WHY is it the Irish and the English never feel they've actually arrived in France unless they've driven the best part of the day (and sometimes a night) from where they first hit land? There's no logic to it (imagine foreign tourists careering through Co Corks under the impression that it's not "Irish" enough), least of all when those far off destinations are now hopelessly" overrun by northern Europeans.
In Provence the curse of Peter Mayle lingers on, though he has sensibly moved away. In the Dordogne, God help us, there is even an English language radio station. The obvious answer is the sun, but those to whom France still means culture and food should do their backs, wallets and, taste buds a favour and stay within an hour or so's drive of the port where, they land, where the tourists are French and where nothing is imported, bar cheese.
So it was that in late May I took the Derry to Roscoff in the company of my parents, and drove an easy hour and a half across the Finistere peninsula to Pont Aven (pronounced Pont Avenne), a small town barely more than a village that, apart from offering every kind of active holiday potential (walking, sailing, cycling, wind surfing) also played a crucial role in the history of modern art. Oh yes, and the kind of cooking you only dream of.
I first went to Pont Aven 13 years ago. Some friends had rented a gite a few miles inland, which was too small to cope with me and my two children who, anyway, were at the age when holidays meant sea and sand. A Michelin "red R" no frills hotel at Raguenesplage a few miles away on the coast sounded as if it would do instead. And we have been going there ever since.
Chez Pierre is one of those hotels you hear about but don't believe you'll ever actually experience yet this is no "starred" establishment offering the latest foodie fad (no coriander or sun dried tomatoes here), just French provincial cooking at its best, food that used to be the norm throughout France but now rarely is. Soups which taste of their ingredients, mousses that finally explain what all the fuss is about, sauces with no hint of flour, local lamb and beef cooked to perfection, pastry that crumbles at the touch of a fork, locally grown vegetables that somehow still taste of the soil. And of course, fish salmon from the Aven, flat fish from the catch landed daily at Concarneau 10 miles up the coast, and the full crustacean cornucopia that revels under the title fruits de mer, including the highly prized local Belon oysters.
Far from being tourist cent red, Chez Pierre is the local place for a family blow out. Weddings, First Communions, birthdays, or good bye Sunday lunches see them here in force in best bib and tucker, sitting at long tables (children at the end), with knives, glasses and eyes twinkling as plate follows plate in a ritual celebration of life as old as cooking itself.
Course after course, meal after four course meal, in all the years I have stayed at Chez Pierre I have never had a duff meal. The terrible dilemma is in deciding whether to go full or demi pension. It's nothing to do with the cost (the difference is 40FF, approximately £6, which at today's rate of exchange will barely buy you four beers in a cafe), but simply with getting through it all. Too often in such situations pensionaires bet short shrift. But here the tarte tatin laid out in all its caramelly glory is yours too.
The weekend with my parents should have been a disaster. The weather was as dire as it was in Ireland log fires blazed and Madame, as chic as ever, wore her wool. The terrace, shaded by cedars, remained unused from beginning to end. But walks around the coastal path yielded amazing seascapes, and the slow spring and recent rain resulted in a carpeting of wild flowers (I counted 45 different species) that could only do the soul good. And it gave us an opportunity, to enjoy once again the other aspect of Pont Aven's appeal its role in the history of art.
A painting of the woods behind Pont Aven Le Bois D'Amour by Paul Serusier is deemed by those in the know as the first Cubist painting. Now hanging in the Muse d'Orsay, the rocks and trees, sunlight and shade of the wood that clings to the valley of the Aven behind the town are reduced to the geometry of planes of colour.
Serusier was one of a number of painters known as the Nab is who, drawn by the creative dynamic of a romantic landscape combined with the mill workers' and fishermen's stark lives, arrived in Pont Aven in the late 19th century. Many now take their place among the highest ranks of the post impressionists and inevitably the best of the Nab is work is scattered around the world. But in spite of such difficulties, the town's museum does an excellent job ink documenting their lives and their work both through the art and contemporary photographs.
Sadly, the most famous of the painters who came to Pont Aven, Paul Gauguin' is represented only through prints and drawings but the others of his circle Maurice Denis, Emile Jourdan, Emile Bernard and Felix Valloton are represented with full scale works. These are joined by many lesser known names, including Roderic O'Conor, who lived and worked in Pont Aven off and on from 1887 until 1903.
INCREDIBLY the place has hardly changed. The woods and tumbling rush of the river, coursing through the little town criss crossed by bridges, are still exactly as they were. Apart from boasting more art galleries than might otherwise be usual, PontAven has escaped the worst excesses of a "heritage" make over. (One gallery worth a visit is the Gallerie de Ia Poste, which deals in affordable "second generation" Pont Aven artists, roughly dating from the 1920s to the 1950s).
The richly wooded hills drift down to a sinuous narrow sound that takes two or three miles to wind out to the open sea. It can all be walked (fortunately the coast itself is road less) and just before the Aven reaches the open sea you pass the tiny harbour of Port Manech a time warp Edwardian resort complete with a year round sailing school. Then a couple of miles of flower rich, cliffs before the fine sandy beaches of Raguenes plage come into view, backed by farms and meadows.
The strong franc has made France a very expensive option, unless you're careful. Stick to Brittany (whether Roscoff or St Malo) and you'll avoid the singeing petrol costs. Beer and wine are still much cheaper and loading up your car with, say four cases of £1.50 a bottle Cotes de Rhone nearly makes the journey break even.
Supermarkets are still worth a look. Anything to do with fish soup is always worth buying (langoustine bisque or a pot of good rouille will lift even the most boring fish soup) ground coffee is still half the price, as are tinned confit de canard and cassoulets. But beware specialist tourist establishments.
If you have a cool box, cheeses are still worth the effort if the timing's right. (Check local market days and remember supermarkets are generally closed in Brittany on Sundays, though the wine warehouse in Roscoff is open every day.)
Of course there are other places to stay around Pont Aven besides Chez Pierre. Raguenes plage boasts a four star camping site complete with pool and path leading across meadows to the beach. And there are gites, all available through the Pont Aven tourist office. But for us, the family run and family friendly Chez Pierre has withstood the tests of time and weather. Where else could five days of rain have passed so painlessly? And what other restaurant boasts a chef who 13 years ago shared his trike with my four year old? (To be exact, sous chef. Dad still wields ultimate power in the kitchen.)
The Hotel des Voyageurs in PontAven, where the first of the influx of Nab is artists stayed, has long since closed down. It was run by one Madame Guillou. So is Chez Pierre. It is a coincidence I cherish.