I miss you already. I long for your endless outcroppings of ferns,
your prickly little flowers and berries,
your wind-swept trees,
your seaweed-scented shores.
Even your sometimes stony heart...
When I look out the window, I don't see your many boats and little villages dotting the rivieres, ocean or shores anymore.
When I step out the door, I see geraniums everywhere but no more the purple and blue hydrangeas you wore so gallantly.
All the houses I see now are peach-hued and carrot-tops. I look to your pictures for the white skin and black tresses.
Give me back the time when I saw your black and white flag defiantly declaring your uniqueness culturally and linguistically in a sea of French.
Take me back to the shores which offer so much sea wealth
You shipwrecked my heart on your sandy shores and never let it go.
But I don't want it back. It's yours.
I won't be able to cover so much about Bretagne in the next days as I'd like but I'll do my best until I leave for home on Thursday.