In this French seaside town, discover the places in ‘All the Light We Cannot See’

In August 1944, the coastal Breton city of Saint-Malo was nearly wiped off the map. The opening scene of the Netflix limited series All the Light We Cannot See conjures the ferocity of the battle: an American squadron traverses the English Channel in darkness, dodges anti-aircraft fire, then releases its bombs on the Nazi-occupied French port.

That depiction may be Hollywood-dramatic but the destruction was real. Though Saint-Malo’s ramparts and chateau were virtually untouched, 80 percent of residences were destroyed during the course of World War II.

Post-war reconstruction was daunting. Instead of rebuilding quickly in concrete like similarly decimated cities Le Havre and Brest, then-mayor Guy La Chambre fought for heritage. When the rubble was cleared, stones were painstakingly numbered, like puzzle pieces, for an identical reconstruction of the Intra-Muros (old town). You can actually still see the numbers written on stones at No. 25 Rue de Toulouse.

Now, Saint-Malo provides a gloriously cinematic setting for the screen version of Anthony Doerr’s 2014 novel, which nabbed the Pulitzer Prize and triumphed for more than 200 weeks on the New York Times bestseller list. (The mini-series has received mixed reviews, though its high audience numbers belie the critics.)

The tale follows two teenagers: a German soldier (Werner Pfennig), who’s a radio genius, and a blind French girl (Marie-Laure Leblanc) working for the Resistance in Saint-Malo. Visitors today can follow in the footsteps of the fictional characters, while uncovering the real-life layers of the city’s adventurous maritime history.

Seeing the ‘All the Light’ sites

The story’s street names are accurate, as meticulously mapped as the wooden model of the city crafted by Marie-Laure’s father. Yet its cartography is populated with imaginary addresses: You won’t find the blue-shuttered Hotel of Bees on the Rue de la Crosse, nor Madame Ruelle’s bakery on the Rue Robert Surcouf. But there’s a terrific boulangerie next to the cathedral that’s won awards for local specialties such as Far Breton (a fruity, clafouti-like cake). Situated at 4 Rue Vauborel, the home of Marie-Laure’s uncle is a post-war residential block. (Google Maps erroneously lists the address as a bookstore.)

Never breached, the walkable ramparts circling the city have defended against marauding invaders since the 12th century. Offshore, the island of Grand Bé—where Marie-Laure collects treasures in the tide pools—is accessed via a causeway at low tide. Here on an eroding bluff is the tomb of author François-René de Chateaubriand, whose last wish was to repose where he could “only hear the sea and the wind.” 

Adjacent, the small island of Petit Bé is part of the string of 17th-century coastal fortifications developed by Vauban, the Sun King’s military engineer. Also accessible at low tide, the Fort National is where Resistance fighters were imprisoned during WWII.

(Learn about the legendary gemstone that inspired ‘All the Light We Cannot See.’)

The German garrison was stationed at the Cité d’Alet, a neighboring peninsula where the 18th-century fort was appropriated into Hitler’s Atlantic Wall. Today this ensemble of German bunkers is a museum, open seasonally, called the Mémorial 39-45. Beneath the blockhouse, tunnels stretch for nearly a mile, completely illegal to access, though some urban explorers have filmed their clandestine exploits. German-Italian forces were also concentrated on the island of Cézembre, where they only surrendered after napalm bombings. Nowadays most of the island is inaccessible because of the presence of mines.

The grotto that’s central to the story plotline, studded with mussels and snails, doesn’t exist. It’s fictitiously placed next to the Bastion de la Hollande, in the kennel used until 1772 for watch dogs.

Saint-Vincent Cathedral required two decades to rebuild, the blown-out stained-glass windows replaced with striking contemporary works that evoke the crimson blaze of the burning city. Inside is the tomb of 16th-century navigator (and native son) Jacques Cartier, who explored and claimed the territory he called “Canada” for the French kingdom. Only his skull was reclaimed in the post-war debris, “validated by scientists who found evidence of the scurvy and plague he suffered during his life,” says Mélanie Gerligand of the Musée Jacques Cartier.

A gateway in the ramparts really does lead to the Plage du Môle, a sandy beach swept by one of Europe’s highest tidal ranges, a “portal of sound”—described by Doerr—“larger than anything [Marie-Laure had] ever experienced.” Though the city was closed to outsiders for centuries, protected behind its ramparts, Saint-Malo has always been open to the ocean—the avenue by which the city’s explorers sailed to the four corners of the earth.

A rebellious spirit

Even before the French Resistance fighters honed their spycraft, the port had a reputation for rebellion. “The saying goes ‘we are not French, not Breton, but Malouin,” says guide Alexandra Durand. “Saint-Malo is the only city in France that’s allowed to fly its municipal flag higher than the French flag. This dates to Saint-Malo’s 1590 rebellion against the king—it was an independent republic for four years.”

The golden age of exploration transformed Saint-Malo into an economic powerhouse—the richest port in 17th-century France. The armateurs, ship owners who equipped vessels and launched expeditions, established trade all over the globe: China for porcelain, India for spices, Yemen for coffee, Peru for gold and silver. In exchange, they’d trade linen and hemp fabric, fine lace from Calais, fashionable hats, arms. (Saint-Malo was also involved in the infamous triangular slave trade, though to a lesser degree than Nantes.)

In times of war, many of these armateurs would make the decision to work as corsairs, or privateers, for the king. Don’t call them pirates—they were royally sanctioned to combat enemy ships and carried an official letter of marque, more valuable than other booty. In fact, privateering wasn’t profitable; it was a political move. “The modern term would be ‘lobbying.’ In times of peace, when commerce resumed, the royal administration would look out for your business,” says historian Olivier Chereil de la Rivière, owner of the Demeure de Corsair.

Today’s Malouin adventurers continue to push limits. Professional sailors from Saint-Malo compete in prestigious open-ocean races, such as the Route du Rhum, which departs Saint-Malo for Guadeloupe in the Caribbean. And entrepreneurs channel the city’s avant-garde spirit in maritime innovation: the Energy Observer is the world’s first hydrogen-powered vessel, while Grain de Sail is a zero-carbon cargo ship that sails organic wine to New York.

When these sailors return to their home port, the church spire looms above the impressive ramparts, much the same as the city—restored block by granite block after WWII—appeared to their 17th-century predecessors. “It was important to preserve this heritage,” Durand explains of the postwar reconstruction, “the spirit of the navigators and shipowners who brought glory to Saint-Malo.”