A visit to Mont Saint-Michel

The most visited site outside of Paris
Just a short bus ride away from Saint-Malo is Mont Saint-Michel, a place that ranks highly amongst France’s must-see sites, and one whose image lurks in the mind of just about anyone who has had even a passing encounter with France and French culture. All three of us had had at least a passing exposure to things Français, so go we did. What a disappointment it turned out to be but at the same time what an impressive place it is.

Getting to Mont Saint-Michel
Perhaps we were unprepared for it because the bus we caught from outside the tourist office in Saint-Malo to Mont Saint-Michel was almost empty. Perhaps. But even so, the long walk to the Mont, first through paddocks and then across the open polder, in an open but steady stream of other visitors should have been a hint that we clued into – this tight place was going to be bursting with a mass of humanity. And it was.

Approach on the new boardwalk
The approach to Mont Saint-Michel offers that postcard image that we’ve all seen; a spire atop a mound and surrounded by flatness. It may sound like I’m trivialising it but it looks fantastic and we’ve all seen it. We crossed the final section of the new boardwalk and, baulking at the steady stream of people entering the gates, headed instead around to a spot between the walls and the sea where we ate our lunch and prepared for the climb.

Don’t visit one week after summer Olympics
When we finally entered the site, we did so by an entrance on the western side, not by the main entrance. This led us up a winding path to the main road where we were quickly swallowed by a thick and endless stream of people that moved relentlessly and slowly through the entire site.

The site was fantastic and impressive and, were it not for the people, its dark corners, narrow stairways, soaring expanses of rock walls, and purposeless towers would have summoned the spirit of Gormenghast and the marsh and quicksand wastes that surrounded it.

But, it was impossible to extricate one’s self from this mass of people and the press of them began to feel oppressive, perhaps as oppressive as the pointless rituals and suffocating isolation of Gormenghast, so much so that we struggled to appreciate the place and soon began to just want to get it over and done with and get out of there.

Still a splendid place
While, like Titus Groan, flight might have been our preferred option, the press of the crowd meant that there was no choice other than to move slowly and determinedly, shoulder to shoulder, through gorgeously sombre passages, past faded stained-glass windows in high gabled halls, through forests of columns standing squat under beautifully arched and vaulted stone ceilings and through delicately carved cloisters.

In the cathedral, in a alcove, a family knelt and sang prayers in beautiful four-part harmony while behind them a constant stream of gawkers moved by talking in harsh tones and unconcerned about the small act of faith taking place at their feet. All of this was interspersed with spectacular views out over the soft, flowing textures of the low-tide sand flats of the surrounding bay.

What a splendid place this is and if only we had visited in the middle of a harsh winter day when the average tourist might have decided to stay inside in the warmth of their hotel. Next time.