LOTS OF QUESTIONS!”
One of the most curious monuments of the forest stands on the moor of the Cherry Tree, which are shared by the municipalities of Tréhorenteuc and Néant-sur-Yvel. An archaeological site with a rare shape in Brittany, a long quadrilateral. Archaeologists know that it has been modified several times. At one time, it was used as a tomb, but was that its original purpose? It re-emerged from the undergrowth that had engulfed it during excavations carried out in the 1980s, but its legends had not disappeared. The first one? Monks who were a little bit bawdy, a little bit (too) drunk, petrified on the spot by a wrathful God. A rather classic case all in all!
The cursed hunt
The second? In the days when Saint Méen was running his abbey, Lord Gastern ruled over Tréhorenteuc and its surroundings. One would hardly have found a more cruel, joyful, impious and violent man than him. And as misfortune never comes alone, he was surrounded by a band of mercenaries with equally sordid morals. Gastern’s nephew, a monk under Saint Méen, was trying to bring some light into this darkness. His uncle only laughed at his efforts. But when the young man begged him to attend All Saints’ Day vespers at Tréhorenteuc, Gastern let out a loud roar of anger. I will not go and sing among your sparrows,” he shouted, “I will not bow before your cross. Like my ancestors, I am the terror of those who live on my land; tomorrow I will hunt! Woe to men, women and any game that crosses my path. Sing to me if you will, and pray to your god that is so weak!”
The Woe of the Wicked
All day long on All Saints’ Day, the barking of dogs resounded across the ridges and valleys, the moors and the woods. From Tréhorenteuc, one could hear the horns sounding, the men howling and the horses neighing. But when the parishioners came out of vespers, a deep silence overwhelmed the moors and the forest. No light shone behind the windows of the manor. The night had ended up veiling the ridges with shadows and thick mists. The hunt had not returned.
It took a lot of courage for the peasants to climb the hill, armed with pitchforks, axes and pitch torches. On the part of the moor where men who were long forgotten, had buried their dead, they hesitated. Who would dare to venture there during the night of all spirits? Surely ghosts were on the lookout for them, and perhaps worse. The priest, fearing the breath of the ancient gods, revived the ardor of his troops. They did not have to march for long. Where they had last heard the hunt, among the gorse and birch trees, now stood a great rectangle of red and white stones. They shone faintly under the moonlight, some of them dripping with moisture. Was it the evening mist or tears of the cursed? All had understood the drama, the wrath of the sky had struck the entire hunt: dogs, horses, men were there, petrified into stone for eternity ”…
Text written by Claudine GLOT, Centre de l’imaginaire Arthurien (CIA)