Rennes Monday 17th June 1940, Chapter 2.

DEDICATION.

This contribution is dedicated to the memory of Leading Aircraftman Thomas Ross (617913) Royal Air Force, of Cabra, Dublin Ireland, who was killed, aged 21, on Sunday 16th June 1940 and is buried in Eastern Communal Cemetery, Rennes, Brittany, France. Thomas was the son of Patrick and Teresa Ross of Cabra, Dublin, Ireland.

Sequel 18th July 2005

In my further research into the Luftwaffe bombing attack on the railway complex in Rennes Monday 17th June 1940, I had come across maps of the Department Ille-et-Villaine and noticed a small town named Guichen located approximately 20kms south of Rennes. By co-incidence Guichen is ‘twinned’ with my home town of Skerries, Fingal, North County Dublin, Ireland. Having contacted the local twinning association and told the story of Serjeant George Fitzpatrick and the bombing attack, which in turn was relayed to their counterparts in France, I was amazed to receive a reply from a local Frenchman, Jean Rocher, now living in Rennes and 11 years old in 1940, whose father was a rail worker in Rennes, witnessed the attack and survived by taking shelter under a bridge. Furthermore the twinning group had organized a visit to Guichen this year and I was invited to participate. A visit to the CWGC section of Rennes cemetery was included in the programme of events for the twinning visit together with a visit to a location overlooking the railway where the bombing took place. My brother and I laid a poppy wreath on Serjeant George’s grave, he played the last post and together with a large group of people, both from Ireland and France, we conducted a small commemorative service and concluded by singing Blue Birds Over the White Cliffs of Dover, which must rank as one of the best hope for peace songs ever.

In my search of CWGC records for Rennes I had discovered only one named serviceman from Ireland, Leading Aircraftman Thomas Ross. To my further amazement one of the people involved in the ‘twinning’ is a work colleague of a nephew of Thomas and the group also included him in our commemorative service on the day.

‘For our todays they gave all of their tommorrows’

After 65 years this was an amazing series of co-incidences, with way leading on to way and culminating at the gravesides in Rennes.

David Grundy,

11th November 2005.

The text of our commemorative service is here reproduced.

Monday 18th July 2005, Rennes Eastern Communal Cemetery

Let us all join together to remember those who have died for the cause of our freedom and lie here in eternal rest. On this day let us particularly remember Serjeant George Fitzpatrick who was killed here in Rennes, with so many of his comrades, on Monday 17th June 1940. Let us also remember Leading Aircraftman Thomas Ross who was killed on Sunday 16th June 1940 and also lies here at rest.

For our todays they gave all of their tomorrows.

They shall grow not old, as we that are here grow old.

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them

Let us be hopeful for the reconciliation that has been established between nations once opposed in war, for the people of all nations and their leaders that those divisions that remain may be healed.

Let us cherish the treasure of peace, let us remember all who now live amid conflict and those who live in fear of violence and oppression.

Let us wish that our remembrance on this day may be for good and practical service and the world be better for our children and our children’s children.

And finally let us all pray together as we have been taught as Christians;

Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be Thy name, Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.

For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory forever and ever. Amen.

Conclusion.

Following the return to Ireland of the Skerries twinning group the local newspaper The Fingal Independent, with circulation in North Co. Dublin, Co. Meath and Drogheda, featured a three page, including photographs, article on events in Rennes Monday 17th June 1940 and our more recent commemorative visit on Monday 18th July 2005.

This article was written by the paper’s editor Hubert Murphy and is reproduced with editor’s permission;

In remembrance of Serjeant George Fitzpatrick and Leading Aircraftman Thomas Ross.

Monday June 17th 1940, on a fine summer morning at 10:30a.m. death rained from the sky on stationary trains, packed with refugees and soldiers bottlenecked in the railway complex at Rennes, Brittany in western France. Over 800 people died, men, women and children together with British and French servicemen, when German dive bombers blasted train after train. One of those struck was a munitions trai, its destruction caused fierce explosions, which ripped through the morning air and spiralled bodies and debris in all directions.

Amongst those killed were servicemen left behind after the mass evacuation of the British Expeditionary Force from Dunkirk, which had ceased two weeks previously. Contrary to popular myth the BEF was not totally evacuated by that time. There remained a dispersed and straggling army of about 150,000 men, now fleeing westwards in groups of various sizes and in the forlorn hope of making their escape as best they could, the grim alternatives being death or prisoner of war camp. But on this day in Rennes, the hope of escape for one group, would die. One of those killed with this group was Serjeant George Fitzpatrick, a 30-year-old member of the Royal Engineers.

Today, his white gravestone stands proudly with so many others in a little section of a cemetery close to the spot where they all died as comrades exactly 65 years ago. Recently, David Grundy from Red Island in Skerries, visited this grave and stood and shed a silent tear for a man he never knew but deeply respected, a grand-uncle who died in the ultimately successful struggle to free Europe of the Nazi threat.

