Seen from the decks of the ferry, Belle-Île-en-Mer, off the coast of Brittany, resembles a long-haired woman floating on her back in the sea. Not knowing any better, my husband and I fell in love with the island 34 years ago.
We first came to Belle-Île from Paris, where we were living in late 1980. We had enjoyed a halcyon autumn, the city emblazoned by a northern light that warmed the faces of the statues in the gardens. One November night, as we rushed home down the hill of Les Gobelins, a first snow flurried around us.
In winter, Paris grew yet more beautiful—but we had come to write, and our apartment was too noisy and cold. Most of our friends there were American, and Don's French had made no progress. Rescue came from one of my former Stanford-in-France professors, who offered us her country house rent-free.
So in January 1981, we landed on Belle-Île for our stay in an isolated village, population 11. We had no car. To get food, we bicycled along empty roads, often in the rain. At the groceries, bakeries and butcher shops, people had time to talk. No one spoke English. Don's French improved.
And we wrote. At night we pored over books of Breton history and legend while storms howled outside.
Behind the house was a widow's farm; we made crepes with the eggs we bought from her. Next door lived a couple our age with two small children. They had started a windsurfing school and were struggling to survive in the off-season. At low tide, we'd walk down the stream valley to the beach to gather mussels for lunch. At night, we'd gather around the hearth and talk. Don's French advanced.
Winter was stark but mild. In February, gnarled old trees blossomed—André Breton's "hawthorn of the rain." The widow's fields filled with daffodils. "Jonquilles," she said with a shy smile.
Our stay ended just before Easter, when renters would arrive. Five years later, we were living in a tiny New York apartment when the professor called to say that an abandoned farmhouse in the village was for sale. It was cheap—extremely.
Its floors, staircase and rafters were rotten; the walls black with mold; the foundation cracked; the roof collapsing. The first time I went inside, I had an asthma attack.
Still poor, still dreamers, we bought it. When the work on the house began, we were back in New York, expecting a baby, but our neighbors sent progress reports and photos.
We couldn't afford to finish the interior for another seven years, and so we couldn't stay there when we visited. But we were welcomed back as proprietaires—and new parents—with food, lodging, rides and bon courage.
Later, our visits were tied to school vacations, and we discovered Belle-Île's summer charms. Our son caught his first fish on a calm day off the wild coast, and his first bike was a hand-me-down from a neighbor.
Now, whenever we return to Belle-Île, we stay well into September. Hay balers and cowherds work in the fields, and sheep spill into the roads. The surf rises, and as we paddle out with our friends, the beauty of the off-season begins again.
Mindy Pennybacker, '74, is the creative director at a Honolulu ad agency. Her husband, Don Wallace, published a memoir about their home on Belle-Île, The French House: An American Family, a Ruined Maison, and the Village That Restored Them All (Sourcebooks, 2014).
