The oysters were shucked with a deftness that
suggests years opening the bivalves (although a plaster on her hand perhaps suggested the occasionally
concentration lapse). Dozens of shining morsels, placed on a bed of seaweed, landed unceremoniously on the
bare wood table. A bottle of Muscadet (obligatory accompaniment for oysters) was uncorked. The sea breeze off
the coast of Cancale, on the northern coast of Brittany, was identical to the taste of the oyster: salty,
mildly fishy, fresh, brisk, meaty, delightful.
Cancale oysters are among the finest in the world, alongside those of Whitstable, P.E.I., and Japan. Oyster
shells traced back to the oyster beds I could see from the terrace of the restaurant have been excavated in
Roman camps across Europe — Caesar was a fan. Napoleon wouldn’t go on a campaign without them.
Brittany is a strange place. Jutting out above the Bay of Biscay and below the English Channel, and only a
few miles from the coast of British Jersey and Guernsey, it pledges — vociferously — to be a Celtic
country (yes, country — the independence movement is strong here). The black and white flag of Brittany is
often inaugurated on the same piece of cloth as that of Cornwall (an independently minded British county),
Wales, Scotland, Ireland and the Isle of Man — one of the six Celtic nations. Its identity remains
strong — although Breton, its language is flagging – despite being united with France in 1532.
At Cancale’s Au Pied du Cheval, the oyster shack we returned to several times in the week I spent there with
my wife and one-year-old, also had special personal resonance: My grandparents had visited this very
spot 50 years earlier. Perhaps it was the name, but Brittany has always been popular with visiting
Brits.
We hired one of the thousands of “gites” (country cottages) in rural Brittany. I had envisaged a week dining
on baguettes, cheeses, the cider it’s famous for, saucisson sec, and of course oysters and Muscadet (from the
nearby Loire valley)… and that’s what I got.
Cancale, is a small port that has produced oysters for hundreds of years and little has changed (certainly
since when my grandparents visited). Brightly painted houses line the port, stalls sell oysters, and
tourists, even in late September, dig into seafood platters and crisp wine. We walk along the short
promenade, up into the sleepy town, with its artist ateliers and boulangeries and do very little else. It is
bliss.
Next week: We visit
the medieval walled citadel of Saint Malo and discover its Canadian links. •
— Daniel Neilson
