Extracts from Spirit of Place in Finistère
CHAPELLE SAINT SAMSON
Eternity. Near the stone citadel of the rocks of Landunvez stands the tiny chapel of St Samson, announced from the land-side by its simple stone cross. Below on the shore edge is a fontaine and another wonky cross looking out to sea. Face the ocean, turn away from the modern houses across the coast road and this place feels remote. Beyond an off-shore rocky fringe that was once land itself there is nothing directly westward. No island, no landfall. Nothing before what was once called the New World more than five thousand kilometres away. Only an enormity of water.
Unseen further north is that part of the old world from which the Breton saints emerged. St Samson, from the abbey of Llanwit Major in Wales, is perhaps the greatest of them all, if only because he actually existed, unlike many of his more nebulous colleagues. He became bishop of Dol-de-Bretagne, held in esteem by the Emperor of the Franks and present at important gatherings of the Roman church. His name is on a document from the Council of Paris c.555, ten years before his death.
Samson did not arrive from Great Britain in this lonely spot, but elsewhere, in the far east of Brittany. No-one in their right minds would have tried to land here. Boulders litter the tiny inlet, a giant’s quarry where any errant little craft would have been dashed to smithereens in an instant on this unforgiving shore. The chapel does not commemorate a heroic landing, and the connection with Samson is vague, un-illuminated by any personal association with the saint or miracle-working such as he performed near Dol. The surviving chapel dates from 1785, replacing an earlier medieval structure. The fontaine was said to cure eye problems and help children slow to walk, a focal point of potential healing for believers.
This site is a physical expression of the relationship of place and faith, but it has a long pre-Christian pedigree, once marked by a menhir, a standing-stone 2m high, which suggests the possible motive for Christianization, an assertion of the new religion on the site of the old. Local tradition says that rubbing against the menhir was a cure for rheumatism, but why was the stone placed here originally? There is no shortage of spectacular coastline in north-west Finistere, yet this spot is special. Perhaps the sacred association is simply water.
This is surely a place to celebrate such an elementary miracle, but water as the basic life-giving force, not the fancy stuff of healing. Not water tamed and framed by a stone wall built by man, but the crux of survival. Giving humble thanks for a simple source is a positive kind of religious fundamentalism. Before one can be grateful for any quality of life, life itself has to be sustained, and water is the essential.
One spring on this site is capped by the fontaine and led from there by a stone channel to filter down towards the sea, greening as it goes. The other is close by, passing under the coast path, dribbling past clumps of yellow fleabane in a reedy line, aiming for the salt water below. Sweet sources representing the basis of existence trickle down the low cliff to merge with ocean. They deserve the focus of honour in this place, balancing in their invigorating gift the destructive power of ocean which will ultimately prevail over a disintegrating coastline.
The low coast here is topped by infertile landes, maritime heath of coarse grass and plants whose roots bind the sandy soil. Wind and water dominate the scene, the south-west breeze bringing in the scent of the wider sea like an unwrapped present for shore-dwellers. It links here to the faraway and opens pathways to the unknown; just as establishing ritual in a place like this reaches out to infinity.
Here faith and hope of one sort or another have a long history: an original impulse of connection in the Neolithic with the placing of at least one standing-stone, a Bronze Age stone, a chapel, renewed over time and the crosses: X marks the spot of faith. There’s connection with the boundlessness inherent in belief. It is not the epitome of ‘peace and tranquillity’ strangely claimed in tourist-speak and belied by the crash of incoming waves, but a place that stirs the spirit and our subconscious seas.
The limitless quality of ocean reflects the relationship between place and faith, the shortness of the step between land and sea, now and eternity. The barrier of rocky armour hugging the shore is a frontier point between life and a last journey, big issues in a small setting, and the clinging humility of faith the most honest response in this most patulous of places.
COAST
Coast is the unpicked hem of land’s skirt, a fringe of frayed nerves.
