Higher, mighter, Belle île (the beautiful island) stands between the mighty Atlantic and the Brittany coast to protect her from the big swells. With westerly winds, there is some anchorages along the leeward side. There is always a little cove of golden sand accessible by dinghy and the coastal path which runs all around the island on top of the cliff, has access to allow us to go to Le Palais, the main harbor, 3 kilometers away. We rent some bicycles. I have bicycled already once during a few days all over the island, but I never get tired of it, enjoying every little hamlets, wild fields and wooded valleys. The island itself smells of wild flowers, of tides, it tastes of salt, of raw oyster. its micro climate allows some very mixed vegetation unknown elsewhere. Its wild coast surrenders to the Ocean which keeps beating her, shaping her, the mighty cliffs hide some tremendous caves where the waves crashes like geysers, exploding in a tremendous thunder roar. As we come back to the boat at dusk after a wonderful day and a good pizza in town, a very hidden wish come back from the secret part of my mind, a forgotten desire, an unaccessible dream. To own a tiny little granit house where I could come back to for a while, to feel, to smell, to taste Brittany, to enjoy the ocean from a base, still surrounded by the Ocean which have carried me away so many time. A so well known melancholy and nostalgia have woken up those last weeks in Brittany. But it is here in Belle île at the eve of departing for Spain, that I feel it to an extent I never felt before. So long Belle île, Kenavo Houat.
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