This is the first time I’m going on a trip by myself. With MANERA, we wanted to do something different this time around. We wanted to stay in France, show off the beauty of this land, and meet other people who are passionate about the sea, “Seafarers” like me.

I’ll be all alone, something I'd never experienced before on a MANERA trip. But when they told me I’d be meeting former lighthouse keepers and their descendants, and that I’d be discovering these historic edifices, I immediately agreed.

After all, we’re fairly similar. There are many kinds of seafarers and sailors. I’m also one, in my own way. I’m passionate about the wind and all water sports, but also about stories and everything that links us to the sea.

Nonetheless, I'm apprehensive about the solitude that awaits me for the next 10 days, even if it's always great to set off on an adventure into the unknown. Feeling alone in the world is something unique and special.

So, I leave the south of France at the beginning of April and head towards the end of the world: Finistère. Spring is just beginning to appear here, but I'm expecting tougher conditions once I arrive.

I did plan a few stops along the way. My first one is at the La Coubre Lighthouse.

Standing 64 meters high, overlooking the Bay of Bonne Anse, this lighthouse illuminates and secures access to the Gironde estuary. I meet Damien Joussemet, who has been in charge of the lighthouse since 2016.

Chance, or perhaps fate, guided him towards this lighthouse, which was somewhat unknown and neglected by the locals, who all knew it would eventually disappear. For Damien, it was love at first sight. Here, the wild coastline is changing a lot. He explains that in 125 years, 3 kilometers of coastline have already disappeared. You can see the ruins of the old lighthouse and semaphore a little further on.

Damien wanted to give this lighthouse a second life ever since he discovered it. He's very attached to this place, which he describes as “a gem that deserves to be known”. He manages the entire site and wants to enhance the lighthouse's image before the sea swallows it up. He does hope to have several more decades ahead of him.

Of course, this lighthouse is still as important as the day it was built, guiding ships. After climbing the 300 steps to the lantern, I contemplate the landscape down below and am a little taken aback by its immensity. Damien shares one of his favorite anecdotes. He points towards the “Mauvaise” sandbank, a little further offshore. This shoal has been the undoing of many boats in the past, some of which have lost their cargoes. One boat even lost its cargo of rum, so all the locals rushed to the beach to hide the barrels and come and retrieve them a few days later.

For my part, I've been trying to tame the conditions around the lighthouse, but it's complicated. The currents are strong and the wind irregular. In fact, lighthouses are perhaps the worst place in the world to kite.

I'm trying to enjoy it as much as I can because I'm all alone on the water, and that's pretty rare. I'm sailing with a superb sunset and the La Coubre lighthouse in the background. The wind is side-shore, the waves are beautiful, and the weather is almost fine. This can only bode well for the future.

The next day, a two-hour drive north takes me to the lighthouse of the Whales on the western tip of the Isle of Ré, where I am meeting up with Marc Rayneau.

As soon as I arrive, Marc is teasing me, full of humor and surprises. He's 80 years old and watched over the lighthouse for 19 years, until its automation in 2001, which he seems to regret.

We've barely started chatting when Marc confesses that he's always had a wife and a mistress. I'm so taken aback, I don't know what to say. Marc goes on, with a wry smile, to explain that his mistress is the sea. Of course it is!

“Someone asked me a few days ago, ‘Do you like lighthouses?’ Yes, but I like my wife more.”

I like him already.

The lighthouse of the Whales was first lit in 1682. The current lighthouse, 60 m high, dates back to 1854. It owes its name to the whales that used to regularly come ashore here.

Marc's whole family lives on the island. His parents were merchants, and he simply had enough of people. His two brothers-in-law were lighthouse keepers, so they suggested he do the same. Just like that, his life changed. Off to lighthouse keeper school.

He admits to me that he has never known how to swim, but of course he wasn't going to tell his superiors. As I understand it, a lot of keepers couldn't swim anyway.

He's a funny man, with a lot to say, yet also hides his hard life as a keeper. He worked in many lighthouses before returning home on the Isle of Ré.

Marc says a lot without saying too much, remaining cryptic and elusive on touchy subjects. He reveals that some guards were reported missing, but it was never clear whether they had fallen into the water by accident, or whether it was their colleague who had pushed them. In any case, he didn't see anything, but those were the rumors...

