23 Sep 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Travelogue, No Comments.

09/23 Mont Saint Michel, France

At the breakfast table there were rumors of another train strike, so about six of us headed out early to attempt to board the last train prior to any stoppage.  Our destination was Mont-St-Michel.  When the island first came within view I stood there for some time and gazed at its glory.  It had more a look of a cover to a picture book than something actually real, a castle right out of some fairytale.  There were endless fields of mud waiting for the imprint of somebody’s foot.

I wandered outside its walls, in and out of a few shops but the best sight was in the church where I found an unexpected flower dancing in the colored light from a stained glass window.  I tried to capture it on film but it was pretty dark and I didn’t carry a flash.

I trekked along Michel’s outer wall and stubbed upon a small church on its back side.  This small church had the look of an album cover from the seventies and I’m sure made a really interesting picture.  I would have enjoyed staying here for the night but there were no accommodations and since the tides like galloping horses began rushing in I needed to get moving.  The trains had stopped as expected so I sought out a bus back to St. Malo.  I asked a local how long I should expect to wait.  Thirty minutes seemed reasonable so I sat alongside a beer and waited.  But it never came.  Sitting in one place seemed to me like a waste of time when the countryside was gorgeous and inviting so I began to walk.  I think the thing that had struck me first was that there were no telephone lines or poles to obstruct the view of trees and fields of corn.  I tried my thumb on a few occasions but I ended up almost walking the entire distance.  I guess it’s kind of funny when you think about it.  I had walked for hours and hours and when I finally hitched a ride we were in town about the same amount of time it took me to attach my seat belt.  I was dropped off at the waterfront and it was incredible, the ocean had vanished.  The few small pools that were left behind were almost dry from the sun.  I met up with a few locals who were kind enough to teach me some of the finer points of wind racing.  There were groups all sporting large sail three wheeled carts.  This was the perfect place and it looked like a lot of fun.  The sand was dry and flat and the wind was strong and consistent, they really could maintain some speed.  I struck up a conversation with a young lady I had noticed in one of the shops on Mont-St-Michel.  We kind of shared the sunset and wandered about the coast until her bus arrived.  After a kiss on the cheek I ended up in a small local bar alone but felt right at home after a few beers.  Somebody had even persuaded me to write one of my poems on the wall of the bar.

She was but a child of the wind, free to play in the leaves, time was hers, life was pretend, a forest from the trees
she’d run along the river’s edge with her imaginary friends, the days were long and the current strong,
and they never seemed to end

See’s only what she wants to see, cares not about the pain, nothin ever changes, in the eyes of the estranged
She was taken to the city, where the faces always change and she discovered very quickly, here, a smile’s not the same
they took to her like bees to honey, saying what she wants to hear, wandering eyes, in search for money,
a trade in silence for her tears

See’s only what she wants to see, cares not about the pain, nothin ever changes, in the eyes of the estranged

She’s always said, “my love lies sleeping” cradled in his arms, cause she remembers a better place,
where it’s all so peace and calm