Brittany

Brittany | Bretagne | Brezh

The road through Finistère winds in a way that feels like memory. Soft curves, muted colors, and a sky that can’t decide if it’s brooding or glowing. I started in Quimper, a town that feels like a watercolor sketch: half-timbered houses, Breton lace, and a gentle rhythm that invites lingering. From there, the route led through Concarneau’s walled old town, the painter’s haven of Pont-Aven, and the quiet charm of Quimperlé, where I ducked into a spooky church with closed-off cloisters.

I stayed in a tiny chambre de bonne Airbnb with creaky floors, a skylight, and just enough room to feel like a secret. I walked long stretches of the windy coastline near La Forêt-Fouesnant, wrapped in a sweater and watching white dairy cows graze near the sea like something out of a French children’s book. I ate my weight in crêpes and, somehow, tried caviar for the first time on a random, rain-splashed afternoon that felt unplanned but perfect. That salty, briny pop was unexpectedly mild.

The trip was bookended in Paris, which gave the whole thing that cinematic frame. Brittany was gentler than expected, softer at the edges, but full of quiet drama: clouds that moved like theater curtains, towns made for oil paints, and beaches that made me believe I could stay forever.