Uncertain shores
Uncanny mists, “sleeping” waters, marshy meadows, invasive ludwigia, scared ducklings, meadowsweet, looming shadows, frightened glass eels, secret shores…marshes are probably the most inspiring landscape to me, as they help me recollect childhood memories.
“My” marshes, the true, wild ones, spread over a vast territory of about 10,000 hectares around the town of Redon, over the borders of 3 “departments” (local counties).
I am keen on criss-crossing them, walking along grassy lanes, deep into the heart of the damp territory.
I am keen on this flat horizon line, with only a few steeples to be seen in the distance.
I love the marshes, so full of life, and always changing as they face the rhythm of the seasons.
As spring unfolds, the marshes gradually dry out, the meadows come to life again, flowers bloom.
Then as summer comes, the moats and ditches run out of water, and soon comes the season of haymaking, after which the marshes take on a golden colour.
In autumn, as rain swells up the Vilaine river, the marshes put on their white wet finery again, and then gradually weave their web around the city.
In winter, they become even more mysterious, as their banks disappear under angry dark waters.
Not far from the sea of Murin*, it is said that sometimes at night you can hear the bells of St Melaine’s**. Strange vapors hover about this place. Be careful! It may well be some elf, fairy or facetious “korrigans”*** haunting Breton marshes at night.
“My” marshes, the true, wild ones, spread over a vast territory of about 10,000 hectares around the town of Redon, over the borders of 3 “departments” (local counties).
I am keen on criss-crossing them, walking along grassy lanes, deep into the heart of the damp territory.
I am keen on this flat horizon line, with only a few steeples to be seen in the distance.
I love the marshes, so full of life, and always changing as they face the rhythm of the seasons.
As spring unfolds, the marshes gradually dry out, the meadows come to life again, flowers bloom.
Then as summer comes, the moats and ditches run out of water, and soon comes the season of haymaking, after which the marshes take on a golden colour.
In autumn, as rain swells up the Vilaine river, the marshes put on their white wet finery again, and then gradually weave their web around the city.
In winter, they become even more mysterious, as their banks disappear under angry dark waters.
Not far from the sea of Murin*, it is said that sometimes at night you can hear the bells of St Melaine’s**. Strange vapors hover about this place. Be careful! It may well be some elf, fairy or facetious “korrigans”*** haunting Breton marshes at night.
