Icy wind greets us on the Breton coast. Here, where the waves whisper, we stand on the remote parking lot near Porspoder. Just the two of us. How much I love this togetherness, often even the solitude in such a place. And how beautiful is this solitude, right in front of this sleeping coastal village without tourists, that belongs only to us for this precious moment.

The narrow road that led us here winds between old stone houses in that unmistakably Breton style. Gray stone, enhanced with colorful shutters, doors, and gates. A strong red, a dark blue, or even a neon green. They breathe history, these inhabited witnesses of past times, while the new buildings with their smooth beige and white facades stand strangely lifeless in the otherwise soulful landscape – like memories of a future that has no stories to tell yet.

The gardens shine in lush green, a joy for the soul. The gorse is already blooming in lavish abundance, while occasional yellow, purple, blue, and white flowers timidly sprout from the cold spring soil – brave harbingers of warmer days that fill my heart with sweet anticipation. Hopefully, we will experience them again. I don’t like this cold.

We hike from the small parking lot on the GR34 northward to Porspoder, where we turn and dive into the inland via a narrow road. The properties become more spacious, the houses are no longer as densely packed as on the coast. This vastness lets me breathe deeply, frees me from a narrowness that I only notice each time when I leave it. Cities feel cramped. Landscapes never.

The paved path gives way to a partly muddy field path – traces of the rain that fell in the days before. We linger at fences to observe horses and feed them with picked grass. How wonderful to be with the animals in this silence, while no human crosses our path.

The Chapelle Saint-Ourzal welcomes us with the sweet scent of freshly mown grass – a smell that takes me back to long-gone summers. The chapel doors remain locked, but above them opens something much greater: On the horizon, above the roofs of the sea houses, stretches the infinite Atlantic. My heart expands at this sight, while simultaneously becoming heavy with melancholy – this beauty cannot be held, only enjoyed in the moment.

Over muddier paths, wading through shallow water, we reach solid ground again and a magical place with magnificent houses and lush gardens. The sun now breaks through the clouds, gilds this little paradise and makes me smile, while a tear of emotion streaks my cheek. Melancholy or perhaps envy?

The road leads us back to the sea, where we stand before the Île de Melon. The blue-green water separates us from the small island – so near yet as unreachable as some dreams. Standing on the large rocks, I look across and feel this bittersweet mixture of happiness and longing. As much as I wish to be at home in such a place, there is something in me that does not allow this wish to come true.

The way back leads us along the coast on the GR34, past the Croix de la Madeleine to the small harbor of Mazou. There we linger, look at the Île de Mazou, and I feel how this place burns itself into my memory – a treasure that I will take with me when we return to the parking lot where our journey began.