Take Me Down to the Sea Again . . . to Sail in a Ship of Dreams . . .

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...The Lost Lady of Locquénolé
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How many times did we run out to sea
Out to the British Channel
Descending the Bay of Morlaix
So early in the morning
With the tide just starting to turn
And every time we motored by
The Chateau du Taureau in the fog
That fort out on a cold rock
In the middle of the bay
I swore I heard the ghosts of prisoners calling
Those who drowned while trying to swim
From that accursed jail out on the wide water
Where chill currents could drag a man under
Never to be seen again in this world
Those prisoners from fine families of old
Who had found no useful place in life
And turned to gambling and liquor and gold
Or maybe those ghostly cries were from
The souls of 114 men who drowned
When the Alcide went down in 1747
Two days before Christmas
The bay is full of hungry water and cold bones
Yet we motored on out to sea
Time and time again
Day after day, year after year
In fog and all sorts of weather
Reading the compass bearing due north
Heading for open water
Seeking the spots where the sea bass rise
Pulling up traps full of lobster and crabs
Dreaming of mackerel while mending the motor
Some days simply just drifting
Watching the wind play on the waves
Our faces weathered by salted spray
But nothing lasts forever
We grew old and grey
Feebled and hobbled
Our lady put to sea no more
There she lies tied to the shore
For years she'd float when the tide came in
But now she floats no longer
Graffiti grafted on her sides
Perhaps the ultimate insult
Time's cruel work persistant
Broke open her joints, splintered her planks
Before long there will be naught but the engine block
Rusting away in the mud and the flood
And the dream of a seagoing lady
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The photos above were taken in 2008. The hull was still fairly well intact, I don't know if she could have been restored from that state, but perhaps at least salvaged to sit on dry land to be admired for some years to come. But that was not to be, and this past summer I took the following photos as she lay split open and filled with water with every high tide. She will surely soon disintegrate. From dust to dust.
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Of Weathered Wood and 'bandoned Boats . . .

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What is it about peeling paint on the weather-beaten wood of ancient boats, many of whom will go down to the sea no more, left to their resting, rusting places in the mud of estuaries, which touches the heart just so ? Dreams of catching fish and crabs, hauling up the elusive lobster, landings in distant ports, pirates and pirogues, folk songs singing of cockles and mussels alive alive-oh, to be walking after Molly Malone, buying her fish to take home with a pint of ale for supper, smoking a pipe by the fire after. The memories of poems written or unwritten that permeate those planks, punctuated by a rusting nail, a corroded band of brass that bears the breath of salt mists and gossips of shrieking gulls, why does weathered wood conjure up such visions ? I shall not wax so prolific as a Melville or a Coleridge, with his rhymes of rime, I shall leave you to whatever rêveries these images may evoke.
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("Rêverie", what a lovely word... my French dictionary defines it thus : "Etat de l'esprit qui s'abandonne à des idées, des images vagues". A state of mind which abandons itself to ideas and vague images. But in French, "vague" as an adjective means vague or uncertain, imprecise, but as a noun, it means "a wave", as in waves on the ocean... so "images vagues" becomes images of waves...) I leave you to these images...
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Ah, after that little escape, that escapade on the vast seas of dreams, would you care to join me on board for a cup of fresh brewed coffee, ground from beans brought back in canvas bags from distant islands ? Do pull up a spot on the bench here, have a cuppa, and tell me where you've been off to.
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What's On Her Mind ?

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Sometimes you see a pretty face, or even a picture of a pretty face, and just feel compelled to turn it into a photograph. This young lady was encountered while strolling the streets of the small Brittany city of Morlaix one day in August. I was wondering what was on her mind, when the sun came out, and all became perfectly clear. She was thinking about the colorful old houses across the way, and how much she'd like to live in one of them someday. Her reflections on the subject were rather brilliant I thought. And speaking of reflections, am just nipping in here at the tail end of James Reflections Weekend. Better late than never.
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Learning the Ropes . . .

