The music was coming from outside an Irish bar called the Tir na N’og, and I wasn’t sure whether the name was Irish or Breton. As it happens it has a connection to both, because it’s one of the names for the Celtic Otherworld and can be translated as ‘Land of the Young’. In both Gaelic and Brittonic mythology it’s perceived as a ‘supernatural realm of everlasting youth, beauty, health, abundance and joy’.

Personally, I don’t have everlasting youth, beauty or health, but I did enjoy listening to the music. Breton music isn’t easy to describe in a few words because there are a range of different styles, all of which emanate from local traditional folk music. It can be a ballad, dance music, or even a sea shanty. Instruments that are often heard in other Celtic countries such as the violin, guitar, flute, clarinet, accordion, harp and bagpipes are commonly used, but so are other instruments that are unique to Brittany. If you want to find out how it all comes together, take a look at the short YouTube video below which shows a variety of different styles that get people up on their feet.

I was sorely tempted to go inside, but as my body was still suffering from falling down this morning, I was looking for somewhere a bit more relaxing to chill out and so I carried on up the street, but it wasn’t long before I heard some more Breton music in the distance. As I approached the war memorial in Place de la Liberté, the music was getting louder and the numbers of people milling around were getting larger, and as I got closer I could see a band on either side of the memorial, one playing and one waiting to play.

After watching them perform for a while I walked through an archway that took me underneath the Avenue Georges Clemenceau and into the main part of the Place de la Liberté where the town hall is located – and guess what? There were even more bands. So much for finding somewhere to relax! I’ve always been a sucker for live music and I was really enjoying this. It was obviously some sort of music festival, all of it Breton but in a variety of different styles including one band who managed to create a fusion with Eastern music, but most were what are known as Bagad bands who use bagpipes, drums and bombards (which is a type of oboe).

Below is a YouTube video of a Bagad band similar to what I was listening to – only without the covid masks.

As much as I was enjoying the atmosphere, I put my sensible hat on and headed back to the hotel where I unpacked my rucksack and sorted a few things out. I didn’t need to pack my case or anything because I didn’t exactly have an early start in the morning, but I did get the hotel to phone for a taxi to pick me up at dix heures et quart (10.15). So far so good, but instead of keeping my sensible hat on and just have a quiet evening meal in the hotel, I had a quick spruce up and wandered back out again.

The trouble is I always think I’m missing something and I wondered if there might be some Breton music on in any of the local bars somewhere, and so I decided to walk up Rue Jean Jaures to sus things out. Turning off down a couple of side streets I came across the Bleizi Mor Tavern in Rue Solferino which seemed like just the place. It doesn’t exist now, but the atmosphere felt good and there was going to be some live music, but the trouble was it didn’t start until 10pm and it was only 8.30. I had a decision to make. Did I just have one drink and go back to the hotel or did I go elsewhere? I know what I should have done, but instead I put my other hat on and went off looking for somewhere else –  and the next thing I know, I’m back in Place Guerin and the Triskell Bar where I was yesterday.

I only had one drink in here yesterday but the barman remembered me and, as is the usual custom in Brittany, he shook my hand before asking me if I wanted a glass of red wine like I had the evening before. Was I impressed or what? Anyone who can do that also deserves a drink as far as I’m concerned, which he gratefully accepted.

Before I knew it, there was another glass of red on the bar courtesy of the barman, and I thought now would be a good time to ask him if he wouldn’t mind taking a photo of me to prove to the wife that I had actually gone to Brest for the weekend. He was only too willing to oblige, and I was joined by one of the locals who also remembered me from the previous evening. I can’t really blame the photographer, but the photo makes me look as though I got more chins than a Chinese telephone directory. Wine was only served in small glasses and they didn’t take long to evaporate, so it was time to have another one, but this time I also included Glaoda, the chap who joined me in the photo shoot, and it was all downhill from there.

Glaoda then bought a round and then the barman bought another, by which time three musicians walked in, the leader of which was ‘bourré’ – or for want of a better word, inebriated. Like all the other musicians in town today, they had been performing at the festival and now it was time for a bit of relaxation, which they seemed to have been doing quite a bit of already. As it happened, my new drinking partner and the band knew each other, and although they weren’t booked in to play here, it wasn’t long before the locals were all singing along to some Brest Bagad music.

Discretion being the better part of valour, I was just thinking that I ought to start making tracks back to the hotel, when a glass of  red was thrust into my hand by the band leader, and I knew there and then that it wasn’t going to end well.

The trouble is that I’ve got no willpower when it comes to try and stop enjoying myself, and I’m not sure how it works, but it’s amazing how people who speak different languages can make themselves understood when they’ve had a drink or two, and not only that, some people think they can even start playing a musical instrument as well. In the pictures below I’m the one on the left by the way.

I can’t remember the ZZ Top lookalike’s name and neither can I remember the barman’s: I know they told me but I don’t think it sunk in for some reason, but I do remember Glaoda’s name because he gave me a card with it on. He was a ceramicist, if that’s the right word, and a very good one at that too, as I was about to find out.

What time it was I couldn’t be sure, but it wasn’t early when I thought I really should get going, especially as there was no sign of things calming down. It was impossible to slope off unnoticed, and so after saying au revoir to everybody, I made for the door, only to be followed by Glaoda and his wife who invited me back to his ceramics studio (https://glaodapoterie.wixsite.com/glaodajaouen). How could I say no? I wasn’t sure where we were heading, but I was beginning to doubt my sanity when we bumped into another couple of Glaoda’s friends on the way. I assumed they were in fancy dress, but it could just have easily been something in the Breton wine.

After a look around his studio with another glass of something in my hand, I thanked them for their hospitality and wandered out into the midnight air. In fact it was later than that, and I never had a clue where I was either. I was completely disorientated, but the aroma from a Turkish kebab house was enticing me in that direction –  wherever it was.

After leaving Abrakebabra’s or whatever it was called, I marched off in completely the wrong direction, but managed to find my way back onto Rue Jean Jaures. Being a long road though, I needed to make sure I went the right way, and then out of the blue came a gang of giggling girls and a couple of blokes who pointed me in the right direction, but not before asking me if I wanted to go to a party, or at least I think that’s what they said. I had my sensible hat back on by now and gracefully declined.

I eventually found my way back to the hotel, only to find that I was locked out. It wasn’t the first time I’ve found myself in this situation, but at least this time, somebody thankfully came to the door when I rang the bell.

I think I was asleep before my head hit the pillow, and it was still there the following morning when it should have been helping me get home. As it was, I only just managed to get organized before the taxi turned up. The driver actually spoke a bit of English, or at least enough to tell me that he came to pick me up four hours earlier. Apparently, his message was to pick me up at six (6) heures et quart, when it should have been dix (10) heures et quart. I’m not accepting the responsibility for this one, although I probably might have to take the blame.

The journey home went smoothly enough, but there was nobody there to greet me – not even poor old Rosie. A few hours later, my wife and daughter turned up after a hectic weekend sorting out the dress and other stuff for the wedding, but if truth been known, I’m not even sure they knew I’d gone out.

POSTED – AUGUST 2024