When we first visited the Alignements de Kerzerho, we’d walked a short way down what seemed like a ancient path before being defeated by tired legs and loss of light. We vowed to return and on our last full day, we did.

First, we had some practical issues to attend to – shopping, dull stuff like that (though it did include buying kouign aman – Brittany’s justly famous buttery, caramelised pastry which, once experienced, will change your life forever. It’s like crack for gourmands).

On the way back from the shops we stopped at Les Dolmens de Rondossec in Plouharnel, and wished we hadn’t bothered. It’s another set of megaliths now crowded by modern development. I also had a problem with a low sun casting my own shadow on nearly everything I wanted to shoot. And there was the eternal problem with sweet wrappers and cigarette stubs (praise be for Photoshop’s spot healing brush and clone tool).

At Erdeven, we parked and strolled into the Kerzerho alignments, which, now familiar to us, looked even more like a neolithic playground. While not an especially auspicious place – it being robbed of its atmosphere by the nearby road – the profligate jumble of stones has an exuberant character, so it is tempting to interpret the monument not as an abasement or fearful tribute (as so much religion seems to demand) but as an expression of joyful optimism. Maybe that’s just because it was sunny.

Taking the path that winds past the Alignements de la Table du Sacrifice, Trish noticed one, smallish stone that had a hole, so that it looked like Fred Flintstone’s doughnut. It brought to mind Men-an-Tol in Cornwall, though significantly smaller (you wouldn’t be able to heal even the most scrofulous child by passing it three times through the hole). Holed stones like this are sometimes assumed to be the entrances to since-destroyed tombs, but that can’t be the case here.

The ‘randonnée’ (rambler’s) path strikes out from the Table du Sacrifice itself. As I mentioned, the first stretch takes you winding along between old, dry-stone walls covered in ivy and lichen, gnarled oak trees and ragged hedges. It is a timeless scene that one could have encountered at any time in the past thousand years. Or perhaps in Narnia, or the fantasy land of your choice.

As you proceed, the scenery changes frequently, a field here, a copse there. If you see any kind of break in the hedge, take a look. We did this and found a gaggle of standing stones, nearly buried in brambles and bracken, veiled by the broken light of the trees. There are menhirs along this path that are not marked even on the 1:25,000 scale walker’s maps. Perhaps they are simply too unremarkable for the cartographers. I found them fascinating, enduringly enigmatic.

At one point, the map simply says ‘Menh.’. This turned out to be misleading. What we found was an area not much smaller than a hockey pitch, partly camouflaged in the dappled light of trees, forming a kind of magical arena in which stood a multitude of stones. The arena was bounded by old walls and a line of stones that could have been ancient (a cromlech, in fact), medieval or 18th Century – hard to tell.

These are the Menhirs de Kerjean. Even Gabriel le Cam’s excellent and comprehensive Guide des Mégalithes du Morbihan pays them scant attention, saying little more than “you will find some stones”. There are, in fact, at least a couple of dozen, some set into the dry-stone walling. Alas, this was the one occasion where we saw an act of overt vandalism – the tag of a graffiti ‘artist’. I didn’t photograph it – I didn’t want to validate it that way.

As usual, we had the place to ourselves – in fact, it was hard to shake the feeling that we had somehow discovered it. With the bright, low sun, the autumn foliage and the complete sense of isolation, this was the most peaceful, most timeless place we visited. It was hard to leave.

After that, the footpath began to climb through glittering beech woods. Then a wide path, heading further uphill, opened up to the left. This was studded with smoothly worn rocks so that the route resembled a partly revealed Roman road. I have no idea of any of these rocks had been placed deliberately, but they certainly aided us in the climb up the slope. At the top, the path opens out into a clearing near the centre of which is a large pine tree. Huddled beneath this, as if sheltering, is a large dolmen. And there are others here, too. This is the site known as Mané-Braz (or Mané-Bras). All the dolmens show some wear and tear, but the largest is truly monumental and gives you a great appreciation for the architecture of these tombs.

With no road anywhere nearby, the only approaches being by footpaths through the woods, this is a serene spot. The dolmens, however, do command your attention. You are aware that this place belongs to them and whatever it is they signify. Trish said she found the place beautiful, but would not want to be there alone at night. However, Zola, our breton spaniel, was happy. The dolmens are above ground, bereft of their covering tumuli, and therefore light and open. He explored them without any visible qualms.

We returned the way we came, making another, brief pause at the Kerjean menhirs. The sun was getting low by the time we got to the car park and we wanted to make a final trip to the beach before heading to the gite.

This was our last day. The next morning we pointed the car for Normandy and home. The Morbihan had impressed us with its beauty and with the wealth of its megalithic heritage. And we live only a few hours away. We’ll be back.