Brittany, a land of livestock farming

1

Gwendal, standing in the farmyard, hears a vehicle approaching along the lane in the distance.

It is surely the delivery of the new cow his partner, Louane, is expecting.

It is a Holstein—a German breed she already keeps in her herd.

Next week, she is due to receive two Swedish Red cows.

For now, Gwendal calls out to Louane to let her know of the arrival; she is busy making crêpe batter for an afternoon snack.

The young couple’s lives have changed radically over the past year or so.

Gwendal had to take over the family farm much sooner than planned after his parents tragically died in a car accident during a rare holiday in Spain.

Louane is a midwife. She used to work at the only public hospital in this part of southern Brittany.

Unfortunately, the small maternity unit it housed was closed by order of the Regional Health Agency (ARS).

There were no longer enough births in the area, where holiday homes—driven by the proximity to the coast—have displaced local village life.

Locals, especially young people, can no longer afford housing due to the dramatic rise in property prices fueled by wealthy city dwellers.

Louane had not been keen on the idea of Gwendal taking over the small family farm, given that he was a trained roofer.

As the daughter of farmers herself, she knew all too well the harsh reality of farm life and the meager income it yields.

However, since she lost her job just weeks after Gwendal’s parents died, she was the one who ultimately proposed an alternative to her partner.

For Louane, the idea took root during an outing to the coast.

To take their minds off things at the start of summer, they decided to spend the day at the beach—located just 15 kilometers from the farmhouse where Gwendal had renovated a sheepfold for them to live in when they first became a couple.

Even though it was only late June, the young couple was struck by the number of vacationers already crowding this stretch of the southern Brittany coast, a destination that was becoming increasingly popular.

It was a diverse mix of Parisians and people from Nantes, clearly alongside many foreigners—notably Germans, the British, and Belgians.

The young couple wasn't used to frequenting the beach and felt almost like intruders on their own home turf.

Business was booming, with numerous restaurants and shops along the seafront, but prices were steep—something the couple realized when they decided to treat themselves to ice cream and found the cost exorbitant.

They both chose cones with two scoops of salted-butter caramel ice cream; according to the vendor’s signage, the ingredients were entirely local—the milk was Breton, and the salt in the caramel came from the Guérande salt marshes in southern Brittany.

Yet, the ice creams cost seven euros each.

They bought them anyway, though Gwendal couldn't help but recall that he was paid only 44 cents per liter for the farm milk he produced.

He would have to produce nearly 30 liters of milk just so he and Louane could afford an ice cream by the sea!

Back on the beach, while Gwendal went for a swim, Louane watched a group of German tourists who had spread out their towels a few meters away.

Four young women—likely students—were sunbathing and chatting.

Louane noticed that everything about them suggested they were wealthy, despite their youth: from their swimsuits and sunglasses to their beach bags—which were certainly the latest fashion, even if they weren't quite to Louane's taste.

It is these tourists, then, who are snapping up coastal homes and driving away the locals—especially the young people.

Louane clearly grasps that they are the reason her maternity ward is closing, as local young parents lack the financial means of these wealthy tourists.

There is certainly no shortage of tourists like the four young German women on the beach, where English, German, or Swedish are spoken more often than French—let alone Breton, a language now spoken only by the elderly.

While the trip to the beach was pleasant, it came as a rude awakening for Louane, and to a lesser extent, for Gwendal.

Now unemployed, the young woman took some time over the following days to do a little online research, aiming to confirm the idea that had taken root in her mind. Feeling fairly confident about the matter, she decided to bring it up with Gwendal one evening at dinner.

Louane: "Gwendal, remind me—what rate does the cooperative pay for your cows' milk?"

Gwendal, slightly surprised by the question, replied: "Between 43 and 46 cents a liter, depending on the week."

Louane: "You're not getting a good deal; I found a cooperative that buys milk for 80 euros a liter—though probably not from the breed of cows in your current herd."

Lo?c is a 25-year-old sailing instructor.

Like every morning in early August, he checks the catamarans lined up on the quay of this small Breton port, ready to be launched.

This week, he is teaching an advanced course to young adults aged 18 to 22.

