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.

This was the day Trish dubbed me ‘Megalith Man’ – a superhero with all the special powers of … a rock. Oh well…

We started early with a drive to Locmariaquer, situated on a small peninsula that frames the west side of the Gulf of Morbihan. Our objective was one of the most famous sites of the region – indeed, one of the most famous megaliths in the world – Le Grand Menhir Brisé. ‘Big Broken Stone’ might not sound like much of an attraction – DisneyWorld doesn’t have a great deal to worry about – but there is a certain magnificence to the idea of stone age man raising a 280-tonne, 20-metre high stone. Whatever they were celebrating, they obviously felt it deeply.

Of course, it was shut. Being one of the most famous sites, it’s kept behind a fence, with entry through the visitor centre (and a fee of 5 € a head). We were there an hour before opening time (10am in the off-season). No matter: there’s plenty to see in this area.

First, we took a look in the nearby cemetery. This wasn’t always a graveyard – somewhere under those bones is a Roman amphitheatre. Tucked in one corner is a large grave monument with a crucifix carved on to the front of what looks, for all the world, like a menhir. It’s a Victorian-era grave. Maybe the ‘standing stone’ is just a stylised tribute to the region, or maybe it really is a menhir, stolen for the purpose.

We drove a short while to a nearby dolmen, chosen at random. By a stroke of luck, we had stumbled on one of the best of its type. The Dolmen des Pierres Plates is close to the beach, its covering stones visible among the dunes but the passageway and chamber still mostly underground. It is a rare type, with the passage angled, turning left through about 60 degrees after a couple of metres.

The site’s keepers have allowed a few holes to appear between the capstones and the ground, so some daylight penetrates at strategic places. But I was glad to have a couple of torches with me, especially as I had to crouch very low.

One shaft of daylight strikes a beautifully carved stone. There are other carvings too. There is a side chamber just beyond the turn in the passageway, and a large (but thin) stone nearly blocks the end of the passage creating a chamber behind it.

I spent a long time down there, shooting pictures with a combination of flash, the meagre daylight and ‘painting’ selected stones with the light from the torch.

Trish loved it too, especially the carvings. But Zola, our dog, wanted nothing to do with it. The reluctance to enter a dolmen, that we’d seen at Mané Kerioned, became out-and-out refusal. This was strange behaviour for him. He’s an outstanding guard dog. Wherever we walk, he insists on taking point duty, walking ahead of us to fend off any danger. And he’s not afraid of confined spaces or the dark. He had no hesitation in running in and around the derelict German fortifications on the beach near our gite, even when the tide was starting to lap at their openings. But no amount of cajoling or dragging would get him into that dolmen. He’s not afraid of Nazi ghosts but obviously has to draw the line somewhere…

On the way back to Locmariaquer, we stopped to photograph a single standing stone and the tumulus de Mané-er-H’roueg. The latter is hidden along a narrow lane between houses (the wall in this lane, at one point, looks to have been made from a menhir). The tumulus has the appearance of a quarry. There’s a stone staircase (looks relatively modern) leading to the burial chamber itself. This boasts some simple carving but is otherwise fairly bland. It is some way underground, however, and you do get a sense of the weight of stone above you. Zola was happy to come down the steps but point-blank refused to enter the chamber.

Then back to Le Grand Menhir Brisé. The guide books say that visits are by guided tour. Once again, however, we benefited from visiting out of season. We were the only people there and could wander freely – visite libre.

The Grand Menhir, even broken into four pieces, is impressively huge. There is no telling when it was toppled, though current thinking is that it might have been within a few hundred years of being raised. Fairly recent excavations have revealed signs of a number of other menhirs raised in a line with the big one. It may be part of one of these that is now a capstone in the Tables des Marchands dolmen that stands just yards from the Grand Menhir. Another part of this same stone (identified by the carvings on the two pieces, which match up like a jigsaw) is to be found in the dolmen on Gavrinis island, 4km away. And the large rock that caps the Er-Grah tumulus, also alongside the Grand Menhir, may be a third piece from the same stone.

