fiercely independent women I have ever met. It’s obvious that Breton blood runs in your veins. Alongside your British sangfroid, of course. What a combination! Now I understand how you had the confidence to come to Paris, fresh out of university, and talk your way in to one of the most sought-after positions in one of the most competitive industries.’
I digest this for a moment, along with another handful of chips from the basket. Is that how people see me? Independent? Confident? It’s the last thing I’ve ever felt. But maybe Thierry is right, maybe it has been there all along, a seam of Breton granite that underpins my temperament.
Claire had it too. Although she had wanted to leave her simple family home for the bright lights of Paris, her Breton roots ran deep enough to anchor her when the storms of war raged.
Now I know that she could be brave. And with that knowledge, instead of envying the courage of outsiders and feeling weak in comparison, I can begin to feel the strength of my own family running in my veins.
Shame has been replaced by self-respect, dishonour by dignity. It’s words that have made this change, the words that tell my grandmother’s story. And I want to know more.
On an impulse – and impulsiveness is another aspect of my character which has lain buried beneath layers of fear, anxiety and protective caution until now – I lean forwards and say to Thierry, ‘How would you like to come with me on a road trip? Maybe next weekend, if you’re free?’
He smiles a slow smile and I notice how it lights up his face, like a sunrise. ‘To Brittany?’ he asks. ‘You and me together?’
I reach across, take his hand in mine, and I say, ‘You and me. Together.’
We check into a bed and breakfast in Concarneau, a pretty fishing port not far from Port Meilhon. The journey from Paris has taken hours so we dump our bags and hurry out to look for somewhere where we can get a late supper. The town has a distinct out-of-season air to it and several of the restaurants are closed, but the lights of a bistro on the quayside beckon us in. We find a table and order bowls of cotriade, the delicious local fish stew served on slices of toasted bread, and a bottle of local white wine.
Afterwards, thankfully stretching our legs after the long drive, we wander beside the marina which is full of yachts moored up for the winter, tucked safely into the elbow of the harbour’s arm where they’ll be protected from the fury of the Atlantic’s winter storms. The boats’ rigging clinks against masts stirred by the ocean’s soft night-time breath.
We cross the causeway to the little island that sits within the bay and meander through the narrow streets of the Ville Close, Concarneau’s medieval walled town. Hand in hand, we walk past the clock tower and out on to the harbour walls. From a cobbled jetty, we pause alongside the rusted hulk of an immense ship’s anchor and look back towards the shore. The lights of the town are reflected in the dark water, sequins dancing across a bolt of black satin.
Thierry wraps me in his arms and I feel that I have found a harbour of my own, a place where there is shelter from the storms of life. I feel at peace. And the only sounds are the quiet lapping of the water against the sea wall and the beating of our two hearts as we lose ourselves in a kiss that I wish would never end.
The next day, we drive in contented silence a few miles further west along the coast. The hamlet of Port Meilhon is tucked away in a forgotten corner of the craggy Finistère peninsula. It looks as if it hasn’t changed much since the days when Claire’s father and brothers – my great-grandfather and great-uncles – worked the waters in their Breton fishing boat. The pill-box on the harbour wall has been removed and only a few roughened remnants of concrete show that it was ever here at all. But as we stand looking back towards the row of fisherman’s cottages that line the tiny harbour, I can picture in my mind’s eye the guns trained on the men as they stacked their creels on the quayside.
I haven’t been able to find any record of exactly which cottage belonged to Claire’s family, but I imagine it to be one