The small fishing port now hosts only a few coastal fishing boats—including the one belonging to Lo?c’s father.

In just a few years, Saint-Gwénolé has become a popular tourist destination, thanks to its wide beaches—a rarity in Brittany, where the coastline is generally quite rocky.

Lo?c has no intention of taking over his father’s business; instead, he uses his knowledge of the sea to teach sailing and fund his studies.

His true passion is music—specifically rock—which he plays in a band with friends, performing at numerous village festivals across Brittany.

Since childhood, Lo?c has watched tourists flock to the shores of his native Brittany, not only every summer but increasingly during the off-season as well.

In a way, he takes the opportunity to teach sailing, yet he remains somewhat taken aback by the tourism that slightly alters the peaceful atmosphere of his homeland.

Tourists in Brittany tend to be a bit more respectful of the area than the mass tourism seen on the French Riviera or in Spain, but Lo?c wonders if this will last; he fears that the trend toward mass tourism could quickly lead to the same negative consequences here that have been observed elsewhere.

For now, on this first day of the week, he is about to meet the students for a course running until Friday—or even Saturday for those wishing to take part in the regatta organized by the sailing club.

There will be five two-person crews, each on a catamaran, while Lo?c follows in a rigid-hulled inflatable boat (RIB) to guide them on the water.

He often has foreign students in his classes because he speaks excellent English—a fact highlighted in his profile on the sailing school’s website.

This week, the morning session includes a crew of two British students and another of two Swedish women—making for two English-speaking boats—while the remaining three boats carry French students: one crew of boys, one of girls, and a mixed crew consisting of a male and female cousin.

Everyone is on time, which is a good start.

Lo?c realizes they are all students when he asks them to introduce themselves.

Since the French participants all speak English quite well, Lo?c suggests conducting the course in English to foster group cohesion; everyone agrees, much to the delight of the English and Swedish participants.

After a brief briefing—since none of them are beginners—the students put on life jackets and divide up the boats before launching them under Lo?c’s supervision.

They quickly hoist the sails and exit the harbor without a hitch.

Lo?c issues the sailing instructions. The goal for this first morning is to locate the main buoys in the bay.

He moves from boat to boat in his RIB to check that everything is going smoothly and offer a few tips on sail trimming.

He switches back to French for certain technical terms that aren't in his French students' vocabulary.

The students are pleasant enough; in Lo?c’s experience, tourists who sail for leisure are generally friendly.

The two Swedish women are more reserved—perhaps a bit intimidated on this first day.

The morning flies by, and Lo?c soon signals the crews to head back to the harbor.

Each pair hauls their boat up onto the jetty.

After a brief debriefing with each crew, the students leave the sailing center, ready to return the next morning.

For Lo?c, it is time to grab lunch with his colleagues before the afternoon sessions begin.

The farm Gwendal inherited from his parents is typical of French agriculture.

It is a small farm combining cereal crops and cattle rearing, with the crops grown primarily to feed the livestock.

As there is no local tradition of cheesemaking, the milk is not processed into cheese to generate added value.

Although the milk is of high quality, it is sold raw to large Breton cooperatives, which process it industrially and reap the profits.

However, the farm has a unique feature: a vast cellar that was used to grow mushrooms back in Gwendal’s grandparents' day—a practice his father abandoned, finding it less appealing than working the land.

It was this feature that convinced Louane to pursue her plan to transform the farm.

After giving the project careful thought—and following a somewhat traumatic day at the beach—she explained her idea to Gwendal in these words:

Louane: "80 euros is the minimum price human milk banks pay per liter for the breast milk they need for neonatal units, and they face regular shortages."

Gwendal: "I hear you, but if you’re talking about selling your own milk when you’re pregnant, that’s not going to be enough for us to make a living."

Louane: "Not *my* milk, Gwendal—milk from your future herd. We saw four fine German cows on the beach this afternoon. We’d just need to get them into production; each one can produce an average of 750 ml of milk a day, generating 60 euros in daily revenue per head. Your current herd averages 9,

000 liters per cow per year. At 45 cents a liter, that’s 11 euros in daily revenue—nearly six times less—not to mention the much higher feed costs associated with your current breed."