When I finally leave Dinan, at 11am, after finding Tiphaine (at least I think it was her), I realise I have a long day on the road ahead. Not because it is that far, more because there are so many places to visit - the young Lawrence cycled to four sites on this stretch in 1906 – some Roman ruins, a small castle, a tourist town and then a more significant castle. For most of these he was accompanied by his friend CFC Beeson, known as ‘Scroggs’, also 17, but he came back in 1907 when he had his father’s camera. And after the second castle I can look forward to a long stretch towards Lamballe. The day’s gps route is an almighty squiggle.
Off I set, progress now punctuated by commentary from the cheery voice on the Headwater app. It takes me south, initially along the River Rance and then west, straight up hill onto high ground, where the country lanes link villages through rolling scapes of agricultural land. The fields are given over to onions, potatoes and wheat.
These uplands are also criss-crossed by larger roads intersecting at round-abouts - the arteries and ganglions of modern communications. I find myself steered onto them for a few hundred metres and then released back into the soporific, sunny farmland buzzing with insects.
The rhythm of pedalling over this relatively flat ground, the sense of movement and light adventure, and the warm weather and pretty landscape put me into a ruminative state. My mind ranges over all sorts of subjects as I take in the surroundings. It’s fantastic, this. I realise how much I am enjoying myself.
The road dives into a dell; around me woods collect and mossy banks, a subterranean green hangs in the air, then an embrasure of roadside bracken. I climb again into an apple orchard, which gives way to the fields once more.
Cycling is a good way to get around. It covers the ground faster than walking, but it doesn’t involve finding a place to park your car if you spot something of interest. I find myself stopping to investigate things quite often; here a petanque court where petanque is not permitted (I believe it is for wooden rather than metal balls); there a grain mill; then a… well, what is it, a water tower? A windmill tower?
But then I realise that I am stopping at every old-looking wall, so I get a little bit more sceptical.
My first destination is a small town called Corseul, which entails leaving the designated route, to the anxiety of the guide on the app, who tries and tries to keep me straight. ‘At the next junctions, turn around….’, she squeaks, but I’m ruthless, me, and I just won’t do what she says.
The reason for the young Lawrence’s visit to Corseul was a Roman temple dedicated to Mars. He describes how he locates it.
“The ruins are down a by-road with poor surface, and many turns. Although we did not know if we were on the right track, and had no directions, still I walked straight to it. My bump of locality must be enormous.”
Not so mine... Bump of Locality was a well-used expression, though phrenology, the study of the outside of the skull to predict character and mental capacity of the brain within, was regarded as pretty silly even in Lawrence’s time. I arrive in Corseul from an unexpected direction, and when I see signs referring to a Roman archeological site, I ride down for a look.
Just off the main road, two lines of Roman columns run along a central gravel street flanked with the foundation stones of ancient walls. They contained a market place, warehouses and workshops and a basilica. The settlement survived for 300 years, from the start of the First Century AD till a fire destroyed it at the end of the Third Century. The Romans called the place Civitas Fanum Martis after the temple, but the settlement had been there since the Bronze Age. Known as Kersaout, it was the capital of the local Celtic tribe who went by the delightful name the Curiosolites.
A quick search on line tells you that the Latin curiositam meant a ‘desire for knowledge and inquisitiveness’ and its parallel adjective curiosus meant ‘careful, diligent, eagerly inquiring’ and a little less positively ‘meddlesome’. What a fantastic way to be remembered after two thousand years. Apparently the town’s folk of Corseul are still called Curiosolites…
But I see no temple. I re-read the young Lawrence’s letter and realise that this cannot be the right place at all. Turns out that the Temple of Mars is a couple of kilometres away. In my efforts to keep off the main road, I eventually arrive along a farm track. A wall rises above me, which the young Lawrence describes:
“The ruins comprise three sides of a hexagon, and are about 40 feet high. The walls, about 4 feet thick, are built of stone, with a lavish amount of mortar, and a slight admixture of Roman brick. The ground all round is strewn with pieces of brick and tile.”
It has been cleared up since he visited a century ago, and it is considered important enough for a school visit - as I arrive I momentarily become a curiosity for a bunch of 15 year olds on an outside study day (well, it is sunny and nearly the end of the school year…). They’re sitting on a nice section of mown grass, supposedly concentrating on something.
Sadluy it still feels a little lifeless. It is just three walls and the foundations of the courtyard and cloisters.
However, in the same way as the young Lawrence, I am taken by the fabric of the walls, which are cubes of stone. I remind myself that I do not know enough. Were they there to contain plaster, or were they decoration in themselves?
“The facing of the ruins of the walls is formed of small blocks of stone, each exactly a cube, and laid with the most precise mathematical certainty. The courses are perfectly level, and the whole is more level than a brick house or a chess board. The blocks are about half an inch apart and the total effect is excellent. I will try to get a photo of it next time I visit it.”
Quite so, I think, though in my case I can whip out my cell phone and snap away happily then and there. I don’t think he ever did return to photograph it.
