It was love at first sight as we drove along the country road of western France in our borrowed VW bus. The hazy blue silhouette of the 8th-century Mont Saint-Michel just off the shoreline beckoned me like the Disney castle—turrets and spires driving into the clouds. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.
The isle sits at the mouth of the Couesnon River, dividing Normandy and Bretagne surrounded by the bay. With no visible way in or out, the stacked tiers of old, gray stone walls, arched windows, and monastery steeples rising out of the glassy water were like a dream.
To visit, we waited on an impatient hostess—the tide. As she rolled the sea back, a lone road connecting the mainland and the islet was revealed. Overstay your welcome, and when the tide returns, she sweeps over the parking area and strands visitors. But respect her timing, and Mont Saint-Michel doesn’t disappoint. Winding around the cobblestone street toward the abbey at the top, ancient buildings, breathtaking views, and shops like La Mere Poulard Restaurant and Hotel, established in 1888, still stand. The impression has never faded and became an anchor in my first novel, Heiress of the French Letters.
Book excerpt:
heiress of the french letterS
“Lawrence continued to recount the magical story Hélène had told Emilie every night as she rocked her to sleep. From the grassy hill of her farmland, she was entranced by the mystical foggy-blue silhouette of a city on a hill spiraling straight up out of the sea to the tip of a spire. ‘It was born of a dream,’ he would say, trying his best to preserve Hélène’s telling of the tale. ‘At high tide, it was completely surrounded by the sea. No way in and no way out. Each day, the sea would curtsy to the coastline and sweep its waters away to reveal a lone road — beckoning visitors if they dared. The shallow sandy seabed beneath appeared inviting — smooth as silk. But storybook perils lie in wait, like quicksand and a temperamental sea, anxious to trap anything or anyone in its path. The monks on the hill chanted in the monastery perched atop its peak and the bells in the belfry carried their prays on the wind, sprinkling like fairy dust right over the farm.’”
Mont Saint-Michel has survived centuries of rage, both Mother Nature’s and manmade. She’s old and faithful. She perseveres and offers hope—a steady matriarch of faith. I hope you find her mystique and strength as inspiring as I do.
