Café le Triskell was a bohemian-type looking bar with a rustic interior and ambience to match – just my type of place. Having  walked into many a bar as a stranger, I never know whether I’m going to be greeted as the ‘Invisible Man’, or looked at as though I’ve got two heads – but not here. As I’ve found elsewhere in Brittany, I was greeted with a smile and handshake from the barman before ordering a local beer. I could have stayed here a lot longer than I did, but I needed to get something to eat, and after chatting to the barman in Franglais for a while, I took his recommendation and made tracks for a nearby Chinese take away.

Unfortunately, they were only conversant in French and Cantonese and couldn’t understand a word I was saying, so I took the easy option and made my way back towards a patisserie I had passed earlier and pointed to something that looked appetizing and hoped for the best as I headed back to the hotel in preparation for what would, hopefully, be a good day tomorrow.

How the day was going to pan out I couldn’t be sure, but at least the weather was looking decent when I woke up the following morning, and so I didn’t hang about too long and caught a bus to Oceanopolis, an aquarium overlooking the Rade de Brest.

Those of you who know me may be wondering why I’ve chosen to visit an aquarium before anything else, but the simple answer is that the fish were awake before most of the good people of Brest – and so were the staff who opened the doors to the aquarium, but there’s a bit more to it than that.

Normally, I would be quite happy to just wander the streets for a while, but due to extensive damage during WWII, Brest isn’t a place full of atmospheric cobbled streets and old buildings. Consequently historic attractions are a bit thin on the ground, and those that are still here, didn’t open until later.

As much as I’m passionate about all types of marine life, that passion doesn’t usually extend to aquariums: Even so, I bit the bullet and paid the entrance fee to see if Oceanopolis lived up to its hype of being ‘Europe’s premier Ocean Discovery Park’.

Oceanopolis is a modern complex with a design (like a crab) that blends in nicely with the natural setting, and when it opened in 1990 it consisted of just a Temperate Pavilion, with a Tropical Pavilion and Polar Pavilion being added in 2000. Those who are responsible for running the aquarium tell us that each pavilion provides a habitat as near as possible to the natural environment, but it’s raison d’être is for scientific and educational reasons rather than conservation purposes.

I was one of the first to arrive and virtually had the place to myself as I entered the temperate zone, which was the one that interested me the most as it featured the marine life around the western coast of Finistère. This area, known as the Iroise Sea, lies roughly between the islands of Ushant and the Ile de Sein, and is regarded as one of the most dangerous seas for marine traffic in Europe, and I can well understand why. The Brittany coastline is littered with small islands, many of which have lighthouses that are often battered by huge waves, and it’s no wonder that this rocky coastline is teeming with marine life, so much so, that in 2007 it was designated France’s first Marine Park.

I’m not going to describe the aquarium in detail but one thing that caught my attention was a jellyfish that came right up to the glass as soon as I arrived at the tank, and wherever I went, it seemed to follow me. Does anybody know if jellyfish have the brains and sight to do that, or was I just imagining it?

Below are a selection of images from Oceanopolis, but as much as I enjoyed it in one way, I still can’t get past the thought that an aquarium is just a zoo for fish.

In Pt 1 I ended up by saying that I expected Brest to be the French equivalent of Plymouth, and in many ways it is: Both have strong connections with the sea and I was keen to see how the Rade de Brest compared with Plymouth Sound. Catching the bus from Oceanopolis back into the city centre, I jumped off at the railway station and headed towards the Cours Dajot via the John Kennedy Gardens.

The gardens were probably very nice, but as I started to walk down a slippery footpath I soon found myself gazing up at the sky instead of the local flora. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve ended up on my back over the years, but at least this time, neither a drop of alcohol had passed my lips, nor had I upset anyone. My knee, elbow and camera had taken a bruising but the thing that was hurt the most was my pride.

Anyway, after pretending to make it look as though nothing had happened, I wandered off down towards the Cours Dajot. This promenade, along the top of the castle ramparts, was the brainchild of Louis-Lazare Dajot, a director of Brittany fortifications, and was designed to give the citizens of Brest somewhere to stretch their legs and breathe in some sea air.

Completed in 1800, this 500 metre long avenue is lined with Plane trees (which weren’t in leaf at the time) with views down to the commercial port, which, it has to be said, was hardly picturesque. Apart from the views, the main point of interest along here is the so-called Pink Tower, originally built in 1927 by the Americans in memory of US naval forces who sacrificed their lives during WWI. Ironically, the obelisk-type tower was destroyed in WWII by allied air raids, but was rebuilt in 1958.

At the end of the Cours Dajot I wandered down to the Quai du Commandant Malbert, which separates the commercial port from the Marina du Chateau. Unsurprisingly, sailing is a popular pastime in the Rade de Brest and this is one of two marinas that cater for the sailing enthusiast: The other (bigger) one is the Moulin Blanc Marina outside of Oceanopolis, and every four years, the city hosts an International Maritime Festival similar to our Tall Ships event.

