Four years ago my husband introduced me to his first love — sailing. Since then we’ve spent three months a year on our yacht, Sept Ans. While he, a single-handed sailor, plans the intricacies of our journey, I am the eternal arriver, who looks forward to finding those extraordinary places so easily missed on our travels by land.
The winds and tides aren’t always in our favour, but it’s really not a bad thing provided you have the right perspective. This time we were marooned in the Gulf of Morbihan in Brittany — an expansive coastline of 900 km, embellished with heart-stopping views, coves, châteaux, beaches and more.
Within the Gulf there are perhaps a hundred little islands which appear and disappear depending on the tides. While the larger islands like Ile d’Arz, Houat, Groix and Hoedic are popular, none quite match the tranquility of Île-aux-Moines, the island of the Monks, which, by design or co-incidence, looks like a crucifix.
Though the climate is closer to the South, the currents and strong winds make for a short but arduous journey. Water-sport enthusiasts, professionals and seasoned sailors who converge here to test their skills find the tides anything but a deterrent. For the faint-hearted, a quick relaxing ferry ride is also available.
No more than 5 km by 2.5 km, the Île-aux-Moines is home to 350 varieties of plants and is a haven for migratory birds. In the southern part of the island lies a 5,000-year-old megalithic monument, Dolmen de Pen-Hap, which gives this tiny little oasis an unrivalled historical depth. It shouldn’t take more than three hours to cycle there, six if you go by foot, to take it all in. Once off the beach, the narrow walkways along the perimeter, past cottages with lush gardens, cut into winding roads, sandy beaches, alcoves and forests — it feels like you’re in several places at once. As we walk into the heart of the island it seems strangely Greek with its rough white walls.
When tired, we park ourselves in one of the many cafes for the local speciality, buckwheat crepes, or drop into a boulangerie for a cardiac arrest-inducing Kouign-amann (pronounced ‘Queen Aman’), a Celtic-Welsh butter pastry with a hard base of caramelised sugar, another Breton favourite. Our walks take us everywhere, including a tiny church to find young priests in vestments and calf-length skinny jeans with Converse keds, singing Gregorian chants in their cherubic voices.
The inhabitants of the island have abandoned the frenetic pace of city living for leisurely island life. Everyone walks, cycles or uses silent electric motors. The handful of noisy fuel guzzling relics, however, know their days are numbered.
The most striking thing about the island is how it has straddled a 5,000-year history, invasions, separation and more with a quiet confidence, while its people embrace modernisation with great thought and discretion.
The highlight of the trip, for me, was heading to the Oyster Farm, where I got to see the whole farming process — and watch the oyster go from sea, to plate and into my mouth.
Since these rock oysters keep for a week, I thought it would be good to take some back to the yacht. At a quick stop to pick up some wine to go with it, I look for a bottle of Muscadet or Champagne. If all else fails, then a shot of vodka will do, along with some lemon or a dash of Tabasco to hit my Indian sensibilities, and we are off to our next destination.