The littoral is an uncertain sort of place. Bits fall off.
Other bits move along. Spillage is of the essence.
People arrive. Some are aggressive; worse, some want to convert you.
Many leave of their own accord. Coming and going. The waves arrive, blue or black like bruises. Dangerous place, the coast.
And all the time, the amoral sea goes in and out, in and out with no discrimination.
Between the sea of death and the land of life, coast is a buffer zone, a threshold, a portal, a place of mutation.
The significant word is Between. The shore cries out for propitiation which ever way you are coming. Or going.
Which is more use on the coast, psychopomp or life-guard?
The girl was seized by pirates. A stroll by the sea led to onboard lechery. Ready to die rather than submit, she flung herself into the water. But on the point of drowning, a little fish carried her up, up, up to the shore. She ran home. And went on running, three times around the little house where her parents were playing gin rummy and not even thinking yet about supper, and then she fell down dead in front of the door.
Had she already crossed one threshold too many?
Things are brought in and out. Under surveillance: cargo, booty, fish and spies. Get in or get out before it is too late. Coast is limited time, purpose found or lost quickly. There are all kinds of wrecked hopes and filtered ingenuity left on the shore.
How can you tell if the light shines out to save or squander life?
Less working more watching now, fixed on the hypnotic murderousness of the cobra sea. The boy from the coast, disappointed at first sight of a tree, grows old still keeping his line of vision open. Edge people are watchful: waiting and wondering and getting the answer by absence. The coast is the place where things fail to appear.
Which way should you look first before crossing the shore?
Extract from l'Esprit du Lieu en Finistère
SCENES DE LA CÔTE
La côte est l’ourlet défait de la robe de la terre, une frange de nerfs effilochés
Le littoral est une sorte de lieu incertain. Des morceaux se détachent. D’autres morceaux se déplacent. Le renversement en est l’essence. Des gens arrivent. Certains sont aggressifs, ou pire, certains veulent vous convertir. Beaucoup s’en vont de leur propre chef. Va et vient. Les vagues arrivent, bleues ou noires comme des meurtrissures. Un endroit dangereux, la côte. Et tout le temps, la mer amorale arrive et s’en va, arrive et s’en va sans distinction.
Entre la mer de mort et la terre de vie, la côte est un glacis, un seuil, un portail, un lieu de transformation. Le mot important est Entre. Le rivage réclame l’apaisement, d’où que vous veniez. Ou alliez. Quel est le plus utile sur la côte, le psychopompe ou le sauveteur ?
La fille fut capturée par des pirates. Une balade sur le rivage se transforma en débauche à bord. Prête à périr plutôt que de céder, elle se jeta à l’eau. Mais alors qu’elle allait se noyer, un petit poisson la ramena, ramena jusqu’au rivage. Elle courut chez elle. Et continua à courir trois fois autour de la petite maison où ses parents jouaient au gin rami et ne pensaient même pas encore au dîner, et alors elle tomba, morte, devant la porte.
Avait-elle déjà franchi un seuil de trop ?
Les choses sont apportées et emportées. Sous surveillance : fret, butin, poisson et espions. Entrez ou sortez avant qu’il ne soit trop tard. La côte est un temps limité, but trouvé ou perdu rapidement. Il y a toutes sortes d’espoirs naufragés et d’ingénuité filtrée abandonnés sur le rivage. Comment pourrez-vous savoir si la lumière surgit de la nuit pour sauver ou gaspiller la vie ?
Moins d’action plus d’observation maintenant, braquée sur la cruauté hypnotique de la mer cobra. L’enfant de la côte, troublé par sa première rencontre avec un arbre, vieillit en conservant son champ de vision ouvert. Les gens de la marge sont vigilants : attendant et s’interrogeant et obtenant la réponse par l’absence. La côte est le lieu où les choses manquent d’apparaître. De quel côté devriez-vous regarder d’abord avant de traverser le rivage ?
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