This raises the fascinating idea that neolithic man placed no great value in the stones themselves – that while their function may have been sacred, the stones themselves were not. It also demonstrates that we cannot regard megalithic society, and its monuments, as a single, consistent entity. If it was neolithic people who toppled the Grand Menhir, what was their reason? Was there a change in religion? Or was it more social or political? If the stones were raised as a function of the status and powers of a priestly class, perhaps that class lost its status. This is all speculation, as much else about this period. But we must be careful not to get too dewy-eyed and mystical about these things, because it’s possible that the original owners and users of these monuments were not nearly so romantic.

The Table des Marchands dolmen is also impressively large. The sun was still low and cast interesting patterns inside the large burial chamber – one of the few dolmens in which one can happily stand upright. There is some carving, most notably on the large stele opposite the entrance, covered with a crosier (shepherd’s crook) motif. A nearby sign asks you not to touch this stone – which we obeyed, though we temporarily removed the sign to take pictures – one of the advantages of being there alone!

The site is also home to the Er-Grah tumulus – basically a big pile of stones. This remained largely undiscovered until recently. The main section, with its burial chamber (which is not open, so you can’t go in) has been known about for some time – at least since the 19th Century (although it had already been plundered by then). But in 1991, excavators started to uncover more of the tumulus, and by the following year they had revealed a structure 140 metres long! And that’s after a significant amount of it had disappeared: the north end of the tumulus was known as Er Vinglé – the Breton word for ‘quarry’ because that’s how it had been used – as a source of stones.

These three monuments are important sites and a visit is obligatory if you’re in the area and haven’t been before. But as I mentioned before, this is theme-park archeology, a site so carefully and perfectly preserved that it has become a museum exhibit, robbed of atmosphere. I was glad we visited. I doubt we’d go again.

In the afternoon, we drove to Carnac’s Kerlescan alignments. This is the most easterly of what are regarded the ‘main’ sets of stones -by which I guess they mean those in need of protecting with a fence. Fortunately, the gate is left open during the day and you’re free to wander around. At the western end of the group, lines of stones form three sides of a near-rectangle, the fourth being occupied by what’s left (which isn’t much) of a long barrow. As usual, the standing stones at the western end of the lines are huge, diminishing and converging as you move east. Although there’s a riding school right up against the Kerlescan site (and some of the stones seem to have been moved to make way for it), the surrounding woodland makes this a very peaceful and picturesque place.

Once again, however, Zola had moments of doubt. He was profoundly suspicious of the large standing stones you see at the left-hand end of the row in the photo (above right). He wouldn’t go near them.

The photography was challenging, with lots of fast-moving cumulus making for highly unpredictable light. I found myself shooting into sun a great deal, and discovered just how much my 18-70mm Nikkor lens likes to flare at the least opportunity.

The gorse and heather are especially thick here – which I discovered every time I knelt to take a shot.

We walked around the riding school and along a footpath that took us deep into the woods to find Le Géant du Manio and Le Quadrilatère de Crucuno (or du Manio, as some have it). It’s the latter you find first and the effect is magical. One moment you are enjoying a walk in the woods: the next, you are faced with a strange, inscrutable construction of obviously ancient provenance. It helped that the sun was getting very low now, so we saw the Quadrilatère in veiled and dappled light.

The low stones create a rectangle that looks like an arena for some arcane ceremony. In fact, it’s believed that these are the retaining stones for a long-gone tumulus. Whatever the explanation, there is a definite sense that one is on sacred ground.

The Quadrilatère had so stolen my attention that I missed seeing the ‘Giant’ at first – which is surprising given that it stands some 6.5m high! It is the tallest stone in the Carnac group. It is given a respectful space, the trees having been cleared back to form an open area stretching from the Quadrilatère. At first, this bare ground appeared disconcertingly like a parade ground, or perhaps a car park. After we had spent a little while there, however, contemplating the stone in the golden, broken light coming through the trees, this open space took on a more ceremonial aspect.