Being a lighthouse keeper, you either liked it or you didn't. Marc admits he's never been unhappy and has no regrets. He's very proud of his job and would do it all over again. In any case, lighthouses are always on his mind. He admits that, as soon as he gets back up here, at the top of the lighthouse of the Whales, he always has trouble getting back to sleep in the days that follow. He thinks about the lighthouse all the time.

“ The doctor even told me to stop looking at lighthouses because I was going to go blind! ”

I wasn’t able to ride around this lighthouse. The conditions impress me too much, especially seeing those rip currents from here. I don't want to risk it.

But there's another lighthouse on the other side of the island, the Chauveau lighthouse, which attracted me. Conditions are milder there and, thanks to today's high tide, I was able to spend a few hours in the water and enjoy the calm of this timeless place.

Nevertheless, Finistère is calling my name and there are still several hundred kilometers to go before I reach my next destination.

I miss the sun, the sky is dark. This bad weather is weighing me down and draining all my energy. It almost intimidates me. I have to admit, I don't feel comfortable.

Fortunately, I'm pulled out of my daydreams and gloomy thoughts by my meeting with Yann Quilfen, near the Bay of Douarnenez. His HQ.

Yann is the downwind pro and he wants to show me his home spot through this discipline that I haven't quite mastered yet. We just avoided a thunderstorm. It’s the perfect timing to go in the water in the midst of this lull and the few rays of sunshine that are barely breaking through the gloom.

I'm a kitesurfer at heart, but I discovered downwinding recently and I'm getting more and more used to it. The feeling of freedom, of flying above the waves, carried only by your foil and the power of the swell, is incomparable.

After this run, it's already time to head for the Millier lighthouse. This lighthouse lights up the bay of Douarnenez, where we just were. Here I meet two sisters, Jeanne-Marie and Nicole Malgorn, who grew up here. Jeanne-Marie was even born at the lighthouse.

This lighthouse is also a house, located in the commune of Beuzec-Cap-Sizun, and overlooks the sea with its lantern perched 34 m above sea level. Bernard Malgorn, Nicole and Jeanne-Marie's father, looked after it from 1945 to 1968.

Rather loquacious, Jeanne-Marie loves to share the story of their family and their father. Her older sister, Nicole, was just 3 years old when Jeanne-Marie showed up one February night in 1946. In those days, there were no telephones at home, so their father had to ride his bicycle several kilometers to the nearest telephone to call the doctor.

Laughing, Jeanne-Marie reveals that the telephone was actually installed at the lighthouse on the very afternoon of her birth. If only she had arrived a few hours later, her father could have avoided the bike trip. Those really were different times, when you think about it.

On the other hand, Nicole seems more discreet. Perhaps she's moved and nostalgic to be back in her childhood home. She recalls those years here, very happy and close to nature.

Their parents had just arrived from the island of Ouessant, but their father had already worked in several lighthouses at sea.

In the world of lighthouse keepers, it was said that some of them could experience heaven, purgatory and hell. All without ever having died.

In the jargon, lighthouses fall into three categories according to the harshness of their living conditions. Lighthouses at sea are in “hell”, those on land are in “paradise” and those on islands are in “purgatory”.

This classification also corresponded to a career progression, which often began in hell and ended in heaven.

Before Jeanne-Marie was born, Bernard had already spent more than 15 years in lighthouses at sea. So he asked to be transferred to a lighthouse on land to spend more time with his family. He was offered the Millier lighthouse, which, as Jeanne-Marie explains, had no electricity, no access road and “nothing practical”. Nevertheless, he accepted. After all, it was still paradise.

As children, the two sisters marveled at the immensity and beauty of the natural world around them, the soaring birds, the sea, the spray, the wind and the beautiful sunsets. They had a 360° view of the sea and could climb to the top of the lighthouse. In fact, they take me up there, and it's truly magnificent.

The two sisters have always been close and have a strong bond with the sea. They learned to swim when they were just beginning to walk. They remember running on the rocks below, fishing with their father every morning. It was a truly beautiful life, one they've never regretted either.