‘It was strange really, I’d never been to Rennes but from what I’d researched on George I knew exactly where his grave was. It was a special moment’ he states. The recent trip to France was the climax to decades of family stories of past days. David, his brother Alan and sister Susanne always knew about George, he was one of many in the family who served but he was the only one who never returned. ‘George was my maternal grandfather’s youngest brother and was born in Cheshire in England in 1910. My Mum Joan and her brother Leo knew him very well as he often visited Ireland prior to the war. They both spoke highly of him and were the last living link to George. If they were alive today they would be so proud of the recent events to commemorate his memory. We were told growing up that George was killed at Dunkirk in a train blast and as young people we never thought too much about it after that.’ Then more recently one day, an article in the Fingal Independent, caught his attention. There was a report on Fingallians who were killed in the two world wars and it was mentioned that the Commonwealth War Graves Commission had a web site dedicated to the memory of the casualties of both wars. ‘In a moment of idleness, I decided to enter George’s name in the search page and to my astonishment it returned details of only one man, my grand uncle George. But the site disclosed that George had not died at Dunkirk as believed. He had been killed in Rennes, 800 kms away to the west and two weeks after the evacuation.

It was then I decided to find out, as best I could, what had happened to him’, A copy of a commemorative edition of a French newspaper, Ouest France, published in 1960, sourced by my son Douglas’ girl friend Frederique Piedfert, revealed the full horrors of that June day in 1940, when as the invading German army advanced across France, civilian refugees and allied troops fled westwards, the Luftwaffe bombers blitzed the railway at Rennes. So fierce were the fires, they blazed for a full week’. He also discovered that Skerries’ twinned town in France, Guichen, is located just 18km south of Rennes and the Skerries twinning group had planned a trip to the area this summer to celebrate a decade of successful twinning with Guichen. He made contact with Brendan Friel and Marie Stafford of the twinning group and they got in touch with a contact there, Jean Rocher, who immediately knew all about the incident in 1940. His family had fled from the invaders as refugees from Rouen a short while before and had been living with relatives near Rennes. Jean’s father, who worked with the railway, had been there the morning of the attack but managed to hide under a bridge and lived. But it was into the darkness of the following night before he could return to his anxious family to say he had survived. With the support of the Skerries Twinning Association, David, his wife Denise and brother Alan headed to France with the group and met Jean and other locals and in a poignant ceremony laid a poppy wreath at the grave of Serjeant George Fitzpatrick. However their visit not only commemorated George but also another man with a strong association to Fingal and buried in the same cemetery.—Thomas William Ross. Dominic and Geraldine McQuillan, friends of the family, laid a bouquet of flowers on Tom’s grave.

Although a native of Cabra in Dublin, Tom had a Balbriggan link. Harry Reynolds, the famed cyclist, had a son called Frank and he married Tom’s sister Nora. Tom was reportedly killed in a train station but that was on Sunday June 16, the day before the mass bombing. He was 21 and a Leading Aircraftman with the RAF and like his comrades, was making his way to the coast. ‘I’ve met with a nephew of his, Dermot Reynolds, who like me feels these men who died for our freedom should never be forgotten because they gave the ultimate sacrifice for the future generations and our freedom…their lives’.

For our todays they gave all of their tomorrows.

They shall grow not old, as we that are here grow old.

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

Paul had seen the poster advertising the festival a few days before. 4em Festival Saumon 11-14 Juillet 1998. A meaningful festival of salmon in a small inland town such as Pont Scorff seemed unlikely despite its river but he decided to go along. It was somewhere different to spend a Saturday afternoon of his holiday. Just how different it would turn out to be, he could never have imagined.

jazz concert, or a salmon festival.

The activities, the poster said, started with a free jazz concert at the Theatre de plein air. Although jazz was not his favourite type of music, he made his way past the long food stands being prepared for the evenings festivities, to the temporary stage he could see erected on the river bank. The plastic chairs arranged in rows in front of the stage were almost full but there were plenty of spaces on the grassed amphitheatre created to provide tiered seating, on the slope behind them. The music had already started as he sat down on the lightweight waterproof he had been carrying. The three musicians, a pianist, a drummer and a guitarist were dwarfed by the large covered stage with its myriad of equipment. Giant black speakers stood high on either side with plastic sheeting fluttering on top, where it had been placed to protect the units from the light drizzle that had been coming down most of the day.

Paul looked again at the leaflet he had picked up on his way into the festival grounds. Les Freres Jazz en concert. But these were no freres, the pianist was a girl. Not just a girl but the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Thick, dark, almost shoulder length hair surrounded her elfin face. She wore a black short sleeved T-shirt and underneath her electronic piano, which was perched on two trestle legs, he could see she was wearing dark jeans. On her feet, which were keeping time with the music, were sandy coloured boots.

