More beauty from Belle Ile.

Belle-Île.

We took a ferry from Quiberon, France to get to Belle-Île. Bindia and her mom made it on the same boat, Colette was glad to report.





Once we arrived, we biked everywhere. That was the beautiful plan. And it was beautiful and a lot of biking and the only snag was the rain that began falling when we got off the ferry. Our house was 15km from the port. Raining cats and dogs with little Romy kangaroo in a pouch on my front (Colette got lucky in a pull-behind wagon - nice and dry). Our pace was slow and Romy was wet, but we made it. And then the weather blessed our efforts with perfect behavior the rest of the time we were on the island.


Marguerite: city-gal, flew on the bike. I would overhear her and Jules shouting out numbers: "5"! as we would climb or descend hills. Gear recommendations along the way.


Many of the beaches on Belle Ile are found by coursing down a long descent - at the base of rocky cliffs.




Houses on the island were charming and looked like sisters.




Romy was officially the nicest traveling companion. This was a rare moment of pause - she generally was fed her bottle and took all naps in movement.




This walk made me cry. We walked from Le Grand Phare to the water and the trail was something from Wuthering Heights.








Colors! Color pop reminded me of this.


I rarely wish my babies were somewhere else. When I saw this perilous staircase, however, I wanted to be alone in the world. The opening to it had been barricaded, but I would have found a way to scamper down and find its fulfillment.


Romy and I perched on the lip of the cliff in awe. Her little face reflected the wonder.







I originally was interested in going to Belle Île because of an article I read about places where Monet painted. Belle Île was one place where he worked on a series of paintings of the Aiguilles de Coton (a series of huge, elegant, but almost tortured rock configurations off the coast of one side of the island) - the light, the shoreline, etc. It looked unreal and astonishing. It was.




Colette got tired.


Cousin Jules (whom Colette absolutely worshiped) came to the rescue. (She would wake up in the morning, sit up and ask, "Where is Jules?")


Hydrangeas swarmed the island.




Grand-père teaching Jules to skip stones. We all combed the beach for the perfect skipping rocks and watched them draw a dotted line across the water.


The finish line! After some serious biking for those who don't bike every day, pulling back into the port town (Le Palais) was gratifying.



A true portrayal of the state of things in the rain:


But, of course, Colette for entertainment in all conditions:

Belle-Île.

This island. It felt like perpetual fervor to venture to a place that pronounces beauty in every articulation. I have rarely seen or smelled or felt anything like it. I took this photo the last morning we were there. I woke up early - calibrated my alarm to the rise of the sun - and left enough time to ride a bike to one end of the island (Locmaria) to climb a portion of the "sentier du littoral" (trail along the shore) to reach a high cliff overlooking what seemed to be the most beautiful expanse of ocean. The land masses on the left seemed like great, slumbering beasts - I worried the sun would incite them. I felt completely solo - there was no one even remotely near - or so it seemed. The boats that flecked the sea were solace; I was sure there were others watching this great thing unfolding. So simple - a sunrise. Such a place, though.