17th May 1977...

Brieg Keravel, a young man of 23, was sitting under an old broad-trunked oak, watching the sea behind the houses. He had a leaf on palm of his hand, he stared on it again and still he couldn't belive what has happened. First there is a germ. A tiny little germ with almost no colour, meaning one unimportant nothing in this whole wide world. But when light reaches this speck, it starts to grow. It gets bigger and bigger and when you have a good fertile soil it then becomes a tree. Too small to be seen at first but when the years go on it gets older, it strengthens and grows so that then you can sit under it, protect yourself from heavy rain and hold a leaf so that it covers your whole palm.
The oak will drop its acorns and so many other germs will apear on ground, each one bringing a new start of something that has already started many ages ago. Each one will grow and get stronger and then there will be plenty of them - maybe that's the case now. He hoped so.
He believed that today's events will once change lives to all of the entire "Bretagne region" But maybe it's too late. Surely too late for him. He was nearly going to cry when he looked back to what they've done to him as well as to all the other childred of mother Brittany. They've learned him French...

Once...

Once, there was no king. But then the king came and brought a realm and law. Everything had its rules and traditions just like the tides of Atlantic - coming every day in the same time for thousands of years, as regular as leaves that know exactly when to fall and land on ground to make autumn. But the king has gone and with him his realm and his law. Since then all the rules and laws come from Paris, a great powerful city that wants to kill this small region, its culture and its language. But there is one thing that can never be taken away and killed - its honour. "Potius mori quam foedari" - that's what would every Breton tell to you. "Better to die than to lose honour..." The wind from Atlantic blows hard but the wind from the other side - Paris used to blow much much harder... And the leaves still fall onto the groud, and the tides still beat the coast.

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