She sat there playing, looking only occasionally at her fellow musicians and even less occasionally at the audience. No emotion showed in her face but she played the most captivating jazz he had ever heard. He didn’t understand it and he only recognised one tune but the sound that came from her piano made him lean forward to capture every moment. Was it the music or was it the player?

The guitarist, who seemed to be the leader, spasmodically used the microphone which otherwise stood lonely at the centre front of the stage. Apart from ’Merci’ thanking the audience for their applause his announcements were incomprehensible to Paul. Presumably the name of the next number they were about to play but generally one piece followed another without introduction and with very little respite in between. The guitar player was tall, probably six foot but with the slimness of youth. He too wore a black T-shirt, long black hair tied behind his head and the suggestion of a beard under his chin. The drummer, what could be seen of him from behind the large drum kit, wore a similar black T-shirt to his companions. He also had thick dark hair and a similar shaped, although wider, face to the girl pianist. Perhaps, Paul conjectured, the drummer was her frere and the guitarist, could be her boyfriend. This thought upset him, for he knew now that he must meet her, however long he had to wait. The next entertainment, the Tenors of Brest, were not due according to the programme, until the evening but he couldn’t imagine that they would continue to play until then.

Eventually the tall guitarist walked up to the microphone, his guitar is hand, having removed the strap from around his shoulder. ‘Merci, Merci bien’ he said and as the applause gathered strength, he pointed with his free hand to the fellow musicians. They both stepped forward from their instruments and stood alongside their leader, a sliding scale in height from six foot to five foot two. They took one joint bow and ambled off to the back of the stage.

The audience started to stand up and move away, possibly to look at the other attractions at the festival. For Paul, no attraction could match the petite piano player. His problem now was how to make contact with her. He didn’t think he would be welcome back stage. Big, burly stage hands seemed to be patrolling the area. He sat and waited, an increasingly lonely figure on the tiered banking.

Then, from out of the high canvas wall behind the stage, the trio emerged. They headed towards a stone building on the other side of a small inlet from the main river. Paul knew he had to follow. He jumped down from the bank, remembering to pick up his waterproof and walked quickly after the musicians. They declined to use the small bridge that led to the building, which Paul could see from the notice on the wall was le Musee de Peche.

Instead they walked to a large white pole, which stretched out almost horizontally across the creek. It did not quite reach the other side and underneath was hanging a triangular, flat bottomed basket. As far as Paul could tell it was a demonstration of how salmon fishing was carried out in the river. As he drew closer the tall guitarist started to walk across the pole, arms extended to keep his balance. When he reached the end he jumped to the far bank. The drummer followed, reaching it safely amidst cries of encouragement from either bank. The two t-shirted musicians then started to shout ‘Allez, allez’ and after some hesitation the pianist decided to follow them. She shuffled across the pole without the bravado of her two companions. When she reached the middle, despite flailing her arms trying to prevent it, she slipped off the pole and crashed backwards into the stream. Roars of laughter came from her companions on the other bank but Paul didn’t hesitate. Throwing his waterproof aside he dived headfirst into the water. His dive was brought to an abrupt end, for less than two foot under the surface he hit muddy but firm earth.

He rolled over and as he lay on his back he could see the pianist standing up with most of her five foot two above the water. Little more than her sandy coloured boots were submerged below the surface. Her clothes were dripping, her hair matted and wet and her face daubed with mud but creased with smiles. After the initial shock he joined in the laughter and taking her hand hauled himself to his feet. With the help of her fellow musicians they climbed up the bank.

The commotion caused by their entry into the stream had obviously alerted the museum staff. One came out with two large towels and they all went inside to dry off. As Paul and the pianist stood wiping off the worst of the river, the drummer went to large drinks machine in the foyer. He bought them both a hot chocolate which they drank seated on adjoining chairs warming themselves up.

Although Paul realised he had made a fool of himself, he had at least made contact. He knew that now was the time he had to make his move.

‘Mademoiselle’ he said.

‘Monsieur?’ Her dark eyes looked into his.

‘J’aim …’ Hell, why did his French always let him down at vital moments. He wanted to say how much he loved her playing.

‘J’aim jouer..’

‘You love to play? she replied in English, with a smile that had him in a fluster.

‘You speak English,’ he blurted.

‘A little Monsieur, a little’.

‘What I wanted to say, was how much I loved your playing.’

‘Merci Monsieur,’ she gave a slight bow of her head, ‘but of course it is not just me,’ and she pointed to her two fellow musicians.

‘I was going to ask you about them,’ Paul replied and pulled out of his pocket the now soggy leaflet. ‘It says “les Freres” but you are not a frere.’

She tilted her head back and laughed. Paul had fallen in love with her on stage where she had been expressionless but now her laughter engulfed him. He wanted to pick her up and hug her.

