CRAC'H

Today, we'll travel to northwestern France, to the tiny town of Crac'h in Brittany—a place better known for its atmosphere than for its grand attractions. Here, rivers, tides, and inland landscapes meet silently and naturally, as if everything has learned to coexist without haste. Crac'h doesn't impose itself. It allows itself to be discovered.

And perhaps that's exactly what sparked in me the desire to experience the essence of this place. On a temporary accommodation rental website, I searched for a house that would make me feel, even if only for a few days, like a true Breton. That's how I rented a stone house.

They seem to sprout from the landscape itself. A legacy of traditional rural architecture, they transcend time without being confined by it. Carefully restored and adapted to contemporary life, they continue to keep pace with the city's slow rhythm, coexisting with nature without attempting to dominate it. Living in one of them changes the way you appreciate the day.

I confess: it was one of the most beautiful experiences I've ever had. Perhaps because, there, everything happens at the right time—including the way we transform without realizing it. The charming house is located in the center of town, facing the church, like a delicate fairytale setting. On the living room windowsill, Baloo and Suki curiously observe the tranquil—and almost rare—coming and going of people, as if watching time pass without haste.

While the cats rested peacefully in the comfort of the house, it was my dog Scott who followed me to explore life outside. Our first stop was the Carnac Alignments. Scattered among fields and paths, those large, upright stones—the menhirs — stand out exuberantly, asking for no explanation or context. Originating in the Neolithic period, around 5000 BC, they have traversed the centuries with silent respect, as one of the most striking presences in this region of Morbihan, where the past never seems distant.

Walking among them is almost a moving meditation. Steps slow, thoughts calm, and the silence ceases to be emptiness, becoming instead a companion. There, respect is learned without being explained.

In this region, simply traveling along the bucolic and narrow roads is entertainment in itself. Stops for photos happen almost without warning—it's impossible not to surrender to the scenery that unfolds at every turn, like successive small discoveries. We couldn't leave out Quiberon and its majestic bay. There, a lunch break transforms into contemplation: the aroma escaping from the restaurants mingles with the scent of the salty breeze, while the cool wind colors my face with a rosy hue. In the tranquility of this suspended moment, everything invites one to appreciate what is most typical—a mug of cider and a gaze lost on the horizon. And when the time finally proved opportune, Scott ran freely along the sandy beach, as if that immensity were, for a few moments, his alone.

I walked leisurely through the streets of Auray until a storm surprised us along the way. It was there that we took refuge in a pub, hot chocolate in hand, watching the gentle swaying of the boats in the port of Saint-Goustan through the window. Outside, the rain set the pace; inside, everything slowed down. My faithful companion, his health failing and his heart beating its last beats, took advantage of that shelter for a restorative nap.

It's among the local businesses that I truly find myself. A little chat with the shopkeepers nourishes one for the rest of their lives. Preparing dinner at home has become a ritual—Baloo and Suki wandering among utensils and pots, bringing lightness and life to the end of the day. In the bags, still-warm bread from the family bakery, fruits and vegetables from the local farmer, simple choices that carry stories. A local wine accompanies everything, without ceremony, but with intention.

It's not about denying the need for large supermarket chains, but about recognizing the privilege of escaping that flow and experiencing food made in small batches, full of original flavor and free of pesticides. Everything takes on a more meaningful meaning. I appreciate these gestures with a certain solemnity. For me, these are the small pleasures of life—those that don't make a fuss, but remain.

The following morning, upon waking and opening the window, I found a street market right there on our doorstep. As if everything had been carefully orchestrated to enhance our brief stay, a fish stall was set up precisely before the watchful eyes of my cats. They intensely inhaled the aromas, almost driven mad, their eyes fixed on the food and their mouths watering at every movement. To their delight, for lunch, we had a white whiting—simple, fresh, and utterly irresistible.

It was on one of those days that Crac'h marked me in a way I will never forget. Outside, the biting cold and intense rain made everything even cozier. I retreated to my room, book in hand and flannel pajamas in hand. Suki and Scott were there with me, sharing the warmth under the covers. At some point, I heard my husband ask from downstairs: " Is Baloo there with you?"

It only took fractions of a second for the weight of that question to sink in. Due to carelessness, the front door hadn't been properly locked. It opened. And Baloo—without a collar or identification tag—had escaped.

The blood seemed to drain from my veins. The ground gave way beneath me. Absolute panic gripped me, unlike anything I had ever felt before. I desperately searched the house, room by room, while my husband rummaged through the garden and yard, which were shrouded in darkness. My tears streamed uncontrollably, and my whole body trembled.

I can't say how long it lasted—I only know it seemed far too long. Armed only with the light from our cell phones, we continued searching relentlessly. Until, suddenly, we spotted him on the neighbor's property: small, motionless, with the frightened look of someone who had gotten lost. My husband jumped over the fence without thinking about laws, rules, or consequences. He simply picked him up.

At that moment, the world returned to its normal rotation. Baloo was safe. I learned then that some scares only serve to remind us of the magnitude of the unconditional love we feel for these vulnerable beings.

But Crac'h still held another important milestone in our history. Scott silently warned us that his days with us were drawing to a close. At the same time, an exhausting legal battle began, lasting almost six months, against the airline that refused to bring him back to Brazil with us. Lawyers in France and Brazil, countless attempts, months of uncertainty and fear. We moved mountains. But there was one certainty that was non-negotiable: no one would board without him. Either we all traveled together, or no one would travel.

On a simple evening, while we were eating soup prepared by a neighborhood rotisserie—the cats lying on the table and Scott settled in his beanbag beside us—the phone rang. On the other end of the line, our lawyer's voice was different, contagious. The judge had granted the long-awaited injunction. Scott could return with us, safely, in the airplane cabin.

At that moment, I understood that love is resilience. And that some places don't enter our story by chance—they enter because they witness, alongside us, things we will never forget.

Stops at the local cafes become almost obligatory. In Rochefort-en-Terre, medieval-style establishments surprise with windows overflowing with delicious treats. In one of them, I find a generous selection of homemade vegan cookies. The owner, proudly, carefully explains the ingredients and the particularities of each recipe. I take several home. And, to keep the memory of these precious moments, I also end up bringing back a pair of cups made by a local artisan.

In this corner of the world, animals manifest themselves discreetly. They are there, but they follow their own rhythm, their own distance, their own autonomy. And that, too, is coexistence. Not everything needs to be documented. Herons and migratory birds follow the movement of the tides, while the vibrant underwater life sustains the balance of the ecosystem. In the surrounding fields, cows and horses walk without haste, and the more reserved fauna reveals itself only in traces—a sudden flight, a quick movement through the vegetation. These are not encounters that demand recording, but presences that invite observation and respect.

Far from the logic of rampant consumerism, this everyday simplicity seems to protect what is essential. Perhaps it is precisely in this way of life—so distant from the excess that marks the capitalist world—that balance is maintained. Less urgency, less accumulation, less interference. In this preserved space, animals continue to exist with dignity, as do the places they inhabit.

Consulting and Review: Arthur Barbosa.