Saint Malo
YEC'HED MAT'
means santé--to your health, salud, gesundheit--in malouin breton
language. Next village west, I'm told, they say it differently, which
lets you know how Saint Malo stands out and is quite independent from
the rest of Britanny, and the world.
Chateaubriand
lies buried here in the lee of a rocky island, the most remarkable spot
in the western world, overlooking the vast empire of the sea. For over
20 years, he negotiated with the city council to rest in peace here, a
short walk across a sandy bank on a narrow black granite path during
low tide. His wish was to lie listening to the waves and wind, and a
plaque reminds you to be obsequious and respectful. A gail blows, rain
gushes across the rocky island--real Brittany rain that goes into the
marrow. On the way back before the tide comes in, flooding the stretch
before the walled city there's a large pool, ghostly, empty, and quite
memorable.
Saint Malo is named for the Welsh monk Mac Low who arrived on the small rocky island of Cézembre in the VIth century. He became bishop of what is now Saint-Servan, across the small estuary from Saint Malo. In the XIIth century the Episcopal see was transfered onto the rock where Saint Malo's relics were kept. A liberal-minded community prospered, and became independent when they revolted in 1308. The malouins, as people of Saint Malo are called, remained independent and enterprising. They were awarded the term "corsair," in honor of those who fought pirates and enemy navies for the king of France, and lived off the spoil of their battles and conquests, sharing a percentage with the crown for the right to kill.
Chateaubriand
lies buried here in the lee of a rocky island, the most remarkable spot
in the western world, overlooking the vast empire of the sea. For over
20 years, he negotiated with the city council to rest in peace here, a
short walk across a sandy bank on a narrow black granite path during
low tide. His wish was to lie listening to the waves and wind, and a
plaque reminds you to be obsequious and respectful. A gail blows, rain
gushes across the rocky island--real Brittany rain that goes into the
marrow. On the way back before the tide comes in, flooding the stretch
before the walled city there's a large pool, ghostly, empty, and quite
memorable.Saint Malo is named for the Welsh monk Mac Low who arrived on the small rocky island of Cézembre in the VIth century. He became bishop of what is now Saint-Servan, across the small estuary from Saint Malo. In the XIIth century the Episcopal see was transfered onto the rock where Saint Malo's relics were kept. A liberal-minded community prospered, and became independent when they revolted in 1308. The malouins, as people of Saint Malo are called, remained independent and enterprising. They were awarded the term "corsair," in honor of those who fought pirates and enemy navies for the king of France, and lived off the spoil of their battles and conquests, sharing a percentage with the crown for the right to kill.
In
1590, Saint Malo refused to sign up with the Ligue or Henry IV, then
protestant King of France. They proclaimed their own "Republic" which
lasted four years. Their motto was "Ni Français, ni Breton, Malouin
suis." (Neither from France, Neither from Brittany, but from St Malo".)
The walled city, the ramparts, the pierre buildings; all are gray and ominous in sweeping rain. Following a brisk constitutional along the rain-swept ramparts looking out for pirates or--the English navy—you can escape into a creperie for a warm lunch. Crepes bio complet and coquilles Saint Jacques sur fond des poireaux in cream sauce. The complet is basically a cheeseburger on a flat brown sarrasin --thin bread that has a slightly sour taste. Usually you have cider, but since it won't go down as well after the high cholesterol leckerbissen, a Calvados is called for.
Over Calvados, the guy next to me at the bar admits to Claude, the manager, that his son wants to become either policier (police officer) ou escroc (swindler). Il n'est pas encore decidé. His pote (friend) went to Paris to become police officer and finally he was arrested for racketeering--taking money from restaurants--and the judge asked him whether he felt any regret: vous regretez? Non, the ex-policier said, and chose to become un escroc--un vrai.
The choice now is to find a hotel, but along the intra-muros and extra-muros the choice is large and varied and interesting off-season. There's even one intra-muros on the Rue de la Pie Qui Boit called Valparaiso. You have a Jameson at the Valparaiso, since their Calvados has run out over les fêtes, and they're going on vacation. The room rates are around 30 euro for a single room with view over gray slate roofs and granite façades. The cheapest (actually, free) place in the walled city is of course the Hôtel de Police at each major intersection. You shouldn't knock on the door there, unless desperate, and it is good counsel not to use the public showers, since I heard from a credible anonymous source that they are infamé.