She pointed to the two men. ‘These are the brothers’. She indicated the tall guitarist. ‘This is Marcel Lebrun’ and turning to the drummer, ‘this is Pierre Lebrun. And I, am Michelle Lebrun.’

I was right after all, Paul gleefully said to himself, when I thought she looked like the drummer.

‘And you,’ he almost shouted, ‘are their sister,’

She looked at him open mouthed.

‘La soeur’ he repeated in French in case she didn’t understand the English term

‘Mais non Monsieur, mais non. She walked over to the guitarist. ‘Marcel is a dear friend’. She turned to the drummer, ‘but Pierre’. As she looked into Pierre’s eyes and took his hand in hers, Paul noticed for the first time the ring on her finger. ‘Il est mon marie’.

Married! Paul’s thoughts raced, how could she be married.

He raised himself up and threw the towel over the chair. He nodded to the two men, ‘Messieurs’. He turned to Michelle, ‘Madam. I must go, au revoir’.

‘Stay’ she said, ‘come and have a real drink with us. After all we must thank you for saving my life’. Paul could tell from her eyes that it was a gentle joke.

‘No, I must go,’ he said ‘and look for my waterproof’. It was the best excuse he could think of.

As he trudged out of the museum, his wet clothes still clinging to him, he made a secret pact with himself. This is the last time I shall ever go to a jazz concert, or a salmon festival.

Wordcount: 1,6oo 

Please feel free to leave a comment about this article using the reply facility below. Alternatively you can discuss this article on -  www.writersinbrittany.com

About the author: No details entered.

Europa

Europa was built in 1911, and served until the 1970s as Light Ship in the River Elbe. Then bought by an enterprising Dutchman in mid 1980s, for conversion to a Sail Training Ship. Now she ply’s the Atlantic offering adventure in Tall Ships Races and Antarctic Cruises. My voyage, Salvador (Brazil) to Ushuaia, the southernmost tip of Argentina – nonstop.

She rode majestically at anchor as I approached in the launch; I had waited nearly fifty years for a ‘ride in a Windjammer’. We new passengers were welcomed aboard by Capt. Eric and some of his crew. The first priority was safety instruction and the use of life saving equipment. But Europa is registered as ‘Sail Training Ship’, where fare paying passengers become “Voyage Crew”. We were assigned to sea Watches – we were to ‘man the ship’ 24 hours a day at sea – then introduced to our Watch Leader, Ellie (short for Eleanor). Sailing is her first and real love; she had sailed on Europa from Las Palmas. Then down to our cabins which are 2, 4 and 6 berth, with not much spare space in any of them. But they are air conditioned!

The powerful and brilliant tropical sun of Brazil was quite oppressive after Brittany in October. We wallowed, trapped in the humid heat in a seemingly interminable bureaucratic delay, waiting for Brazilian Customs clearance. “Plenty of good food here” I noted with great relief in my diary. A 28 day voyage on a Brittany Ferry, and I would have starved to death! In fact practically all the food on board was made in the galley, including three types of bread. Plentiful and varied, it was real ‘home’ cooking.

The next thing I knew was what seemed to me a chaos of moving feet – all bare. Millions of ropes were everywhere and above all a commanding female voice. The bosun, Val., coordinated the pulling and climbing of so many men as the sails suddenly appeared. Five big square sails were set on each of the fore and main masts. Suddenly the green grasp of Salvador was fast disappearing astern of us, as we stood out for Ushuaia, over 3000 miles away.

Even though I had been to sea before, I comprehended little of what was going on aboard Europa. As I groped my way for’ad to the foredeck for my first watch keeping, I was greeted by a ticking off from Ellie for being 5 minutes late! Our duties were to keep lookout on the foredeck, steer the ship and act as reserve to the professional crew, during our watch. 21 of us voyage crew were split into 3 watches, working 4 hours ‘on’ then 8 hours ‘off’, with a split watch in the afternoon which served to create a watch rotation. This meant that we were not on duty for the same hours on consecutive days. This did wonders for one’s diurnal rhythm!

The real wonder of a sailing ship is the masts and rigging, and I longed to climb aloft. The watch routine gave us (some) free day time, time in which we could “help” the professional crew. We stared aloft in wonder as a crewman hung in a ‘bosun’s chair’ far above us, cleaning and greasing the fore jib stay. But first we had to go to “climbing school”. The entire professional crew of 14 had it in mind to watch for our safety. Several of them were designated for training, with the accent on safety. Fire and ‘Man Over Board’ drills – one did actually fall overboard recently, but was almost instantly recovered! There were also lectures and drills in sail handling, and even Ocean Currents.