Nicole and Jeanne-Marie touched me deeply. Just goes to show, it doesn't take much to live a life full of joy and happiness, and nature has a lot to do with it.

The next day, I head for the Bay of the Dead, about twenty minutes to the west. The name alone sends a chill down my spine. There I meet up with Ian Fontaine, a pure Breton surfer who's very proud of his region. The solitude of this trip helps me refocus on myself, but I have to admit that Ian's good mood and sense of humor give me a boost of energy.

We're not far from the dangerous Raz de Sein, once known as “the cemetery” in Breton because it was a necropolis for ships before the arrival of lighthouses.

The Raz de Sein, located between the Isle of Sein and the Pointe du Raz, is a maritime passage around 8 km wide. It is a very dangerous navigation zone, due to its extremely violent tidal currents and breakers. On spring tides, the current creates a stormy sea as soon as it opposes even a moderate wind.

We sit on the rocks overlooking the bay while Ian explains that, until the 18th century, the local inhabitants made their living by pillaging the wrecks from the many shipwrecks. As a result, the people of the bay were known as wreck raiders, rather like Breton pirates.

The waves breaking below are incredible. I never thought I'd find a surf spot like this around here. It’s impossible to resist, I put on my wetsuit and grab the board Ian lends me for the occasion to quickly join him in the water. Malo Jouanneau, a local grom whom Ian has taken under his wing, has joined us and is already charging.

In my sports, I'm usually never alone for very long. I must say, it's good to meet other athletes. We surf until it gets dark. Finally, I tame this bay as best I can. Offshore, we can make out the lights of the Isle of Sein.

“Whoever sees Sein, sees its end,” as the sailors around here say. I'm not going all the way there, as sailing conditions will be too difficult over the next few days. Nor will I go as far as the hell of all hells, Ar-Men, a lighthouse that fascinates me more and more.

This morning, I wanted to try a Big Air session, but it was surely the shortest session in history: 15 minutes, including rigging, before the gendarmerie asked me to get out of the water.

Indeed, since Monday April 8, Finistère has been under an orange watch for coastal flooding, strong waves and violent winds, due to the arrival of a low-pressure system named Pierrick. Anyway, between that and all the fuss about the Raz de Sein, I'm certainly not going to get into the water!

So I set off to meet Jean-Yves Le Brun, a Breton through and through. He even introduces himself by speaking Breton. His father watched over the “The Wrass” for 19 years, a lighthouse that secures the dreaded passage of the Raz de Sein. In those days, his father spent 20 days at the lighthouse and 10 days ashore.

Despite the dangerous nature of the area, the Raz remains the shortest and safest route for ships travelling between the Atlantic coast and the English Channel. Further west, the shoals, the Isle of Sein and the reefs of the terrible Chaussée de Sein block the way for dozens of kilometers. Navigation conditions there are even more perilous.

Jean-Yves quickly explains the meaning of the name Finistère. The department of Finistère owes its name to its geographical position, as if placed at the end of the world. It takes its name from the Latin Finis Terrae (“end of the Earth, where the Earth ends”). In Breton, this area is called Penn-ar-Bed, Penn meaning “head” or “beginning” and Bed meaning “the world”.

The Vieille lighthouse took center stage in Jean-Yves' childhood and adolescence. I sense a great deal of pride in his words as he describes his father's daily life in this very special profession, which in the end was a vocation.

The job of lighthouse keeper is a fine one. It was necessary to maintain this light, indispensable to sailors at sea for their protection and survival. At the heart of the dark night, these flashes of light are a reassuring presence.

Jean-Yves takes the time to read me a few passages from his father's memoirs. It's so touching, I could stay here and listen to him all day.

His father was born near the Millier lighthouse, where he often helped the lighthouse keepers with their daily chores. He'd always been drawn to that world. But then came the Second World War and mandatory military service. His father even spent time in the stalags of Nazi Germany as a prisoner of war. He finally returned home in May 1945, before finally being able to work as a lighthouse keeper, notably at Ar-Men.