I didn’t come down here to get on a sailing boat though, but a vedette (motor boat) called the Azenor, which would give us a taste of what the Rade de Brest was all about. There were only a handful of us on board as we left, which meant that there was plenty of room on top for me to wander around.

The commentary on board was in French only but I was given a leaflet with a rough translation of what we were looking at. So what exactly is the Rade de Brest? Well, ‘Rade’ is the French word for ‘Roadstead’ similar to Carrick Roads at Falmouth. Wikipedia describes a Roadstead as a “body of water sheltered from rip currents, spring tides, or ocean swell where ships can lie reasonably safely at anchor without dragging or snatching”. In other words, it’s a safe haven for the largest of ships, of which Brest attracts quite a few. As regards statistics, the estuary (for that’s how most people would regard it) covers an area of a hundred and fifty square kilometres (57.9 Sq miles) and reaches a depth of 20 metres (65.6 ft).

The trip began with the Azenor sailing along the city side of the estuary, starting with the Commercial Port, which I imagine wouldn’t interest most people in the slightest – but I’m not most people, as I actually like seeing what goes on at industrial ports. Brest isn’t the biggest I’ve ever seen, that’s for sure, and it’s only reckoned to be the 15^th busiest in France, but even so, it apparently still handles 3 million tons of goods a year, including cement, animal feed – and according to the leaflet I was given, the export of 200,00 tons of frozen chickens!

Next door to the commercial port is the Ship Repair Dock, which includes five quays and three dry docks, the largest of which is capable of handling tankers up to 500,000 tons. It wasn’t easy to see these facilities up close from our boat, but I was almost as fascinated by the number of buoys and small lighthouses waiting to be repaired on one of the quaysides.

The journey so far was quite relaxing, but as soon as we left the Repair Dock the captain opened up the throttle and shot off at some rate of knots towards Oceanopolis where we picked up a few more passengers. We had a good view of the Albert Louppe and Iroise Bridges (but not a good photographic one) and then crossed over to the Plougastel-Daoulas Peninsula, famous for its cultivation of strawberries – and somewhat more pleasing on the eye than the port opposite.

From the tip of the Plougastel-Daoulas Peninsula we then cut across the estuary to Long Island, home to a submarine base, and then up to La Pointe des Espagnola. Situated in a strategic position at the extreme north-east tip of the Crozon Peninsula, La Pointe des Espagnola is named after a Spanish fort that put up strong resistance against a siege by French and English troops in 1594.

It was built earlier in the year during the Brittany Campaign  which had two purposes: The first was to support the Catholic League’s aim to eradicate Protestantism from France and the second was to use it as a base to attack England in retaliation for the defeat of the Armada in 1588.

On hearing about the Spanish intentions, Queen Elizabeth sent a task force to remind them who was still in charge, and on 1^st October 1594 the Siege of Crozon began. The siege ended on 19^th November with heavy casualties on both sides, including one of the queen’s favourite sea-dogs, Martin Frobisher.

Frobisher was a renowned sailor and privateer with a chequered career. As a sailor, he is remembered by the name of the bay where he landed on Baffin Island in Canada while attempting to find a North-West Passage to Asia, but he also played a part in defeating the Spanish Armada, so who better to send to Crozon? He survived the siege but received a gunshot wound in the thigh during the battle. On his return to Plymouth he was left with an infection after surgery and died a few days later. His body was laid to rest at St Giles-without-Cripplegate in London, and his heart was buried at St Andrew’s Church in Plymouth.

The Spanish fort is no longer here but the remains of several successors are, and are best viewed from the clifftop.

On the other side of the Goulet de Brest from La Pointe des Espagnola is the Pointe du Portzic and its lighthouse, which was where we were aiming for next. The Goulet de Brest is a 3km long strait that leads to the Iroise Sea and Atlantic Ocean. It marks the entrance to Brest Harbour, and understandably, both sides of the channel have been lined with military installations. On 2^nd January 1793, it was the scene of the Childers Incident, where the first shots were fired between French and British forces during the French Revolutionary Wars.

We were now back on the city side of the estuary and approaching the naval port and Penfeld River. Two jetties act as a protective barrier to the submarine base which made it difficult to see anything much from our boat, but we were about to return to the quay at Castle Marina anyway. So how did the Rade de Brest compare to Plymouth Sound? Well, it’s larger for a start, and the 1½ hour trip only covered a part of the estuary. Consequently, there was a lot of it that we didn’t see and we only really covered the area around Brest, which by its very nature wouldn’t be the most picturesque part of the landscape. Even so, I found it interesting in other ways, and the visit to Oceanopolis at least gave me an insight into the marine life around the coastline away from the port.

This post, hopefully, will give readers an insight into why the sea has always been important to Brest, and in the posts to come I want to show how the city developed into the second most important naval port in France, so why not join me in Pt 3 to find out why.

POSTED – APRIL 2024