They said that the motto of Europa is “Do what you can, as much as you like”. That could include writing and photography, as well as seamanship. We were encouraged to produce a daily “Web Log”, which was published on the ship’s web site for the benefit of the folks at home. (our loved ones had trouble identifying the actual, little gales from the reported storms!) Here are a couple of ‘log entries’, which I think, give a flavour of our working life.

“Maintenance work continues and this week I have been helping varnish the yards on the main and foremasts. This has presented a personal challenge as I suffer from vertigo but I am proud to say that I managed to make it all the way up to the Skysail on the mainmast – a height of some 33 metres! The view from the top (once I had opened my eyes) was incredible and I left my fingernails embedded in the mast as a memorial to this occasion! “

- This from a very competent young chap.

“Winds light, but remaining about 1 point off the port quarter. We have entered the region of the cold Falkland current that runs up from the Antarctic. The weather is now dominated by high and low pressure systems which produce variable – and often useless winds! Noticeably much colder, with the air temperature falling from 11 degrees yesterday noon to just over 8 degrees today noon. Only a light swell running. Squalls threaten, but do not appear!

But it is not all wind and waves on the Europa. Sailing ships have always used periods of calm weather to do essential maintenance on the running rigging. This is the seemingly incomprehensible mass of ropes and pulley blocks that enable the seamen to handle the yards and set the sails. Ropes wear out and wooden blocks need re-varnishing to protect them from the weather ahead – in Antarctica. The bosun has an exhaustive list of jobs – ranging from chipping rust, painting and varnishing – to do. While some of these tasks require experienced and skilled seamen, some can be tackled by the less experienced “voyage crew”. With climbing instruction and a good safety harness, even the least experienced can climb aloft and soar with the Albatrosses! Though furling (that is tying a storm maddened sail to the yard) requires enormous strength and skill, replacing blocks in calm weather does not. I thrill to see my own work done up aloft!

On deck, on watch and off, we rush to man braces, and set sail to catch what we can of the fickle winds. Nothing like heaving on braces and halyards to keep one warm on a cold night watch!”

So much for work, we had relaxation too. Though our first “Deck Dance” was rained off, we were not put off “Crazy Golf” “High Stakes Poker” or the “Murder Game”.

We had a fairly spacious, for a sailing ship, passenger saloon with bar, a chartroom/library and deck space. Meals, whenever possible were served on deck. It is apposite to mention here that while the professional crew were nearly all Dutch, the Voyagers were American, British, Canadian, Dutch, and Scandinavian in roughly equal proportion, plus one German; all aged between 18 and 69. They all liked a different spread on their toast! Cook Renjie was a marvel. She managed to provide a varied and tasteful selection on a buffet breakfast and lunch, not to mention a midnight snack for those on night watch, and, a very wholesome evening meal. Nobody ever went hungry, and no food was ever left uneaten. It did me a power of good!

Freedom

But there was one aspect of our life which could not be described as a ‘holiday’ – that was watch routine. Because it ‘rotated’, it was not possible to ‘get used’ to the varying hours of duty. This caused increasing fatigue as the voyage went on. Even the toughest of us, the young Scandinavian was beginning to tire. Yet there was always a human miracle, 21 Voyagers and 14 Crew had to live and work together in quite a cramped vessel – no escape for the 26 days we were at sea in the South Atlantic!

As we headed south, those winds described as ‘fickle’ were starting to get rather cold! Yet we joyed at halyards and braces, often well after our watch was over. She heels over; we tingle inside as she races away! Tall Ship or small boat – sailing is an exhilarating experience. And that’s without the unforgettable sight of the soaring and sweeping of the great ‘Wandering Albatross’ and the frenetic dynamism of the Dolphins.

So what kind of people were we who sailed on the barque Europa? One voyager put it

“Personal pilgrims; seeking opportunities, re-evaluation, discoveries, letting go, peace.”

For several of the youngsters, it was the first; they went in search of a life under sail. For me, at 61, it was to see what I was really ‘made of’. Like many other voyagers – I was pleasantly surprised.

But the professional crew were a very special sort of people. They lived for their life of wind and sea, though in very lowly paid and insecure employment. They were superb seamen, moving with gracile ease however violently the ship pitched and rolled. A smile always passing from face to face, their camaraderie poetic, as it spoke of the grandeur of their humanity. They struck me as truly ‘at one’ with both nature, its movement and the demands it makes upon the body; and with themselves, each and every one of them.

Did I leave Europa any the wiser? Yes, for the memories!

www.barkeuropa.com

Word Count 1500

Please feel free to leave a comment about this article using the reply facility below. Alternatively you can discuss this article on -  www.writersinbrittany.com

About the author: No information supplied.

We have a charming cottage, here, in the hamlet of Tilibrennou, which is part of the commune of the village of Berrien and set in the dramatic landscape of the Arree Mountains regional park..