Following his father's transfer to “The Wrass”, Jean-Yves grew up around the lighthouse. At the time, there was no link between the lighthouse and the family home, more than 20 km away, except for a marine radio. And then, above all, it was used by the keepers to give news to the General Lighthouse Authority in Brest.

Nevertheless, his father, like many others, took the liberty of using the radio to give news, even though it was forbidden. The family owned a battery-powered radio, as there was no electricity in those days.

So they'd all gather around that radio at a specific time, and his dad at the lighthouse would give reassuring news. He never told them about storms, damage or other problems, so as not to worry them.

“The whole family gathered around the radio in the house's only living room and listened religiously to this voice coming from elsewhere, without ever being able to respond."

I try to imagine those times, which must have been so special, as Jean-Yves recalls more brief moments in his life.

He tells me that Henri Le Gall, the pilot of the famous relief boat La Velleda, often invited him and his mother aboard when the weather permitted, to wave to his father while he was at the lighthouse.

Jean-Yves takes me for a walk along the cliffs to the Pointe du Raz, where we see the Vieille lighthouse. So close, yet so far. You could almost touch it, but this lighthouse is still in hell. A hell “perhaps a little more clement”, as he says, but still hostile.

As a boy, he used to come here to watch the changeover of the keepers with his mother. She'd turn on the car lights, and his father, who could see them in the distance, would put a little pennant on the end of a pole to signify that all went well.

It's true that standing there, at the mercy of the elements and looking far out to sea, you really do feel alone and at the end of the world. The ocean is alive. That's the beauty of this region. Days are punctuated by its whims and lulls.

The sea is raging, the current impressive. I'd never set foot in the water here. In the distance, I can see Ar-Men and its beam of light. I'd have liked to see this legendary lighthouse up close, but I already know I'll be coming back this way eventually.

The Ar-Men lighthouse is nicknamed the “Hell of all Hells” because of its remote location, the often-extreme weather conditions — the pounding of the swell sometimes shook the whole edifice — and the danger and difficulty of relieving the keepers. Construction began in 1867 on the tiny rock of the same name at the end of the chaussée de Sein, and took 14 years, with only 8 hours of actual work in the first year.

I can't imagine what it must have been like there, stuck in the middle of storms like the one coming up. Everything must have been so intense, not to mention the noise, the cold, the humidity, the isolation and the distance from the mainland should anything go wrong.

The landscape left me in awe, stunned by the power of the elements, but also by the strength of character of the men and women who chose this life. You had to have one hell of a character to handle it all. Not just anyone could have done it.

All these stories have an impact on me. I've always hated history at school, but to learn it in this way and to take part in this duty of remembrance is really an incredible opportunity.

Storm Pierrick passed over us last night. It's time for me to head further north. I'm meeting Ian again, this time at the Petit Minou lighthouse, west of Brest.

Brittany really is like, four seasons in one day. I set off in sunshine, but by the time I reached my destination, it was raining again. This extremely changeable weather is not easy to manage. I'd been warned!

Ian explains why the lighthouse is called that. In the old days, sailors used to take a cat on board their ship to hunt mice. Before arriving in Brest, they would throw them overboard, as populating the town of Brest with cats was unthinkable. As a result, the surrounding bay, lighthouse and beach have all inherited “Minous”, “kitties” in English, in their names.

Time to get in the water! I was beginning to miss it a bit, after a few days ashore. Ian goes surfing and I go for a wing foiling session. This spot is incredible, although, like the others, it's a bit tricky to get to grips with.

Riding around lighthouses is a lot more difficult than I thought it would be. We're really in dangerous places, with very strong currents and hidden rocks depending on the tides. Still, it's an incredible and unforgettable experience.

I'd have liked to stay here longer, but I've got to get on to the Bay of Angels to catch a boat to my next destination. This trip is almost over. I have to admit that I'm looking forward to getting back to my loved ones; the solitude is weighing on me a little, despite all these encounters.

My journey in Finistère will end here, at the Virgin Island lighthouse, a purgatory. At 82.5 m, this lighthouse is the highest in Europe and the tallest ashlar lighthouse in the world. Between 1845 and 2010, more than 75 keepers watched over this 6-hectare island. They lived in total self-sufficiency, with fish, crops, sheep and a vegetable garden at their disposal.

