From my Journal in France, November 17, 2008:
At the train station in Bayeux I had a cheese and cucumber sandwich while waiting on a bench near the tracks for my 2:46 train to Mont Saint Michel. Soon the train arrived - very much on time - and I wedged myself in, hoping not to have one foot on and one foot off when it departed. It was crowded, but I managed to find a seat.
At Portoson I got off, as this was the nearest town. From here I'd have to find my way 9km to the Mont. Outside the station there was one taxi, painted and fancy, with a sign on top and passengers climbing out. I asked the driver how much it would be to Mont Saint Michel, and he said "24 euro" (approximately $30! for 9km?!). I acted interested as I did not want to be left without options...although I imagined it might be possible to walk... How long would 9K take...?
Meanwhile there was also an extremely enormous tourist bus parked nearby with its engine running, waiting. The driver sat in the driver's seat. His window was about two feet above my head. I came near, and he opened the window sideways. Using some charades, I gathered he was headed to Mont Saint Michel for the price of 2 euros (about $3). Now that sounded reasonable, however, where were all the tourist people who would fill this bus? He opened the main door opposite his seat using major hydraulics, and I climbed on, sitting prominently in the front row seat by the door next to him. Two euros, OK. He motioned we'd leave in 10 minutes. Probably another train was due soon with many tourists..?
Ten minutes later I was still the only person on this monstrous motor coach. My 2 euros would hardly pay for 9km of gas. We headed off, doing a nose dive down the train station drive into the main street, stopping traffic with a wide turn, heading us in the proper direction. A few kilometers down the highway, through the panoramic front windows, I had my first full and amazing views of Mont Saint Michel on the straight-line horizon of ocean, looming closer at the end of the causeway. It looked much like a fairy book castle.
If you haven't seen a picture of it, google image: Mont Saint Michel. Or better - rent the 1990 Bernt Amadeus Capra movie "Mindwalk" which was filmed here. After watching this movie over a year ago, I vowed to make this journey someday - today! (I will post some photos of this trip on my site here: http://www.ofglobalinterest.com/pictures.html - soon.) A spectacular sight!
Seemed like a place of real knights and princesses, swords and daggers, chains and chainmail - with a mammoth church - more like a cathedral on top, which has miraculously withstood the many tests of brave and violent pasts - plus centuries of rough ocean battering. At the end of the highway the big bus stopped in a parking lot, and I got off - thanking the driver of course. I thought hordes of tourists might be hopping on - but no, no one was waiting there...
I headed toward the tiny walled city with an established population of "42" - it said in the guide book - through a robust and dramatic draw bridge, no less. On the other side, inside, I noticed a tourist office, first thing. Somehow I missed all the large warning signs and postings of the dangers of the daily tides. I noticed those the next day.
Seems there were only eight hotels on the rocky tidal island - nearly surrounded by flat land and sea. These hotels do fill up fast. During the tourist season it is nearly impossible to get a hotel room here without booking a year in advance. I had no reservations. :) The tour office man mentioned 3 hotels which he knew were already fully booked, but he suggested I go up the little road and try a few of the others.
Galloping up the medieval cobblestone street, which was really a narrow walkway where horses and knights in shining armor should be charging through, I went to see what I could find. It was a medieval wonderland, like the Michigan Renaissance Festival without all the fake stuff. Instead it did have a few overly glitzy and large souvenir shops, but also the cutest restaurants I'd seen in France yet - pretty cute!
The first hotel was also full, but at the next one they had a room - for 85 euros ($110)...more than I wanted to pay. I asked to see the room anyway. The woman at the desk gave me a funny map - with photos of landmarks rather than streets. The room was in another building up the little adorable road, higher on the Mont, up the alley then to the left at a stone wall, up the stairs and through a brown (unmarked) door. I found it, Room 301. It was tiny, much like my room on the Queen Mary, especially the bathroom - a single unit installation, one sheet of plastic that formed a tiny shower, a sink and a toilet all in the space of about 3 feet. The room would be just fine - with a double bed that hardly fit and a window overlooking the adorable little narrow street below.
Back at the reception desk the lady said I could have the room for 60 euros. I was not sure why the price had dropped $33 in the last few minutes. Ah, a room. After setting my things down, I was going to explore.
Out on that little narrow street (the only one in town) I imagined some horses with armor and dragons blowing fire...I headed in the UP direction, toward the towering cathedral perched on top. I climbed a large and wide stone staircase that led to a narrow passageway which I followed around the side of the Mont. Like a fairy tale castle there were secret walkways and alleyways lined by low walls overlooking great expanses of earth, sand and ocean. One unique feature of this place is that at high tide it is nearly surrounded by water on all sides - as deep as 15 meters. At the highest tides, the seasonal equinoxes, even the causeway is submerged. I remembered the movie "Mindwalk" when the characters had walked around the base of this large rock in the sand at low tide. I was determined to do that too.