We love this little place, not just for its peace and quiet, but for all the friendly neighbours that live round us who are all so kind and helpful . The forebears of several of the inhabitants also lived here, in the days when the whole area was made up of very small farms. Our neighbours tell us that the life was very hard in days gone by. There was no mechanisation at all, and the haulage was done by the great old Breton horses. The people tilled their soil by hand. Yet, despite all their travails, they always found time to share a smile, to share their hospitality and to be there when help was needed . I am glad to say this is still the case in our hamlet today.

Our home was built in 1853, it is three separate houses joined together. The central house being older still, has remained as it once was, It preserves its original curved Breton doorway, 2 hearths and one tiny window. Unusually, it also has an out side stone staircase, by which you reach the first floor. We are lead to believe that this was the old village forge, where the blacksmith lived with his family upstairs, while horses lived down below.

Built onto each side of the forge is a small cottage, on the left and a small out house on the right. Originally, the cottage on the left was a farmhouse having one large kitchen/living room on the ground floor, with a pair of ladder like stairs leading up to a single first floor room. This is the cottage that has been renovated and is where we now live . The forge and out house are next on our list for renovation.

Today, the large area on the ground floor of the cottage has been divided, and a part converted into my studio. But we still retained one of the period features of a the large stone cauldron that was built into the wall and used to store salt . This is now filled with rolls of canvas, stretchers and frames all waiting to play a part in the art of creation.

My art is inspired by my interests in nature, classical narratives and the esoteric arts which include yoga, meditation, charkas, Kabbalah, and colour therapy.

My paintings are constructed on the similar concepts as mandalas and yantras which contain symbols, shapes, figures and colour energy combined and united.. Each picture has its own ’colour life. A colour scheme created with care and drawn together as each tint and hue lay side by side in specific proportions that compliments each other, as they unite the idea to the composition. Each picture generates with subtle energy radiating towards the viewer taking them towards a doorway transporting them on a spiritual journey in their unconscious mind

Colour surrounds us, it feeds, and nourishes our senses. We see it, feel it and absorb it. Our minds, bodies and spirits are profoundly affected by it. The impact of colour on us is multifarious. Each colour with its tints and hues carry their own wavelengths and frequencies that vibrant with subtle energy. Each has a specific shape and has its own attributes for healing, energizing and invigorating, calming, relaxing and for quiet reflection. As theory suggests we can also hear colour in music as each colour of the spectrum is associated with a musical note on a octave scale.

Colour in its self can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways and like our

features and ideas follow the changers of our emotions, and it may be seen in the Aura Field which surrounds us all which is a subtle universal energy pervading all of nature. It radiates within and without.

The great Master of art Vincent van Gogh writes to his brother Theo .

“ I retain from nature a certain sequence and a certain correctness in placing the tones; I study nature, so as not to do foolish things, to remain reasonable. However, I don’t mind whether my colour corresponds exactly, as long as it looks beautiful on my canvas, as beautiful as it looks in nature”

( Letter to Theo van Gogh, October 1885) .

The many forests with their winding pathways that surround us here in Berrien, Huelgoat and Lock Marie Berrien flourish with a variety of fauna and flora, natures delight in all its glory. My camera never stops clicking as I look here and there at the wonderful textures ,shapes and colours that nature has to offer. In sunshine, rain or mist it radiates with mystery and serenity. And what a beautiful offering it is.

My art is my way of expressing how I see my environment. It is my way of connecting with the beauty of nature and its beckoning invitation to mediation and contemplation. Trees, barks, roots, fungi, twigs, stones are my excuses to turn a blank canvas into a live, imaginative and vibrant picture .

I practice mediation and Hatha Yoga regularly which enables me to be feel relaxed and to have a peaceful frame of mind which releases my creative process and self awareness to gently ascend and flow with ease carrying me through a network of shapes, patterns, colours, tints, hues and time; which has no boundaries.

My figurative paintings transpire from my love for the classical and religious narratives such as Abelard and Heloise, Homer’s Odyssey, Orpheus and Eurydice , A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, The Visitation, The Flight into Egypt etc. The naïve figures in their colourful attire and unique features all make a appearance in my style of genre. And my pallet, paints and brushes are always there waiting and participating as I transfer images from thoughts to canvas.

My thoughts now drift back to the day when I first met a certain person who opened the door for me into the world of art I was walking past a Brick-a-brack shop in Wimbledon Surrey when a picture in the window caught my eye. It had a tree with flowing branches, a valley with a little village in its midst which included a church with a steeple. The moon shone bright and the sky was full of whirls and swirls and shining stars, the picture gleamed with hues and tints of blues, greens and yellows. The picture cost me fifty pence it was a print stuck on board and it was called ‘Starry Night’ and the artist was Vincent van Gogh. I was fourteen years old then and it is a very, very long time ago. From that moment on the life and work of Vincent has been my guiding star, he has motivated me ,inspired me and helped me through good times and bad times from school days to collage days and right through out my working life. And I thank him for opening that door that welcomed me to the awareness of seeing violet in the sky and for seeing turquoise in a yellow sunflower petal and for introuducing me to my hidden emotions and their creative force that lay deep with me that needed to be set free to express itself in my own creative being. And my journey still carries on.

