That Summer Vacation Long Ago

We spent that first summer in Brittany not at the big house on the Côte d'Émeraude, the “Emerald Coast”, that came later but at a lovely Victorian-styled summer rental in Lancieux a lovely old beach town. I know the house is still standing because I checked on it as I always do when I am in the area. In some respect, I suppose I expect to encounter my past, perhaps run across that little boy, bucket and shovel, making his way to the beach or perhaps just trailing behind his older brothers. The resort town of Lancieux, located in the département des Côtes-d'Armor, is known as une station balnéaire - a beach resort and indeed it is just that. It had then, as it does now, everything a family would need to enjoy their Grandes Vacances or summer vacations. A newspaper store, two little restaurants, an ice cream stand, a bakery, church, the Mairie, the municipal building and a market every Tuesday - during the summer season. If you wanted more you were free to try your luck in one of the neighboring villages or drive to Dinard or St. Malot, two very touristy towns. The city center was a complex maze of four streets - well at least it remembered it as being so but now with over a thousand residents it was a bustling center of activity.  On my first return trip, some years ago, I parked in front of the house and took the obligatory set of pictures, Main Street looking North and Main Street looking South or something like that. The house, however, stood firm as a rock, the trim needed some work and the shutters which would have used a fresh coat of paint, were closed shut tight, the last renters long since gone. It was after all September and if you were seasonal you had long packed the last of the beach towels, buckets and shovels mindful of the rentrée scolaire, the back to school calendar, and the first day of school which takes place religiously and without fail, in the first week in September. The rentrée is a solemn, sacred marker for the French State and families throughout France are not apt to ignore. I would venture to say it's most likely codified, enshrined in the Code Napoleon, the Napoleonic Code or the code of the land. Yes, it's that important.

Next door to us in Lancieux lived a French family, the husband was a doctor, his wife American and they had one boy, André or "Dédé" as he was nicknamed. We were both the same age, became fast friends and spent our vacation time on the beach from morning until almost dark stopping our adventures only long enough to run home for lunch or in afternoon, enjoy our gouter, a snack, on the beach. Wrinkled like two prunes we would sit on the beach and devour those baguettes sandwiches stuffed with pieces of chocolate or with butter and jam or honey; if we were really lucky, we had the real thing- a pain au chocolat from the local bakery.

As much fun as we may have had playing on the beach nothing could quite compare with the arrival of the circus! Weeks before, you would see signs nailed everywhere announcing the grand arrival of the circus. And a grand arrival it was in every sense of the word. The circus troupe slowing marching through town with everything from jugglers, elephants, tigers, stunt men, high-wire family teams, truly an entire cavalcade. But by far the best was the circus would set up in the big open field directly opposite our house. Everything was within our reach: the ocean, the beach, the field and the circus. We waited as patiently as we could for parade to finally make its way down towards us as we knew it would. Eventually came the giant elephant leading the parade with its' trainer, a man in white pants, bright red jacket and black top hat, riding high and twirling a silver baton. We caught as much candy as we could from the clowns, stuffing our pockets in the process, but the fun was just beginning. We watched the circus slowy begin to set up and finally when the big top was we all clapped and of course we just had to poke our heads under the canvas and watch secretly and unobserved the grand process unfolding before our very eyes. It was a three ring circus, in every sense of the word. Animal cages were being set up, nets installed, stunt men testing the high-wire; there were a hundred different things going on at once and you wanted to watch each and every one of them intently and not miss anything. We tried to, that is, until our skinny little legs were dragged out and we found ourselves face to face with someone who could only be the one thing we feared the most in our young lives...A gypsy! I think we made it home in a record time ran upstairs and locked the door and waited.

The arrival of the circus meant the arrival of les gitans or the "gypsies" and right or wrong every parent it seemed was on a heightened state of alert. I'm not entirely sure if we kids really understood what it was all about but our parents found the idea to be a convenient way to harness our intense circus curiosity by telling stories of children who had "disappeared" when the circus was in town. Yes, children that's right, they would say almost in a whisper, the Police finally tracked down the whereabouts of one little boy, Jean Pierre, but he no longer recognized his parents and spoke in a strange dialect; his poor mother was in tears, yes c'est terrible. We always laughed at the stories but for a couple of impressionable kids, the picture had been painted. To this day, I imagine that the man who pulled us out was probably trying save a couple of stupid kids from being crushed by a passing elephant. Oh well, never mind. 

The circus has long gone and the field has been replaced with a convenient little family park with a playground area and sidewalks leading down to the beach. All very sensible and organized. Somehow the circus field I remembered seemed much bigger than then the little park. I walked down to the beach looking for any stray circus animals or worse some swarthy personage lurking in the shadow of the pine trees, holding a sac ready to throw over my head. But all I saw was an elderly man walking his little dog on a sunny late September afternoon. There were still some hardy souls on beach some sitting on blankets, others playing catch by the water's edge. A windsurfer, wetsuit and all, was preparing his board. But no children with buckets and shovels digging their way to China, no little boys excitedly pulling off Moules, mussels from the rocks filling up their buckets for a surprise dinner, no one playing Tour de France with marbles on an elaborately built course nor anyone building a sand castle to stop the tide from coming in once and for all.

It was time to leave. I walked towards town to possibly pick up a postcard. I was out of luck, the tourist store was closed. To help explain the obvious, for example "why is the store closed, I mean it's September?" the French often reply with a shrug of the shoulders followed by c'est après la saison, it's after the summer season. It's a useful phrase that explains lots of things not necessarily needing an explanation. I shrugged my shoulders, obviously I should know better. I found my Peugeot and followed the signs for Toute Directions then onto the D786.

For my next visit, I'll return earlier so I can watch the horse races on the beach in late August that is, if I'm not too busy building a sand castle.