It does make the setting somewhat boring for photography, however. We were joined by another couple. The husband busied himself taking snaps while the wife complained that they had missed the light because it was behind the trees. They left. Soon after, faint shafts of sunlight began hitting the menhir. I moved into the surrounding woodland to get my shots, having to use some relatively low shutter speeds. Fortunately, I was using a monopod. I think these may be among the best shots I got on this trip. I’m still working on them but will post a note as soon as I add them to the portfolio. They place the menhir very much in the context of the landscape, so much so that it is not immediately obvious, and has to be discovered.

Walking back to the car, we found that the light had become very rich indeed. I fired off some more shots of the Kerlescan stones, now in a much more subtle mood. It’s obvious that I will have to revisit these sites many times, in different seasons and different lights.

Mostly a sightseeing day, in spite of the dull, overcast conditions. We spent the morning at St Cado, a beautiful little village on an island in the River Etel estuary. While finding somewhere to eat our packed lunch (yes, we have become our parents) we passed through the village of Kerhuen which has its own dolmen. That’s not unusual around here, of course. Pretty much everywhere has its own dolmen.

Kerhuen’s megalith is perched on a small plot of land tightly ringed by bungalows and roads. It’s a patch of scrappy lawn that, in an English village, would probably house a phonebox and a bus stop – a token piece of public land indifferently maintained by the council. The dolmen is average,but notable for the impossibility of photographing it without including overhead power and phone cables and/or bungalows. It was also littered with beer cans, cigarette stubs and sweet wrappers – something we would see many times. Dolmens appear to be places that teenagers can use as clubhouses. I think I would have done the same at that age.

On the one hand, you could think that, in such an unrelentingly suburban environment, it is wonderful and surprising to find a monument built 5,000 or 6,000 years ago. What village wouldn’t benefit from having a piece of history like this?

On the other hand, one can reflect on how this important artefact has been so grudgingly granted its place in this urban sprawl, and how such a parsimonious allotment of space has robbed it of its magic.

Oh well, perhaps if there weren’t so many dolmens in this region, it might have been treated more generously. As it was, I stopped the car and got out to shoot what pictures I could, more out of a sense of duty than any expectation of creating a worthwhile image.

The weather brightened somewhat in the afternoon. We drove to Larmor-Baden to get a look at the Gulf of Morbihan. I’d read so much about the tumulus on the island of Gavrinis – one of the major sites in the region – and felt a little frustrated that the boat trips to the island don’t run at this time of year. But, looking at the map, we thought me might at least get a glimpse of the island.

Standing at the port at Larmor-Baden, we tried to work out which of the many islands was Gavrinis, and deduced that it must be hidden by the small, tree-lined island that seemed close enough to touch. It was only later, having become more accustomed to the small scale of the map, that we realised that island was Gavrinis! The tumulus, however, is on the far side, out of sight.

We drove a little further east, parked, and took a stroll around Ile Berder. This is private property but with a public footpath around its periphery, through stunningly beautiful pine woods. At one point we found a jumble of rocks, a few of them seemingly shaped and carved, cleverly arranged as seats. There was something about them that suggested the carving of the rocks was old. The trouble is, granite always looks ancient. And it can be hard to tell a ruined ancient monument from a collection of boulders. I’d like to know more about this seat, though.

At the southern tip of the Ile Berder, we had a good view of the tiny island of er Lannic. Silhouetted against the bright water, we saw the jagged shapes of its cromlech – a semi-circle of standing stones that curves down into the water, so that half of them are submerged. There is, apparently, a second semi-circular cromlech continuing from the first (so that, together, they made a shape like the number 3), but this is now permanently under water.

This wasn’t always the case. In neolithic times, the water level was as much as 6 metres lower. Most of what is now the Gulf of Morbihan would have been a fertile valley system with three rivers running through it. It makes you wonder what else is under there…

Things weren’t going well. Here’s a technical tip for you: if you decide to take your desktop Mac with you on holiday, and opt for the cordless keyboard and mouse, first check that you haven’t switched off Bluetooth. Logging into a Mac without a keyboard is problematic. I won’t bore you with the details, but the solution involved buying a USB keyboard and borrowing a USB mouse. It was on our way back from the shop that we found the Mané Kerioned dolmens.