Far above the sands now, I climbed another large stone staircase to find myself at the exit of the gift shop of the Abbey atop the Mont -- which was now closing. I'd do that tour tomorrow. I headed back down and around and soon the stone path I was on led all the way back down to the beach - to the water. I passed a group of three young American boys who were discussing their friend, the fourth, who had gone ahead exploring the sands. I overheard another saying something about the tide being due in soon, and I heard him say, "I'm not going to risk it." Probably his friends then told him: "But look - that lady is going..." And I did, passing them, heading down to the sand.
My first step off the stone was wet and my sparkling new white tennis shoes were now initiated with a grayish sandy tinge on one side. It was mucky, silty sand, the really fine stuff. The not-so-wet sand was OK for walking. I had read in the guide book that one should NOT venture out too far away from the rocky base of Mont Saint Michel, since the wetter the sand, the more it behaves like quicksand. This is what quicksand is - really wet, mucky sand that is deep and all consuming. :) I would be sure to avoid that!
I stayed close to the rocky base of the Mont. The guide book said it was only 1km around. I figured I would certainly make it clear around before the tide came in... The ocean's waters were still quite far. Thus, I proceeded, up a narrow staircase leading to a stone house on an outcrop of rocks, and down the other side, back to the beach. This was where I passed the fourth American whose friends had chickened out. At that point he seemed to be turning around too, heading back to his friends.
Determined to get all the way around, I continued on the sand. By now I was already halfway anyway...so I kept going. The terrain on the back side was somewhat rocky so I could jump from rock to rock avoiding some wet sand. Other areas had drier sand that was walkable. It was just me and the sand separating a rocky cliff with a castle on top from the unforgiving powers of the Atlantic Ocean. I heard a large wave crashing in the distance. It was loud. How do tides work...anything like tsunamis? There was NO place to scramble up the rocks, laced with trees and prickly bushes. Should the tide come in at that moment - what to do...? How fast would it come? That wave was so loud and huge. So much so that it got my heart going a bit when a seemingly quiet flock of birds took flight all at once. I started running - a nervous response.
My heart pounded - having been to Thailand a few years back, three months after the tsunami wiped out so many things there - my mind could not rule out that possibility. Being more than half way now, I decided to keep going since the distance to the parking lot must be less than traveling all the way back around the way I had come....so I thought. I also really had the thought that I might be under water soon - even though it seemed like there was still a lot of sand - perhaps quicksand - between the ocean and me.
However, then the terrain suddenly changed. The vast sandy area that I had been walking on turned to something more like a construction zone up near the rock base of the Mont. It appeared that heavy equipment had plowed through this area...creating large and deep ruts and gouges in the sand, some full of water - so much so that this area was worth avoiding. The rocky cliff was now a manmade stone wall -- like where they might have thrown people overboard from above...way back when? There was nothing to climb on this side - no bushes or trees to cling to if there were a tsunami..
Onward. I stayed left to keep on solid sand, veering away from the fort-like wall and into the quicksand zone? Yikes. But the sandy base of the mighty Abbey - now somewhere in the sky above me, was not for strolling. It was getting dark rapidly. I moved faster, at each step - hoping I would not sink. By this time I could see the cars in the parking lot at the entrance on solid paved ground - just over there! I would only have to make it through the thick mud zone - not too far... But the chasm of deep silty sand between the cars and me grew wider... Dare I muddle through the middle of it?
I had to. At what looked like the narrowest section - several feet of mud...I ran -- holding my breath, crossing my fingers - praying not so much about sinking but more about trying not to slip. Then SLOP...one foot went down and down...up to nearly my knee. One new shoe instantly old - but still on, at least. My foot was now encased in what was like really wet clay. It wasn't quicksand, exactly. Still hoping I wouldn't slip and become completely covered in it, I kept running as best I could - large bounding steps, gazelle-like.
All I could imagine was trekking back up to my quaint hotel on the Mont, through the gate, over the draw bridge, up that little road full of fashionable tourists to my tiny room, covered head to toe in gray mud, passing all those glitzy shops and romantic restaurants. I was wearing black so all specks of this stuff showed up nicely.
In total the damage wasn't too bad. I didn't fall, luckily. Although, by the time I got to solid ground, both my feet were a sloppy mess. The rest of me was dry, minus some gray slop on the back of my pant legs. I managed to get the worst of the muck off via wading through (and sitting in) some shallow puddles in the parking lot. Luckily it was totally dark by then so no one could see what I was doing.
All better, well mostly better. But look -- I had forgotten about my destination during the journey... Mont Saint Michel was absolutely stunning, soaring high into the night sky - beautifully lit from the mucky waters up to the heavens where even the tallest steeple glowed. Neat!
I took about 85 photos in the dark, hoping at least one would turn out. Finally I was back in my room showering off the mud on my new shoes, between my toes, on my calves and black pants. The shower was tiny. I could barely turn around or touch my toes in there.
The next day I saw a sign by that side of the parking lot that had a hiker with a red circle and slash through it. Oops...
Sincerely,
Heather O'Neal
Of Global Interest LLC Adventure Travel
The Eighth Street Trekkers' LodgeB&B
Ann Arbor, Michigan
(734) 369-3107
http://www.ofglobalinterest.com
"Travel is the frivolous part of serious lives, and the serious part of frivolous ones."
-- Anne Sophie Swetchine, writer
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