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Even in Paradise They Dream of Paradise…

June 12, 2012
Fidji Bar, Moreac, Brittany, France

Fidji Bar, Moreac, Brittany, France

The tall grass shimmers in the wind, suggesting a dreamlike existence of peace and tranquillity. The relaxed pace of the farmers around here deepens the sense of composure. Everything moves slowly, especially around the middle of the day. Songbirds trill in an endless variety of cadences, while chickens cluck in the background. The village square is cobbled with local stone and the buildings stand true after centuries of wear. The bread is the best in the world, the cheeses are mindblowing – earthy, creamy, of subtle texture and of confronting pungency in turn. The wine is complex and warming. Even on a day of muted grey cloud, the tall grass shimmers over undulating hillsides, wildflowers stand waist high along the roadside, the earth is alive and breathing Arcadian perfection.

Yet even in paradise they dream of paradise. In this land of lush agricultural fertility, dotted with forested realms of wilderness seemingly untouched by the mechanical ravages of modernity and even revealing the ancient art of megalithic enigma, the locals dream of another place, a different type of paradise. In the tiny village of Moreac, in the sunny Morbihan region of Brittany, in beautiful western France, the local tobacco bar is named Fidji, and features a banner of tropical idyll, complete with palm trees and sandy beaches. I sit back and take another draw on my beer – for man does not live on vin rouge alone – and dream of just being here, amongst the tall grass flowing in the wind, happy to be in the body, as well as in the imagination.

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