It is six a.m., and the sun has not yet risen. The windows of our bus are fogged with the mist of morning, the roads are empty, and we are stirred by hearing, "Alors on entre Normandie." Outside, the land that just moments ago rolled with fields, has now become flat and desolate, glistening with dawn and the water of the haute marée. I will never forget what it felt like to first see Mont Saint Michel. From a distance, it could be an illusion, a ghost amidst the sea and sky. The moment it captures you, you cannot look away. Overwhelming is the only way I can put it. The indomitable silhouette of the abbey rises towards the sky, and in these quiet hours, one can only give silent homage to this divine place built by human hands. In the words of Guy de Maupassant, "The nearer I approached, the greater my admiration grew, for nothing in the world could be more wondrous or more perfect."
The achromatic scale of the bay puts the blue of the sky and the green of the water into high relief, and from above, one can see the swirling and irregular tide sweep out across the expanse. Close up, it is a textural tapestry of granite, slate, wood, and brick that towers so high above you that you have to crane your neck far back in order to see it entirely. All around me though, there is nothing, and one cannot help but feel small and powerless out here.
In 708, the archangel Michael appeared three times to the bishop of Avranches, commanding that a sanctuary be built and dedicated to Saint Michael on the place of Mont Tombe, a nearby Druid worship site. So rock by rock, year by year, the early Benedictine oratory took form, and today on the tip of the abbey stands a pure gold statue of Michael, shining in both the sun and the moonlight, watching over the Mont.
The inside of the abbey is cool and flooded with light. We are told that the monks intended it to be this way, so that the light dictated the movements of their day. When they would eat together, it would be only using natural light, and while they ate, one of their brothers would read Scripture aloud. This way, they nourished their bodies while also nourishing their souls, and all would be done according to the light they were given each day.
Throughout the day, the monks would break up their work by reciting the Divine Office, but since not all could constantly leave their work from below to be upstairs, grates were built to allow their voices to rise up to the chapel to meet their brothers'. In doing do, they prayed together, though in separate parts of the abbey.
In the 13th century, a Gothic garden cloister was created on the north side of the abbey. It has more than 200 red granite columns that support the white limestone passageway, and it is here where the monks once meditated and prayed among the sweet smelling garden of herbs and flowers.
You can hear the howl of the wind from this high above and smell the sharp but fragrant boxwood growing throughout the cloister. Though there is solitude in this place, it is not lonely.
On my way back down, the tide has washed out and the water is now at basse marée. The wind is so strong I have to constantly hold onto my hat, or else it will be lost to the bay forever.
The latter half of the afternoon is spent in Cancale, a small fishing village that looks out to the Mont. It is known for its oysters, and we can see men driving their oyster trucks out to marshlands for harvesting.
Walking out to the marsh is disorienting and strenuous as we walk not through sand, but thick, mineral-rich mud. It is slick and strong with suction, and we all have to be careful not to fall.
Out in the grass, Pré-salé lambs graze and dot the landscape. Their meat is a delicacy out here because its flavor is so distinct and rich from the salt grasses of these coastal marshlands. When they are not here, the water rushes up and covers the grass, and when it washes out, it leaves its salty remnants, which they love to eat. They roam just within view of the Mont.
It is bittersweet to leave today, and I am in complete awe of having experienced such a place that I never thought I ever would. As I watch the island grow smaller and smaller until it disappears into the horizon, I try to dust off the "vase" mud from my feet. There are spots of it left on my backpack, which I almost want to leave there. This was by far the most special day of this trip, and I will remember it all my life.
"I saw it from Cancale, a gray shadow outlined against a misty sky, like a dream palace strange and beautiful--it alone remained in the crimson light of the dying day."
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