The Magic of Mont St. Michel

Mont St. Michel at dusk

I was 17, a senior in high school and had to do a report for my French 3 class, so headed off to the Escondido Public Library to find a topic. No internet then. Among the books I pulled off the shelf, I found one with photographs of Mont St. Michel, a monastery just off the coast of Normandy.

At a table in the modern library, with books spread out around me, I read about how the Mont became an island, when the tide came in, the speed of a galloping horse. The forty-foot tides made it impossible to get to shore, if you got caught as the tide came rushing in. My teenage heart gasped as I read stories about couples trying to reach each other, sometimes getting lost in the sea. I sat transfixed.

I gave my report, in French, and vowed that someday, I would go to Mont St. Michel. I would feel the magic that this place held, becoming an island on the new and full moons.

In 1993, on my second visit to France, I was fulfilling my wish to travel in France, alone on the train. I sat in the vintage red train, listening to the clackety-clack of the rails, feeling my good fortune, then stepped out of my compartment and into the hall and opened the big window. A fresh fall breeze blew in as we passed fat Norman black and white cows, grazing in apple orchards, bulging with bright red apples.

Ah, Camembert cheese and Calvados, the fiery hard cider.

I stayed in a tiny hotel in Bayeux as I did my research for an essay about my Father and the D-day invasion of 1944. The 50th anniversary was coming up the following June. Those days, retracing his steps above Omaha Beach and learning about the powerful invasion, felt moving and deep. I was living, in French, where my father had spent five months 50 years before, and I felt connected to him in a new dimension of love and understanding of what he had been a part of there.

I had a few free days ahead and realized how close I was to Mont St. Michel, so got back on the local train to Pontorson, then took the shuttle to the Mont. It rose up out of the sands, like a mirage, just like in the book I’d read at 17, 27 years before. I watched as the late afternoon sun lit up the beautiful structure, so solid and real.

I climbed the cobblestone street up to the hotel that I’d reserved for the night, as tourists hurried past, down the street. Loudspeakers announced something, I couldn’t quite understand, so I went over to the stone ramparts to watch.

The chilly October wind buffeted about, and I breathed in the fresh sea air. Cars raced out of the parking lot, back towards the mainland as I began to understand the messages coming over the loudspeaker. “Leave now. The incoming tide will cover your car in approximately 15 minutes.”

I watched, fascinated, as the last car hurried out, the waves chasing its bumper. Then the gendarmes arrived in their rubber boats, rescuing people off the rocks surrounding the Mont. They’d been walking and had gotten caught by the rushing tide.

I overheard snippets of conversation from the people chatting around me, “the fall equinox, the highest tide of the year, the Mont will be an island tonight.”

As we watched, the full moon rose, its light glistening on the waves as they swirled and splashed against the base of the Mont.

I stood transfixed. What kind of magic had allowed me to arrive on the highest tide of the year, to witness and be present to what had captured my heart at 17? I felt moved, blessed and encouraged that in some mysterious way, forces I could not see or understand guided my life. I let in the comfort and nourishment of those moments, standing along the ramparts, watching the moonlight play on the waves as they splashed and swirled, and Mont. St. Michel became an island.

The main cobblestone street of Mont St. Michel

I wandered the deserted cobblestone streets, stopping into a tiny chapel, lit by candlelight, where the priest said mass. I let the French words wash over me and felt the sacred energy of the eons of prayers that had been offered in the chapel, then lit a candle in the back, grateful for the experience of being there on this magical night. After a simple dinner of soup and bread, I found my hotel room down a side street.

As I snuggled into bed, cozy and safe, the moonlight shone in and slanted across the room. My last thoughts before drifting off to sleep, felt like a prayer.

“Magic is real. I am blessed. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

© Diane Covington-Carter 2022