Rusty Old Cars . . .

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What is it about rusty old cars that appeals so strongly to many of us ? Is it a nostalgia thing ? Romantic echos of a bygone age ? Is it the unforgettable memories for those who lost their virginity in the back seats of behemoths like these ? Old cars, like old people, reach a point where they just aren't ever going to go any further. Not a mile more. Too many parts have failed. Rust too far gone to ever be cured by a quick treatment of rust remover and a fresh coat of paint to gloss things over. The end of the road. The end, period. And yet, their abandoned bodies call to us still, from the side yards of dilapidated old garages on backwater roads. Still something profoundly beautiful in their fading carcasses.
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Saw these aging beauties on a trip to Pennsylvania a couple of years ago. On automobile license plates in that state they used to print a slogan on the edges of the plates that said, in poor grammar, "You've got a friend in Pennsylvania". When I found these old darlings not far from the Susquehanna River, I couldn't have agreed with them more.
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Battered Old Boats . . .

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One aspect of exploring in Brittany that I particularly love is the possibility of finding old battered boats that have been abandoned on obscure and rarely visited stretches of beach, and left to disintegrate slowly over the years until they disappear entirely. I have not been blogging much of late as I've been out scouring the Brittany coasts looking for such hidden treasures. (And I apologize for not responding to your wonderful comments... but beachcombing while on vacation is taking up all of my time... well, almost all, some quiet time with family and friends has also been occurring.)
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Few subjects of photography move me as much as the poetry of an abandoned boat which will sail no more forever. The layers of paint applied painstakingly over the years to keep them seaworthy and beautiful to behold, which now are wearing off in the weather, flaking, fading, falling, create works of art (in my humble opinion) which grand masters of the abstract would have a hard time rivaling. When I find such subjects I make dozens of photographs, as the reality of wood and nails and caulk and paint will not last for long. If I had more space at home I would probably have a whole yard full of such relics, and maybe one in the living room. May you enjoy seeing these images of battered boats as much as I did creating them.
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Take Me Down to the Sea Again . . . to Sail in a Ship of Dreams . . .

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...The Lost Lady of Locquénolé
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How many times did we run out to sea
Out to the British Channel
Descending the Bay of Morlaix
So early in the morning
With the tide just starting to turn
And every time we motored by
The Chateau du Taureau in the fog
That fort out on a cold rock
In the middle of the bay
I swore I heard the ghosts of prisoners calling
Those who drowned while trying to swim
From that accursed jail out on the wide water
Where chill currents could drag a man under
Never to be seen again in this world
Those prisoners from fine families of old
Who had found no useful place in life
And turned to gambling and liquor and gold
Or maybe those ghostly cries were from
The souls of 114 men who drowned
When the Alcide went down in 1747
Two days before Christmas
The bay is full of hungry water and cold bones
Yet we motored on out to sea
Time and time again
Day after day, year after year
In fog and all sorts of weather
Reading the compass bearing due north
Heading for open water
Seeking the spots where the sea bass rise
Pulling up traps full of lobster and crabs
Dreaming of mackerel while mending the motor
Some days simply just drifting
Watching the wind play on the waves
Our faces weathered by salted spray
But nothing lasts forever
We grew old and grey
Feebled and hobbled
Our lady put to sea no more
There she lies tied to the shore
For years she'd float when the tide came in
But now she floats no longer
Graffiti grafted on her sides
Perhaps the ultimate insult
Time's cruel work persistant
Broke open her joints, splintered her planks
Before long there will be naught but the engine block
Rusting away in the mud and the flood
And the dream of a seagoing lady
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The photos above were taken in 2008. The hull was still fairly well intact, I don't know if she could have been restored from that state, but perhaps at least salvaged to sit on dry land to be admired for some years to come. But that was not to be, and this past summer I took the following photos as she lay split open and filled with water with every high tide. She will surely soon disintegrate. From dust to dust.
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Of Weathered Wood and 'bandoned Boats . . .

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What is it about peeling paint on the weather-beaten wood of ancient boats, many of whom will go down to the sea no more, left to their resting, rusting places in the mud of estuaries, which touches the heart just so ? Dreams of catching fish and crabs, hauling up the elusive lobster, landings in distant ports, pirates and pirogues, folk songs singing of cockles and mussels alive alive-oh, to be walking after Molly Malone, buying her fish to take home with a pint of ale for supper, smoking a pipe by the fire after. The memories of poems written or unwritten that permeate those planks, punctuated by a rusting nail, a corroded band of brass that bears the breath of salt mists and gossips of shrieking gulls, why does weathered wood conjure up such visions ? I shall not wax so prolific as a Melville or a Coleridge, with his rhymes of rime, I shall leave you to whatever rêveries these images may evoke.
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("Rêverie", what a lovely word... my French dictionary defines it thus : "Etat de l'esprit qui s'abandonne à des idées, des images vagues". A state of mind which abandons itself to ideas and vague images. But in French, "vague" as an adjective means vague or uncertain, imprecise, but as a noun, it means "a wave", as in waves on the ocean... so "images vagues" becomes images of waves...) I leave you to these images...
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Ah, after that little escape, that escapade on the vast seas of dreams, would you care to join me on board for a cup of fresh brewed coffee, ground from beans brought back in canvas bags from distant islands ? Do pull up a spot on the bench here, have a cuppa, and tell me where you've been off to.
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Ancient Mariners Sleep Deep . . .

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Way back in October of 2009, barely a year into this blogging adventure, I did two posts (which you can see here if you click and then scroll down the page to October 13th) about a pair of fishing vessels, the Pen an Dour and the Etoile du Berger, which had been tied up at a quai in the Morlaix, Brittany harbor, and left there to sleep the deep sleep of the abandoned, the forgotten, the neglected, the unwanted, the past. They had been painted green and red, but by then their once splendid paint had begun to peel and flake, like the skin of a bad sunburn case. Some months later I learned, to my regret, that they had been removed from the Morlaix harbor, and sent to a destination unknown, where they would surely finish their days.
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This past Monday, while out in Brittany again for a few days, la Grenouille wanted to go for a seaside walk, so we set out for a hike up a remote stretch of coast we hadn't ever walked before. After two hours of fairly strenuous, but glorious, walking, in unseasonably warm sunshine, on the outskirts of one of the tiny villages that dot the coastline in those parts, we came across another pair of red and green abandoned fishing ships. For a moment I thought we had found the final resting place of the two that had been towed out of the Morlaix River, but I quickly realized these were larger vessels, not the same ones at all.
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There was no good reason I should have found these two ancient mariners, the Kalinka (red) and the Etreom (green). We were simply out for a walk on a lovely Spring afternoon. But as you can well imagine, I'm not one to let an opportunity like that pass, and as I just happened to have my camera in my rucksack, while la Grenouille soaked up some sunrays while sitting on a stone wall, I scrambled down the embankment into the mud of the low tide flats there, and went to take a closer look. A much closer look. How could I resist ? The beauty of peeling layers of paint and rusting marine metalwork held me mesmerized for quite a little while. The photos below are just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. I submit these for your consideration. More will follow, should you be so rash as to encourage me to further folly. Anchors aweigh !
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Immatriculations MX317516 and MX300088
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