Saint Malo

YEC'HED MAT' means santé - to your health, salud, gesundheit, lachaim - in malouin Breton language.

Next village west, I'm told, they say it differently. To let 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.

He negotiated over 20 years with the city council to rest in peace, 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. Honor the dead.

A gale 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, filled with sea water.

YEC'HED MAT' means santé - to your health, salud, gesundheit, lachaim - in malouin Breton language.

Next village west, I'm told, they say it differently. To let 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.

He negotiated over 20 years with the city council to rest in peace, 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. Honor the dead.

A gale 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, filled with sea water.

Saint Malo is called after the Welsh monk Mac Low who arrived on the small rocky island 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 which 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 fight pirates and enemy navies for the king of France and live 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 stone buildings, gray and ominous in sweeping rain. You 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 dough 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 following a brisk constitutional along the rain-swept ramparts looking out for pirates or - the English navy.

Over calvados the guy next to me at the bar admits to Claude, the manager, that his son wants to become either policier ou escroc. Il n'est pas encore decidé. His "pote" (friend) went to Paris to become policier 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 and along the intra-muros and extra-muros the choice is large and varied and interesting off season.

Hotel des Thermes won't make a deal, so we go for les Ambassadeurs on the Sillon, the windswept seaside promenade; received by an elderly bright red haired lady with 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. Of course the other hotels are all interesting and 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 fetes, and they're going on vacation... The room rates are around 30 euro for a single room with view on gray slate roofs and granite facades. The cheapest place in the walled city is of course (actually free) the hotel de police marked about 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 infame.

Ambassadeurs is comfortable, the bed is sturdy, and ready for sturdy love making since hotel beds are made to receive lovers. The sound of lapping surf, the percussion of life. 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 suites overlooking the sea. You take the lift down to the pool that is empty and dark.

You say bonsoir to the receptionist, who 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 7 waves. You 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 woolen 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 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 when 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 docking after a year long fishing trip to New Foundland, without knowing 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.

The walled city of Saint Malo has not lost any of its mystery of the past and remained unlike many other towns in France fairly aloof and independent of the sight seeing marvel like 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 won'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.