The abbey rose from the horizon like a promise of wonder. From this far away, it looked like a fairytale with its floating spire piercing the clouds. But closer, it revealed itself as stubbornly human.
We'd come to France to reconnect after several years, and the abbey at Mont Saint-Michel was one stop for us. We had heard the abbey glowed at night, promising us magic.
Getting there
A few days' break from Paris, and the planned highlight of our trip was a train and a bus away. I enjoyed some light reading, and each time I peeked out the window, the landscape had perceptibly changed from plazas to fields, buildings to trees.
We arrived in a quiet, storybook town with stone façades, flower boxes, and patisserie scents drifting from the shops. It was the town before the town, and lovely in its own right. Its quiet normalcy made the promise ahead feel even grander. We browsed a garden shop and lingered over slices of fruit-covered cake.
Lining up for the bus, the mood among travelers lifted, anticipation threading through the calm of the cobblestones. On the other side, the brakes hissed, sixty feet thumped to the ground, and the chatter of thirty voices faded away as our eyes landed on the silhouette waiting above it all.
Its view summoned even more awe than the pictures had, the way only seeing it with your own eyes can do. A singular spire floated magnetically above the horizon, urging us closer.
First sights
As we crossed the causeway, sheep grazed quietly in the fields, extras in a scene of people jostling for a perfect picture. We, too, stopped for a few. A passing dog stole the attention, and fair enough.
The mount became a stage for a cast of mostly tourists. Camera shutters clicked, guides waved colorful flags, and people posed in front of walls intended to keep armies out. Modern pilgrimage.
A few brave ones waded through mud outside the walls, waddling like penguins to avoid losing their shoes. We gave it a go on drier patches, but still ended up mud-caked.
The journey up
Inside the walls, plenty of opportunity to run tourist errands: postcards, bars, souvenirs, pilgrim passports. Everyone here played a role: the shopkeepers, the visitors, even the pigeons shuffling along at our feet.
We took it all in, ambling along the cobblestone street, winding our way up as the abbey filled more and more of our view. The scene was charming, every structure and convenience seemingly placed here for our present experience. There was even a post office, which my friend used to mail his thoughts abroad.
We ran our final errand, pausing at a café for fuel. I had my first croque monsieur, ordering it in French. It was recognizably average, proof that even in a fairytale, lunch is still lunch.
Little details tugged at our attention as we climbed: a carved figure on a stone wall, a bed of flowers, inscriptions on headstones in a small cemetery. Some doors led to souvenir shops, some to homes, some to places we could only imagine.
Going inside
After paying for a ticket at the booth, we were ushered inside. The moment we entered, the outside chatter evaporated. Even footsteps became more respectful. The air was cooler, the lighting dimmer—inviting a slower, more contemplative pace.
The weaving continued through the abbey, with blocked off passageways, exhibits like the Big Wheel, stone corridors playing with light and shadow.
Then—the hush of the cloister garden. It stopped us mid-step, a peaceful pause to appreciate religious calm in the center of a fortress. The higher we climbed, the quieter it became, as if the mount asked our attention in exchange for its awe.
And outside, there was the spire again—this time, up close and personal. The same wonder, seen from new angles, suddenly felt more human than holy.
It never glowed
The abbey stayed dark. We assumed they must have been conserving energy, like much of Europe during the Russia-Ukraine War. We shrugged, nonetheless immersed in the moment.
It never glowed that night, but it didn't need to. Wonder wasn't in the light itself; it was in the way the extraordinary stood quietly beside the ordinary.
