Museum/ Exhibition/ GalleryPoul Fetan (Village de Poul Fetan)

[thingywhatsit, 17.10.2006] INTRODUCTION TO A PLACE OFFERING CALM.

Poul Fetan is a 17th Century village, that re-enacts life as it was back then, in a realistic way, so that the visitor can see the hardships, and the everyday life of French peasants in those times. In Morbihan, near the town of Hennebont, it offers a wonderful escape from modern life.

Dear Mother,

The weather was beautiful and the sky showed little white clouds that drift and form pretty pictures that any imagination can play with. The trees that surrounded the small entranceway gave shade from the afternoon sun, allowing us to park in a cool place.

The ladies were dressed in their 18th Century costumes in heavy jute, and had their sleeves rolled up at the village washing well. The sheets lay over the edges of the huge water source, as they scrubbed away with a round pad filled with something that vaguely resembled soap, laughter lines showing on their faces, and their humour filling the Breton air with a sense of fun, making light of hard work and discussing the usefulness of the male species (apparently a subject that doesn't change much with the passage of time).

Sheets washed, they lay them out on fields of green, pastures bathed in sunshine, so that the rough material would dry, ready to make fresh beds for the winter that was to come. Changing sheets only twice a year, when the weather was clement enough to dry them thoroughly, this was a meeting of minds, a social event.

Further up the steps to the village, I passed through fields of beasts and a tethered goat as I made my way to the heart of this 16th Century village of Poul Fetan, where woodsmoke filled the air with a scent that is reminiscent of childhood memories. In the street, ladies were spinning, and it was amazing to note the differences between the methods employed in France and those that I was taught as a child in England. They let me try my craft, and giggled as I proved that the resulting wool was every bit as well spun as their own.

Chickens roamed the small street, and I entered a room where two ladies in long dresses talked amongst themselves, stirring the cauldron which was held over an open fire by a huge metal vice like instrument, and I made my way up rickety steps to the grain store which kept the family warm, taking up all of the second floor, where cats meowed and teased and probed the corn in an effort to find mice.

On descending, I was offered a bowl of gruel which, although looking somewhat like porridge, tasted deliciously sweet and wholesome, followed by unleavened bread baked at the side of the fire, in a special niche like oven. Sitting on a crude wooden stool, my appetite was sated, and I began to understand how folks existed in times that were barren and difficult. Men, out in the fields, left the women to fend for themselves, and this generation of strong characters made solid roots for what I now find the Breton people to be.

In the yard, under the shelter of an agricultural shed, a lady in a peasants bonnet and costume made butter, and as the blue skies threw out heat and promised a storm later on in the day, the poor girl worked very hard to make the butter take form, shaking the butter maker by hand, and producing a light fluffy textured butter that gave a taste of yesteryear, whilst telling us about the work that she does, and the life of her family.

It was spontaneous, and differed from my last visit, in that the characters that make up the story of history are proud of their roots and the visitor feels that each performance is especially for them, and that their part in a visit here is to absorb times gone by in an ambiance of calm. On each visit, I find that same calm, never overcrowded.

We stopped for refreshment in the form of modern ice creams, and noted that coffee and tea were offered to the weary traveler, though little sign of the local brew of eau de vie, as the season had not yet arrived for the pressing of apples into liquid nectar, the presses being dormant until later in the year. The prices were modest and a cafe distanced a little from the main attractions, so as not to spoil the authenticity of the afternoon.

In the pottery, travelers were shown the art of turning pots, and many were on sale at reasonable prices in order to preserve the village and present the guests with adequate entertainment for a complete afternoon.

The gardens are a special place indeed having many species of plants which were used for medicinal and cooking purposes, as well as a huge crop of hemp (incidentally one that disappointed the passing hippy who sniffed his disapproval), as this kind of hemp is one used for the making of twine and clothing, as displayed in the small museum of clothing of those times which seem so far away. Other trades were interesting to note like the production of ground flour, and the making of baskets, which would have been an essential part of village life, both for the marketplace and also for gathering of vegetables from the gardens.

I shall sign off now. My writing is so small because I have so much to say, and so little space in which to say it. My day at Quistinic in the heart of the Breton Countryside has been an enjoyable one. The woodsmoke is dying down, the village bells are tolling the hour of closure, and my weary feet need rest.

A happy traveler, and the adventurer you taught me to be.

Rachel