A church bell tolls in the Breton village of Saint-Barthélemy. It rained last night. Today it’s cool, and the blue sky is broken up by rapidly moving clouds. The view from the window is calming. Brittany is a land of Ozark-like hills and hollows. There are plenty of trees. Not the tamed woods of England or the orderly plains of France, but real forest, in which the farms and villages are embedded like raisins in a bran muffin. There’s a constant chorus of bird song, even in the middle of the village. The farms look prosperous, well-appointed and scrupulously clean. The houses are charming and well-kept, whether they are ancient stone or newly built. Read more »