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a.k.a. the catch-up saga continueth.
Holiday time! I don't think I have the stamina to do a day-by-day travelogue (nor will anyone read it, really), so it'll be a massive picspam of doom along with some blathering to accompany the pictures, not in chronological order but rather sorted by places or topics. Or whatever, really.
(Wow, doing a picspam on LJ is effing labour-intensive. I forgot. I'm so spoiled by Wordpress' gallery feature! :P)
For about five years, Britanny has been a place of longing, rest & recuperation to my mind. I can't honestly say why (part of it is probably sea longing, but there's a lot of coast in the world), but it began after Felix' birth and has not (yet?) been replaced by any other place. Which is well enough; the previous resting spaces of my soul, Scotland and Canada (TM), took a lot more travelling. Thanks to my not-at-all subtle influence, we've been spending most of our vacations in the past years in Britanny, in different constellations (with my parents; with my parents and Jörg's mother; with Jörg's mother and brother; just the four of us) and in two different spots (first, Trévou-Treguignec in the Côte d'Armor - armor has nothing to do with armour, but with Aremorica - region, later Crozon-Morgat in Finistère). The latter was our destination for this year's "summer" holidays, too. Even though I don't properly speak the language, my soul feels at home there in a way that I only really know from, well, home - to the extent that I was seriously daydreaming about being able to buy the decrepit house next door from our holiday home and leaving our house (which otherwise I would swear to only leave behind feet-first) forever for it.
The regional slogan of Finistère (the Romans called it finis terrae, "end of the world") is Tout commence en Finistère, "It all starts at the end of the world", which proved quite appropriate for what felt - still feels, really - like a massive recharge, if not a rebirth. (I am aware of how melodramatic that sounds, but I assure you the sentiment is real. You can see how real it is by the fact that I actually voice it.)
( This is gonna get long, so let's put a cut here. Warning: Extremely picture-heavy! )
I still have 60 more pics prepared (and hundreds more to sort), but I think I've picspammed enough for a single entry. Also, getting tired of the copypasta game. So let's conclude it at that, and continue some other day, with the Stony Family's Cultural And Historical Exploits In Britanny. Kouign Amann for you if you actually read this far!
Holiday time! I don't think I have the stamina to do a day-by-day travelogue (nor will anyone read it, really), so it'll be a massive picspam of doom along with some blathering to accompany the pictures, not in chronological order but rather sorted by places or topics. Or whatever, really.
(Wow, doing a picspam on LJ is effing labour-intensive. I forgot. I'm so spoiled by Wordpress' gallery feature! :P)
For about five years, Britanny has been a place of longing, rest & recuperation to my mind. I can't honestly say why (part of it is probably sea longing, but there's a lot of coast in the world), but it began after Felix' birth and has not (yet?) been replaced by any other place. Which is well enough; the previous resting spaces of my soul, Scotland and Canada (TM), took a lot more travelling. Thanks to my not-at-all subtle influence, we've been spending most of our vacations in the past years in Britanny, in different constellations (with my parents; with my parents and Jörg's mother; with Jörg's mother and brother; just the four of us) and in two different spots (first, Trévou-Treguignec in the Côte d'Armor - armor has nothing to do with armour, but with Aremorica - region, later Crozon-Morgat in Finistère). The latter was our destination for this year's "summer" holidays, too. Even though I don't properly speak the language, my soul feels at home there in a way that I only really know from, well, home - to the extent that I was seriously daydreaming about being able to buy the decrepit house next door from our holiday home and leaving our house (which otherwise I would swear to only leave behind feet-first) forever for it.
The regional slogan of Finistère (the Romans called it finis terrae, "end of the world") is Tout commence en Finistère, "It all starts at the end of the world", which proved quite appropriate for what felt - still feels, really - like a massive recharge, if not a rebirth. (I am aware of how melodramatic that sounds, but I assure you the sentiment is real. You can see how real it is by the fact that I actually voice it.)
( This is gonna get long, so let's put a cut here. Warning: Extremely picture-heavy! )
I still have 60 more pics prepared (and hundreds more to sort), but I think I've picspammed enough for a single entry. Also, getting tired of the copypasta game. So let's conclude it at that, and continue some other day, with the Stony Family's Cultural And Historical Exploits In Britanny. Kouign Amann for you if you actually read this far!