Hotel des Thermes won't make a deal, so we go for Les Ambassadeurs on the Sillon, the windswept seaside promenade. We’re received by an elderly lady with bright red hair, wide-rimmed 50s eyeglasses, and a smile revealing her formidable dentures. Dogs and cats don't need un lit extra, but pay extra 10 euros. Les Ambassadeurs is comfortable, the bed is sturdy, and ready for sturdy love making since hotel beds are made to receive lovers, n'est pas, unless you share a room with your daddy. The sound of lapping surf, the percussion of life.
You have an aperitif with a bottle of Bourgeuil, a chevre de Sancerre and a tomme de Savoie from Saint Malo's unique cheese shop. Then the rain increases, the surf starts roaring up the sillon, yet you walk out braving nature and meet the municipal police checking the level of the sea late at night.
You find shelter at the Cap Horn, the renown restaurant of l'Hotel des Thermes. The dinners there are magnificent, but it's even better if you have one of their suits overlooking the sea. You take the lift down to the pool that is empty and dark. You say bonsoir to the receptionist; he looks so cool and pretty, he could be at the Beverly Hills Hilton.
Back out to catch up before the rain beats down, all the way down to the end of the sillon. A narrow passage along the cliff, the surf spraying it violently every few waves. You’ve got to wait ... until the tide takes over and pushes the waves all the way. You finally make it, nearly washed away into the sea, to find an open tapas bar where the food looks healthy yet unimaginative, and only healthy appetite makes it feel good. The price of a glass of mediocre merlot from a cubitainer is the same you pay in Saint-Germain-des-Prés - sans le vent. At midnight, a sudden storm streams rain in horizontally, and the roof threatens to blow off. You're lucky to have a warm woollen cap and the right clothing!
The next day you visit the historic museum in the towers by the gate. A gail is blowing so the visit of the tower and the ramparts is interdit. "What happened in 1944, monsieur?" asks the young malouin at the caisse.
"That's what I came here to find out," I say.
"80% of the city was destroyed," he announces.
In August 1944, the historic walled city of Saint Malo, the brightest jewel of the Emerald Coast of Brittany, France, was almost totally destroyed by fire, writes Philip Beck. This should not have happened. There was no reason for the liberating U.S. forces to fire bomb the city where they believed thousands of Germans were holed up in an impenetrable maze of bunkers. The Germans had shut the gates and waited, and didn't let any one near without shooting.
The walled city, the ramparts, the pierre buildings; all are gray and ominous in sweeping rain. Following a brisk constitutional along the rain-swept ramparts looking out for pirates or--the English navy—you can escape into a creperie for a warm lunch. Crepes bio complet and coquilles Saint Jacques sur fond des poireaux in cream sauce. The complet is basically a cheeseburger on a flat brown sarrasin --thin bread that has a slightly sour taste. Usually you have cider, but since it won't go down as well after the high cholesterol leckerbissen, a Calvados is called for.
Over Calvados, the guy next to me at the bar admits to Claude, the manager, that his son wants to become either policier (police officer) ou escroc (swindler). Il n'est pas encore decidé. His pote (friend) went to Paris to become police officer and finally he was arrested for racketeering--taking money from restaurants--and the judge asked him whether he felt any regret: vous regretez? Non, the ex-policier said, and chose to become un escroc--un vrai.
The choice now is to find a hotel, but along the intra-muros and extra-muros the choice is large and varied and interesting off-season. There's even one intra-muros on the Rue de la Pie Qui Boit called Valparaiso. You have a Jameson at the Valparaiso, since their Calvados has run out over les fêtes, and they're going on vacation. The room rates are around 30 euro for a single room with view over gray slate roofs and granite façades. The cheapest (actually, free) place in the walled city is of course the Hôtel de Police at each major intersection. You shouldn't knock on the door there, unless desperate, and it is good counsel not to use the public showers, since I heard from a credible anonymous source that they are infamé.
Hotel des Thermes won't make a deal, so we go for Les Ambassadeurs on the Sillon, the windswept seaside promenade. We’re received by an elderly lady with bright red hair, wide-rimmed 50s eyeglasses, and a smile revealing her formidable dentures. Dogs and cats don't need un lit extra, but pay extra 10 euros. Les Ambassadeurs is comfortable, the bed is sturdy, and ready for sturdy love making since hotel beds are made to receive lovers, n'est pas, unless you share a room with your daddy. The sound of lapping surf, the percussion of life.
You have an aperitif with a bottle of Bourgeuil, a chevre de Sancerre and a tomme de Savoie from Saint Malo's unique cheese shop. Then the rain increases, the surf starts roaring up the sillon, yet you walk out braving nature and meet the municipal police checking the level of the sea late at night.