They are by a main road, on a rise nearly surrounded (as so much is in this part of Brittany) by beautiful pine forest. Two of the dolmens are on the surface, their covering tumuli having disappeared. They have that massive, Flintstone-like quality: although never intended to be seen this way, they have a wonderfully sculptural solidity that tempts you into reading significance into the form. This is a mistake, of course. They are like that for practical, structural reasons.

A squeal of delight told me that Trish had discovered something interesting. It was the third dolmen, which is still underground. I joined her in the small burial chamber, its roof so low that Trish (at 5ft 1.5in tall) could only just stand near-upright in one spot – in all other places she had to crouch. What had delighted her was finding carvings on a number of the stones. Indeed, there is something about these engraved surfaces that adds a special dimension to the monuments. They are like a message, a direct connection between us and the people who felt compelled to grind them into the stones’ surfaces several thousand years ago. Inside the dolmen, you could forget about the nearby road and slip back those many millennia.

Zola wasn’t impressed. He’s our breton spaniel, a profoundly bolshy and uppity hound who would normally be scampering all over the place. But he seemed reluctant to enter the dolmen – Trish found herself dragging him inside. We didn’t think much about it … until a day or two later.

We had the site pretty much to ourselves – something that would be repeated throughout the trip and another good reason for going out of season. We were also impressed by the easy access to these sites. Mané Kerioned is regarded as one of the best megalithic sites in the region, certainly among the best of the dolmens. Yet there is no fence, no fee, no permission required.

In the afternoon, we decided on a quick tour of the Quiberon peninsula (Presqu’île de Quiberon). The object of the trip wasn’t strictly megalithic – just general sightseeing. We found a few menhirs along the way, of course, usually near the road and therefore enjoying all the auspicious atmosphere of a fire hydrant. But worth documenting all the same.

We also came across some derelict German blockhouses from the Second World War. These are littered all over this coastline (much of which remains in military use). They reminded me of the ancient monuments we had come here to see: although their function is known, unlike standing stones, they sit there with the same kind of monumental imperviousness.

My good friend Doug Selway is an artist who has produced some striking work – painting and printmaking – based on the military constructions at Orford Ness. Thinking about his work and seeing these monolithic relics made me decide to start a companion project to my photos of ancient sites – working title, ‘Modern Megaliths’. These images will be posted on my professional photography website.

Just a few weeks after deciding to embark on this project I found myself at ground zero for megaliths. Carnac.

We like to holiday in Brittany during autumn or winter. On a previous visit, we mooted the idea of driving up to Carnac, but were too busy.  It was a disappointment as visiting the alignments had been a dream for 30 years.

When I first became interested in megalithic sites, as part of an art school project back in 1977, I read about Carnac and its thousands of stones arranged in mysterious rows with both fascination and despair. The despair came from knowing I would never see them. For a working class boy living in Cheshire, the idea of travelling to France just to visit some stones was too fantastic. Now I live about 3.5 hours drive away (3 hours if I drive like a Frenchman) and have at last realised that dream.

I will blog about the sites we visited and sights we saw in subsequent postings – with some pix, once I’ve finished working on them. But first, a general impression.

I wasn’t disappointed. Yes, the main Carnac alignments are now fenced-off, but in the off-season you can stroll freely about the main part of Le Ménec and Kerlescan. And Le Petit Ménec isn’t fenced and is possibly the most beautiful and moving of the monuments.

Other sites weren’t so impressive and my advice to anyone new to the area would be to seek out the more remote and less-visited sites. Le Grand Menhir Brisé, for example, notwithstanding its astonishing size (albeit broken into four pieces) and the accompanying cairns, is in a carefully manicured enclosure, with hedge and visitor centre, hemmed in by modern housing, and feels like a bland piece of sculpture in a small, municipal park. All sense of mystery, any intimation that this may once have been an auspicious place, has been eradicated. It’s like a neolithic theme park. I called it ‘MegalithWorld’ but Trish, my wife, came up with the better, if more savage, ‘McMegalith’. We encountered a few McMegaliths – perhaps a reflection of just how common they are in this area.