“To Vincent from Penny”

Here I am giving Vincent a bunch of his favourite flowers. It’s the only painting that I have done, and will ever do, that is similar to Vincent’s style

“Paysage II”

It is an abstract painting inspired from one of my walks, and materialized through meditation.

If you are interested in seeing more of my work please visit my website.

My exhibitions in France have included…

La Roe Abbey—La Roe, Mayenne. –2006

Gallery Goodchild—. Renaze, Mayenne, -2006

Espace Village Plein—Angouleme, La Charente—-2007

Café L’Autre Reve— Berrien ,Brittany,–2008

Espace Gleanmoor Arts Centre– Carhaix, Brittany,–2009

Cahaix tourist and media center–Carhaix, Britany,–2009

This year for the first time I will be exhibiting at the London Contemporary Art Fair in Chelsea, London from the 4th to the 6th of June 2010. So I am now busy working on all my new ideas bringing them together so that each painting, with its own characteristics, will enhance my exhibition as a whole.

And in the mean time I would like to wish you all the pleasantries of Brittany — of the enchanting forest of Broceliande that emanates with the romance and intrigue of King Arthur’s court and the magic of Merlin. Of the hubble and bubble of the weekly village markets with the tantalizing aromas of smoked sausage, pickled herrings and fromage de Chevre. Of the festivals of Fest-Noz and a Pardon with the charming Breton ladies in their crispy white lace coiffes and embroidered dresses of pearls and ribbons and the elegant Breton gentleman in their round brimmed hats and fancy waistcoats as they dance the polka and circle dance to the rhythm of the accordion and bombard . And I wish you Wine, with ‘Moules Frites’ . And most of all I wish you Peace, Love and Light.

Penny Gardiner.

www.colourpenny.com

Word Count 1596

Please feel free to leave a comment about this article using the reply facility below. Alternatively you can discuss this article on -  www.writersinbrittany.com

Chapelle St Anne Bretagne

The countryside there is delightful. I love the small fields, surrounded by trees and bushes, with cattle, sheep, horses, and an interesting variety of crops. I also enjoyed the fact that there is so much less traffic than in England. One summer evening we went for a walk for an hour and a half and didn’t see one car! There are also many attractive small towns to visit, and Rennes is a wonderful city too, with great style and architecture.

Sainte Anne Sur Vilaine

The thing I love most about Brittany is the friendly and welcoming attitude of the Bretons. Both my holidays there were in July, and we joined some local celebrations. We went to Besle on the evening before Bastille Day, danced in the village square, talked to local people and sat by the river watching the firework display. On Bastille Day itself, we went to Chapelle de Brain for the village dinner, dancing and spectacular fireworks.

My only problem with Brittany is that I am a vegetarian and it is quite difficult to find food without meat or fish in it. But I shall definitely go there again.

Please feel free to leave a comment about this article using the reply facility below. Alternatively you can discuss this article on -  www.writersinbrittany.com

About the author: Angie Sanderson is a member of Deal Writers group in Deal, Kent. Retired now and writing. I worked in BBC TV, subtitling for Channel 4 for deaf people programmes and foreign films, then took up job as medical secretary/receptionist.

Petra The Rose Red City

To get into Petra we walked down a long path, with rocks and hills on either side. There was a gravel track to our left, with lovely Arabian horses walking gently with tourists riding them – or galloping along ridden by Bedouins. I love horses, so that was an added joy for me. Gradually the landscape changed and we started walking through a deep narrow gorge. The rock surfaces are beautiful, mainly rose coloured, with fascinating carvings, and deep channels carved into the rock to let the rain drain into storage pools so that the Nabataean people had water all year round. If you walk fast, you can get into Petra in half an hour, but we took two hours the first time, learning about the history and exhilarated by the beauty of the gorge. Sometimes it was quite lively, as some tourists ride in carriages over large stone slabs which bounce them around and make the journey quite tough!

At the end of the rift valley, we saw our first glimpse of The Treasury, lit by the sun. It is the most famous building in Petra. As we walked past it, with huge rock faces on either side, we saw more and more buildings, all carved out of the rock. That was when I began to realize that this was not just an ordinary city. As the land opened out, we found ourselves in a huge valley, with stunning tombs and buildings around us, and an amphitheatre as well. And this city had been built more than 2,000 years ago by the Nabataean people.