You find shelter at the Cap Horn, the renown restaurant of l'Hotel des Thermes. The dinners there are magnificent, but it's even better if you have one of their suits overlooking the sea. You take the lift down to the pool that is empty and dark. You say bonsoir to the receptionist; he looks so cool and pretty, he could be at the Beverly Hills Hilton.
Back out to catch up before the rain beats down, all the way down to the end of the sillon. A narrow passage along the cliff, the surf spraying it violently every few waves. You’ve got to wait ... until the tide takes over and pushes the waves all the way. You finally make it, nearly washed away into the sea, to find an open tapas bar where the food looks healthy yet unimaginative, and only healthy appetite makes it feel good. The price of a glass of mediocre merlot from a cubitainer is the same you pay in Saint-Germain-des-Prés - sans le vent. At midnight, a sudden storm streams rain in horizontally, and the roof threatens to blow off. You're lucky to have a warm woollen cap and the right clothing!
The next day you visit the historic museum in the towers by the gate. A gail is blowing so the visit of the tower and the ramparts is interdit. "What happened in 1944, monsieur?" asks the young malouin at the caisse.
"That's what I came here to find out," I say.
"80% of the city was destroyed," he announces.
In August 1944, the historic walled city of Saint Malo, the brightest jewel of the Emerald Coast of Brittany, France, was almost totally destroyed by fire, writes Philip Beck. This should not have happened. There was no reason for the liberating U.S. forces to fire bomb the city where they believed thousands of Germans were holed up in an impenetrable maze of bunkers. The Germans had shut the gates and waited, and didn't let any one near without shooting.
It
was too costly perhaps for Patton to keep the city as a hold-out of
German resistance in the back of his advancing troops. The German
commander, Colonel Andreas von Aulock, a European representative of
General Motors before the war, ran operations out of a bunker.
Lieutenant Franz Kuster, later a judge in West Germany, commanded the
castle. A truce was arranged on August 13 to allow people to get out of
the city. By this time a large part of it was either in flames or had
been destroyed. The firemen could do little to prevent the spread of
the fires, as the Americans had cut the water main.
The
Americans attacked with tanks on August 14 and, to their dumbfounded
surprise, found the burning city almost empty. The underground fortress
continued to fight for 3 days until Von Aulock surrendered. He was
subsequently accused of "the barbaric act of burning the corsairs'
city," but after an examination of the ruins, including the remains of
incendiary shells and the questioning of witnesses, he was vindicated.
As we ponder the facts, we climb the various levels of this formidable fortress, now filled with evidence of a rich sea-faring past. The museum has enough to make you marvel; most surprising are a series of photographs of German naval officers confiscating a cod fisher's cargo. After a year-long fishing trip to Newfound Land, the fisherman didn’t know that the Nazis had invaded France.
One of the best restaurants in town is Le Chalut, and you can sit down for a quiet and quite exquisite meal while the storm blows outside and streets are empty. Saint Malo has not lost any of its mystery of the past and remains unlike many other towns in France--fairly aloof and independent of the sightseeing marvels such as Mont Saint Michel. But during the summer vacations it's still the attraction of the French and other tourists, and likely to be so full of people that you can't really enjoy the magic of this city. If you enjoy the storm and gail and the calm and quiet inside a walled city, this is definitely the best place to go.
As we ponder the facts, we climb the various levels of this formidable fortress, now filled with evidence of a rich sea-faring past. The museum has enough to make you marvel; most surprising are a series of photographs of German naval officers confiscating a cod fisher's cargo. After a year-long fishing trip to Newfound Land, the fisherman didn’t know that the Nazis had invaded France.
One of the best restaurants in town is Le Chalut, and you can sit down for a quiet and quite exquisite meal while the storm blows outside and streets are empty. Saint Malo has not lost any of its mystery of the past and remains unlike many other towns in France--fairly aloof and independent of the sightseeing marvels such as Mont Saint Michel. But during the summer vacations it's still the attraction of the French and other tourists, and likely to be so full of people that you can't really enjoy the magic of this city. If you enjoy the storm and gail and the calm and quiet inside a walled city, this is definitely the best place to go.
--
Einar Moos was born in Valparaiso, Chile, and grew up in South America and California. He wrote and produced award winning documentaries, fiction films and tv programs. He's presently creating websites in Paris and is the editor-in-chief of Parisiana - The Lovers Guide to Paris.
Einar Moos was born in Valparaiso, Chile, and grew up in South America and California. He wrote and produced award winning documentaries, fiction films and tv programs. He's presently creating websites in Paris and is the editor-in-chief of Parisiana - The Lovers Guide to Paris.
