And, indeed, what is there on which much cannot be said?
It might perhaps be Landivisian, for even the most prolix man is obliged to be concise in his remarks, when there is a lack of matter.

I have noticed that good places are usually the ugliest ones.

They are like virtuous women; one respects them, but one passes on in search of others.

Here, surely, is the most productive spot of all Brittany; the peasants are not as poor as elsewhere, the fields are properly cultivated, the colza is superb, the roads are in good condition, and it is frightfully dreary.
Cabbages, turnips, beets and an enormous quantity of potatoes, all enclosed by ditches, cover the entire country from Saint Pol de Leon to Roscoff.

They are forwarded to Brest, Rennes, and even to Havre; it is the industry of the place, and a large business is done with them.
Roscoff has a slimy beach and a narrow bay, and the surrounding sea is sprinkled with tiny black islands that rise like the backs of so many turtles.
The environs of Saint Pol are dreary and cheerless.