There was so much to see, and several ways to get there around. Walking, of course. But some of the sights are at the top of 900 steps. So the first time I wanted to climb the mountain, I decided to ride a donkey. The owner asked me if I could ride and I said “Yes, I’ve got my own horse.” So he handed me the reigns and the little brown donkey decided he wanted to win the race to the top! I thought we’d be going up a track, but we trotted up steep steps, with deep crevasses alongside them and other donkeys and people to overtake. It took 20 minutes, with the donkey’s owner running along behind trying to keep up, and it was the most exciting ride I’ve ever had. At the top, once I got my breath back, I walked to a beautiful temple and along tracks through grassland to the edge of the mountainside.

I decided to walk down. Racing a donkey up hill was fun, but I didn’t fancy coming down that way.

It gave me time as well to look at the view across the valley. When I got down, I told the donkey-man that I now wanted to ride a camel, and he pointed out his cousin with an orange head-dress on, who helped me onto his camel – and he handed me the reigns too. I’ve never ridden a camel before, but off we went and I really enjoyed it. As we started back towards The Treasury, the camel-man started running behind me whooping, so my camel started trotting and it was quite exciting. When we got there, the camel-man took a photo of me with The Treasury in the background, and the camel turned his head, looked at the camera and posed.

With memories of my racing donkey, I rode another one through the gorge to get back to the hotel. He was much calmer and very obedient. We had to avoid being run down by the horses and carriages and walking into tourists who were gazing upwards, riveted by the rock faces.

So my first visit was a day of amazing and beautiful surroundings, and fun too.

The next day, we were taken to Little Petra, which also originated more than 2,000 years ago. It’s a small village, in a narrow valley with sand coloured rocks and lots of trees and flowering shrubs. It’s where people travelling through the area were invited to stay, and all the homes were caves carved out of the rocks. One cave had a beautiful mural and painted ceiling. There were channels carved in the rocks there too, to preserve rainwater. Nearby was a valley with bright green crops, which we walked through with some Bedouin children who made us welcome. One little boy gave me a bunch of wildflowers and his sister walked with me holding my hand. At the end of the valley was an ancient ruined village, probably the oldest in Jordan.

The Treasury Petra

In the afternoon, I walked into Petra on my own. It was quite quiet that day, with very few tourists, and it was breathtaking. Literally! I walked up the 900 steps this time to find the Sacrificial Rock at the top of the mountain. When I got there (yes, I did) I stopped for a cup of tea with a Bedouin girl. Her name was Hannan. She walked with me up to the Sacrificial Rock, and the view in all directions was fabulous. You could see the buildings in Petra in one direction and the surrounding hills on the other. Then she asked me if I would like to walk with her out of the valley, not through the tourist route but around the rocks and hills. I said yes. Our guide Sammi had told us that the Bedouins had all sorts of secret ways in and out of Petra.

It was a wonderful walk, which took over an hour. We only passed one man with two donkeys, otherwise it was deserted. I climbed up and down steep rocks, with Hannan holding my hand and carrying my handbag. She found me some pretty rocks with fossilized flower patterns in them. We walked through a valley, where she often sleeps at night in the summer to save her having to walk home every night. She told me about her life. She was born in a cave, but now lives with her widowed mother and 4 younger sisters and brothers in a flat provided by the government outside Petra. She is the only one who earns money to support her family, selling jewellery to tourists. In the valley, she picked some herbs and when we got near the gate she took me to a cave where a man makes tea for the Bedouin workers and we had tea with the herbs in it. What a joyful walk.

I got back to my hotel around 5 o’clock, changed and then went into Petra again for a really special evening put on for my tour group. The track through the gorge was lit with candles on the ground, and the square in front of The Treasury was covered in a sea of candles. We all sat on rocks, spellbound. Then we heard the music begin, a pipe played by a man sitting quietly among the candles. When he finished, he walked off. Then we heard the faint sound of a violin style instrument, and a musician came out of The Treasury. It was so moving.

Then we walked right through the Petra valley again, along a candle-lit path. And we arrived at the tourist restaurant. We had a buffet dinner – and then had another surprise, a group of Bedouin musicians and dancers, all of them men. The dancing was great and I was dying to get up and join them, but I thought “No, this is a Muslim country, a lady can’t do that.” Suddenly one of the dancers came up to me, took my hand and lead me into the group. He picked out a few more of us and we all danced with the Bedouin dancers for 20 minutes.

When the evening ended, we were picked up in open-backed jeeps and were driven back to the hotel through the countryside, with spectacular stars in the sky above us.

When I got to my hotel, I lay on my bed feeling overwhelmed with the fantastic experience of those two days. And I said to myself “See Petra, and die!”

Please feel free to leave a comment about this article using the reply facility below. Alternatively you can discuss this article on -  www.writersinbrittany.com

About the author: Angie Sanderson is a member of Deal Writers group in Deal, Kent. Retired now and writing. I worked in BBC TV, subtitling for Channel 4 for deaf people programmes and foreign films, then took up job as medical secretary/receptionist.