He who sees Ushant, sees his own blood’
Before heading back to the boats to pitch tents, we walk out along the southern pincer of the claw following reports of a dead whale that has been washed up on the shore. It’s unclear if it died naturally or was struck by a propellor but it’s evident when we find it that it’s lost one of its fins. It’s huge, deflated carcass is strewn across the rocks in a small bay, decomposing. A strand of red and white warning tape flaps around on the hillside above the beach. The smell is intense and overpowering and we’re careful not to stand downwind of it. I’ve been lucky to see whales close to when kayaking in Greenland and it’s sad to see such a majestic creature laid out like an old balloon. It acts as a reminder of the remoteness of this outposts on the edge of the world.
We launch the following day in poor visibility, but much calmer seas. A rolling swell and fast current picks up as we cross the Fromveur. We can’t see the Kéréon lighthouse but spend a bit of time searching for it before deciding to move on. We can hear the buzz of boat engines in distance, it’s hard to judge how close they are in the whiteout that surrounds us. Nico radio’s the coastguard and speaks with the ferry captain who’s well away from where we are. I can feel the decreasing energy in the sea and it has a relaxing feeling to it. I pass a sun fish basking in the water, floating on its side and a large bumble bee appears out of nowhere a long way off shore. We begin to hear birds and the distant rumble of traffic, signalling that we’re near. Distant outlines shape themselves into more certain forms as we hit the coast a little further south than we started. We paddle north via low rocky outcrops emerging out of the mist, and eventually the lookout tower. Before we know it, we’re having a coffee overlooking the small harbour again, no need for the post card images of waves smashing on the lighthouses anymore as we each have our own, etched in our memory.