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It seems that some of you appreciated the knots in the previous photo, so here are a few more ropes for you to contemplate, the possibilities for tangles here are endless, yet someone seems to be keeping them all in order. Must take a long time to learn the ropes though.
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What is it about sailboats with colorful sails that send us quickly off into dreams of secret coves on distant islands ? I can hear the mermaids calling...

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And of course the sails reflected on the water here should qualify for inclusion at James' Weekend Reflections...
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Slipknots and Slipstreams . . .

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Have you ever felt all tied up in knots ?
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May you slip free of them . . .
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Just A Glimpse . . .

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.After six hours on the road today returning to the real world, after a few glorious weeks in the land that time forgot (as well as the bar that time forgot in previous two posts here) I'm not in much shape to pick up the blog at the usual full speed ahead setting, but just to give you a little tiny glimpse of things to come, to start getting warmed up for a return to blogland, to whet your appetites as it were, I thought I'd share this slice of life from out in Britanny, about 1/250th of a second's worth from a sunny afternoon by the water the other day, climbing around in the rocks, searching for lost treasures.
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As the above image contains just a hint of a reflection in it, that reminded me that I might still have time, barely, to slip this in to James' Weekend Reflections page, a fine corner of the blogging universe where people from all over the planet have been contributing their reflections every weekend for quite some time now. Bravo to James for his hard work and perseverance for keeping so many balls in the air all at once, to use a juggling metaphor. These next two may qualify more squarely as Weekend Reflections material, or more spherically as the case may be. If you gaze into the depths of the crystal ball here, perhaps you can see into the future, and if not into the future, into the pasture ?
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Days In the Saddle Cause Great Thirst !

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In the previous post about the Selle Pub (the Saddle) in Morlaix, Brittany, France, you were all encouraged to get in your carriages and gallop on over as fast as a team of horses could trot... Lynne of Decollete Glimpses fame apparently took this to heart, and produced a piece about the horses she is going to ride to the Saddle. This sign is another piece of la Selle Pub's marvellous interior decoration.
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On another blog which many of you know and love, Roxana just did a lovely composition of image and
poetry under the title of "Thirst", which is also perfectly in keeping with the pub theme here, as I admit, having visited la Selle Pub three times now in the past few days, each time I get near the place, a very powerful thirst occurs, for which a Magic Chouffe beer is an excellent cure. Although I may have had one too many, as for some reason the writing on the glass seems reversed here. And very quickly the glass was drained. Some sort of magic that, such quenching of thirsts.
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These next two have nothing to do with anything, they appear here simply to reassure any of you who may have been concerned about the quiet period from Mr Toad's corner of the world, that he is quite seriously occupied with very important vacation business affairs which cannot be ignored or delayed, as you can see for yourself,  requiring the most entire concentration imaginable ! So you can rest easy, these issues will be dealt with in all proper decorum and due diligence, as difficult as such hardships may be. My best to all of you, normal life will resume shortly. Maybe. . . :-)
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Aller à la Selle ! ! ! The Bar That Time Forgot . . .