Far more interesting, more intimate and infinitely more spooky was the nearby dolmen of ‘Les Pierres Plates’ – but more of that later.

For now, another couple of bits of advice for new visitors:

• The best maps are IGN’s ‘Carte de Randonnée’ series. These are 1:25,000 scale (1cm = 250m). They are designed for walkers and are much more useful than the same organisation’s ‘Carte de Promenade’ (1:100,000). IGN, by the way, is the French equivalent, near enough, of the Ordnance Survey.
• Even at this scale, not everything is marked, so keep your eyes peeled. We went on a walk from the Kerzerho alignments at Erdeven to the dolmens of Mané-Braz (highly recommended) and found a few stones not marked on the chart.
• Autumn is a good time to visit. With the leaves off the trees, you get better light on the monuments, there are fewer grockles to get in the way of your pictures, and you can stroll freely about the fenced-off alignments at Carnac.
• Buy ‘Le Guide des Mégalithes du Morbihan’ by Gabriel le Cam (published by Coop Breizh) if you have even just basic french. It’s a good visual guide to the sites, with at least one photo of each. It’s not so hot at pinpointing where each site is, so you’ll need to cross-reference with a map or another guide, but it gives you an excellent idea of what to expect at each site, and therefore lets you prioritise more easily.

That last point is important. There are so many menhirs and dolmens in this area that you become blasé – and picky. We found ourselves spotting megaliths while driving and thinking, ‘nah, not good enough’. The locals practically use them as doorstops. In fact, new ones are being discovered all the time, much to the annoyance of developers and individuals who want to build houses.

In France, having your house built to order is very common. You buy a patch of land and have a bungalow (‘pavillon’) built on it. That is, unless the digger unearths a dolmen or menhir, at which point all building work stops and an area of one hectare around the discovered rock becomes protected. That’s good, of course, though it does mean (in a country where breaking the rules is the national sport) that builders are motivated to just bulldoze the site and tell no-one.

All the same, for the megalith hunter, there’s more than enough to entrance and amaze you on the ‘Côte des Mégalithes’. About which, more later…

This is what started it. A spur-of-the-moment visit to this passage grave rekindled my fascination with megalithic sites.

A friend told me about it. “It’s in a really beautiful spot,” he said. He was right.

From Brecé, we’d had to navigate increasingly narrow roads down a series of shallow valleys. You park the car in a wide spot in the road and walk 50m down a lane created by two bocage hedges, then skirt a small wood. The tomb appears suddenly, nestled into the edge of this wood, almost as if carved into the land. Passing through the entrance you find a chamber that crosses the entrance passageway to make a T-shape. This chamber is perhaps 5-6m long in total.

A sign at the site dates the tomb to 2400 BCE.

The site is better enjoyed from the outside, though. It somehow makes the woodland feel ancient and profoundly peaceful.

Standing stones and circles have always exercised a strange attraction for me. Back in the mists of time – no, not that far back, but when I was at art school, we visited a number of sites in Derbyshire, including the famous Arbor Low. I was hooked – by the monumental strangeness of the megaliths themselves, their harmonious relationship with the landscape and the general spookiness of what one imagined took place at these sites.

I read, and was thoroughly convinced by, View Over Atlantis – sold on its message that ancient man possessed knowledge, insights and powers that we have since lost.

I’ve grown up a lot since then. I tried to re-read the book and found it embarrassingly new age, intellectually flaky and entirely unconvincing. But the stones still exert some kind of power over me, something I’d been ignoring.

We now live in rural Normandy. There are menhirs and dolmens everywhere. Our friends, just down the road, have a standing stone in their field. There’s another a few hundred metres from the supermarket where we do our weekly shop. So this is my new personal project – to document and explore the stones and their relationship to the landscape.