They are like virtuous women; one respects them, but one passes on
in search of others. Here, surely, is the most productive spot of all
Brittany; the peasants are not as poor as elsewhere, the fields are
properly cultivated, the colza is superb, the roads are in good
condition, and it is frightfully dreary.
Cabbages, turnips, beets and an enormous quantity of potatoes, all
enclosed by ditches, cover the entire country from Saint Pol de Leon to
Roscoff. They are forwarded to Brest, Rennes, and even to Havre; it is
the industry of the place, and a large business is done with them.
Roscoff has a slimy beach and a narrow bay, and the surrounding sea is
sprinkled with tiny black islands that rise like the backs of so many
turtles.
The environs of Saint Pol are dreary and cheerless. The bleak tint of
the flats mingles without transition with the paleness of the sky, and
the short perspective has no large lines in its proportions, nor change
of colour on the edges. Here and there, while strolling through the
fields, you may come across some silent farm behind a grey stone wall,
an abandoned manor deserted by its owners. In the yard the pigs are
sleeping on the manure heap and the chickens are pecking at the grass
that grows among the loose stones; the sculptured shield above the door
has worn away under the action of rain and atmosphere.
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