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In the small city of Morlaix in Brittany the other day I came across what may be the eighth wonder of the world. I had taken a little travelled passage and found myself in a part of that town previously unknown to me, despite many years of visits. The first sights that caught my eye there were two obviously closed and abandoned nightclubs whose glory days were long past, the club La Cabane, and La Bodega. Their signs were still out on display though.
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From the Bodega, I glanced down a street and was treated to a large old train station style clock, which had no hands. Was this the clock where time stands still ? The land that time forgot ? The place where it can be any time you wish it to be ?
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Walking closer I could read the sign on the wall near the timeless clock to decipher, "La Selle Pub, the Pub In the City". Now I really didn't give this more thought than simply reading and translating to "The Saddle Pub". In French "la selle" means a saddle for a horse, or the seat on a bicycle. A great name, a good place to sit in a saddle and take a ride having a cold drink on a hot summer day.
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There were several intriguing old signs on the exterior walls which captured my attention as I admired the decorative taste of the owner, such as this faded wood sign commemorating the first balloon crossing of the Grand Canyon. Hmm, I thought, rather a fine old sign. (Apparently it is unclear if this refers to the Grand Canyon in Arizona or some other place ... )
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La Selle Pub is on the corner of la rue Haute and la rue du Chateau in Morlaix, and thus has two entrance doors, both of which are thoroughly inviting as seen from the street.
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Upon entering La Selle, one is greeted by the easy going and friendly owner, Mr Alain Robin. I have never felt so immediately at ease when walking into a bar for the first time, but here it was quickly apparent that this was no ordinary pub, on the contrary, it quickly turned out to be an extraordinarily cozy and densely decorated place, a private museum of surprising proportions. I asked if I might be allowed to take a few photographs inside, Mr Robin responded without the slightest hesitation that I could take all the photographs I wished to, "tout ce que voulez". A most pleasant surprise to be offered a chance to photograph such an amazing place, and I hadn't even ordered a drink yet. My deepest thanks to Mr Robin for his considerable hospitality.
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Thus encouraged I slowly inspected the interior, climbing the stairs to the two rooms on the upper floor, before coming back down the spiral staircase to the the ground level. Everywhere you look there is a multitude of visually captivating objects : posters, photos, books, sculpture, mirrors, bumper stickers, news clippings, a piano, a model hot air balloon, model ships, paper currency from all over the world tacked up, signs, magazine covers (including the Paris Match cover from 1963 when Kennedy was assassinated); an unbelievable, mind bending, jaw dropping, gasp provoking collection ranging from the proverbial sublime to the ridiculous.

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There was even a real leather saddle propped up against a wall. The only thing missing was one of those bucking bronco machines that some bars in Texas are equipped with. But then this isn't Texas.
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The seating areas were warm and conducive to settling in for a deep pint of beer with good friends and good conversation, along with towels on the tables to mop up the spills.
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A skeleton with legs akimbo bears a sign announcing that he is doing a lot better since he stopped drinking Coreff (a brand of beer brewed in Brittany)..

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Hardly any surface from floor to ceiling, including the ceiling was left undecorated. This is the result of 36 years of collecting, as la Selle Pub opened in 1975, and Alain Robin has been running the bar since then, encouraging people to bring back souvenirs from their travels to contribute to the museum. An awesome tableau all around, nearly anywhere the camera was pointed an amazing array of material filled the view..

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It took me a little while, but it finally dawned on me that in French the word "la selle" has two meanings in fact. As mentionned above "la selle" means a riding saddle, but when used in the plural, "les selles" also means "human excrement" (a more medically proper term than the more frequently used though colloquial "Merde"). I should have caught on faster, as there were numerous decorative items which should have clued me in to the double entendre had I been thinking more rapidly that day, but it was the photo of Frank Zappa seated on a toilet that finally brought it home for me.
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There is an expression in French, though little used, which is : "aller à la selle", which means to go to the toilets to do sitting down type business. When I departed the pub after shooting an indecent number of photographs inside, I was presented with a certificate, a diploma of sorts, on which the phrase "Je vais à la Selle, c'est encore là qu'on est le mieux" figures prominently . . . "I go to la Selle, it is there where I am the best." So saddle up your horses, mules, donkeys, zebras, get on your bicycles, Lear Jets, sailing yachts, tractors, little red wagons, or whatever, but however you travel, do get yourself in motion soon and on your way to la Selle, as it is there that you can relieve yourself of all your worldly worries, and enjoy a timeless moment in the good company and care of Mr Alain Robin. And I hope to see you there soon, as I will also surely be going back to further dig and drink in that gold mine. It could be the best bar in the world, bar none.
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