Jean-Yves Le Bars knew life on this island, but he probably has known everything in the region. He used to help out on numerous lighthouses and tells me he's been to all the ones that are at sea. Even the Hell of all Hells.

In theory, we only have a few hours with him, but I already have a feeling it's going to take longer than expected. Jean-Yves loves to talk and reminisce about this cherished period in his life.

He seems almost unruffled, relaxed, as he tells me stories of helicopter rescues, evacuations, or of seas breaking inside the lighthouse during storms.

“Lighthouses at sea, you never know when you're going, or when you're leaving. And then, you say to yourself, the lighthouse has seen some things, it will certainly handle a lot more... Sure, the structure moved a bit sometimes, but you’d get used to it, and anyways you shouldn't think about it too much.”

He moves from one anecdote to the next so quickly that I almost lose track. Behind this big fellow lies a hardened man, who has surely been through hell: “Lighthouses at sea in isolation, it deforms the character and the spirit.”

But he too, like Marc, was saddened when automation arrived. Of course, he wasn't against it, especially for those lighthouses where living conditions were harsh. But I can tell he is nostalgic for those bygone days. Perhaps it's also sad to know that some of these lighthouses are now left to their own devices, and no one goes inside anymore.

While we're chatting, Jean-Yves is cooking a Far Breton, a traditional Breton dessert. He's a “bon vivant”, and explains that food was an important aspect of lighthouse life.

But now he's telling me he's cooking me a Far Breton in the oven (four in French) of the lighthouse (phare), just as he used to do in the oven (four) from the brand Far at the Four lighthouse in the nearby Four channel. I know there’s a joke in there, but he’s really lost me!

Anyway, the Far is delicious. That's what matters, isn't it? As he says, happiness really is on the plate.

It's time for Jean-Yves to go home. I spend the night on the island, but manage to get in a little kite foil session before the sun sets completely. This lighthouse is even more impressive when seen from the sea, standing so tall amidst the omnipresent greyness and mist.

The night I spent here gave me a small taste of what life as a keeper could be like, although I'm aware I’m enjoying much more modern conditions. I have to admit that I wasn't expecting all this noise. It's hard to get to sleep with all that whistling going on. I admire even more those keepers who had to put up with it for weeks on end without any respite.

Unfortunately, I already have to leave Finistère and its magnificent, rugged coastline. I end my journey by the Mediterranean, at the Espiguette lighthouse near Le Grau-du-Roi.

Standing in the middle of the dunes, this lighthouse was lit for the first time in 1869, but it has faced the opposite problem to the Coubre lighthouse. Originally 155 m from the sea, the Espiguette lighthouse is now more than 700 m from the shore due to coastal accretion. It is destined to end up in the middle of the dune landscape, far from the sea.

Florine Escot oversees the Espiguette lighthouse and takes great pride in bringing the place to life. She explains that this is the third generation. First there was a fire tower near Aigues-Mortes, which gradually moved away from the sea. Then, a lighthouse at Grau-du-Roi was built as the fishing port developed but proved to be too low.

So, in 1869, the Espiguette lighthouse finally lit up to signal the sandbanks. But we're not far from the Rhône delta, so we're in an accretion zone. The beach is getting fatter, so the lighthouse in turn is moving further and further away from the sea.

The last keeper left in 2005. The lighthouse had already been automated, but she clung on and didn't want to leave. In fact, she returns regularly.

I've often ridden at this spot, but today the conditions aren't great. So I take a stroll through the dunes and along the immense sandy beach, which just keeps getting bigger and bigger.

The trip is over, the southern sun warms me up. My presence around these historic sentinels was ephemeral, but I came out different. In the end, perhaps I needed these moments of solitude, calm and introspection. I needed to come face to face with the sea, but also with myself.

In every lighthouse, there are people and stories.

I've learned a lot in the last few days. I've met some incredible people who have given me a real insight into the life of a lighthouse keeper. One thing's for sure, I wouldn't have wanted to be in their shoes.

In any case, whether it's heaven or hell, the sea represents freedom. It belongs to no one, not to a sailor, not to an athlete, not to a guardian. For us seafarers, it's simply our lifeline.