Fort Saint Louis, Saint Martin: Cannons, Iguanas, and Caribbean Panoramas
- Mark Vogel
- May 26
- 5 min read
Marigot, Saint Martin ✈
While staying at The Villas at Simpson Bay Resort on the Dutch side of Sint Maarten, I crossed into the French side to visit Fort Saint Louis in the Saint Martin French capital of Marigot. After a brief look around the waterfront Marigot Market, I directed my attention to the limestone ridge crowned by the fort, a stone sentinel that has guarded the bay for centuries.
The path to the fort begins just west of the harbor master’s office, where a narrow-paved lane curls upward toward a pocket-sized parking lot. I chose to walk the whole way rather than hail a taxi for the final leg because climbing from sea level gave me a sense of the fort’s strategic value. From the base of the lane to the rampart I counted roughly one hundred steps—some sources say the climb is closer to two hundred if you include the town staircases—cut into the rock and reinforced with modern concrete. They are uneven and handrails are sparse, so anyone with mobility limitations will find the ascent challenging. Those who rent a car can drive almost to the top and tackle only the final dozen steps; nevertheless, wheelchairs and strollers cannot make the last stretch. I paused halfway up, drank from my water bottle, and looked back at the red-roofed market sheds and the ferries that link Marigot with Anguilla.
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“The climb may not suit every visitor, yet for those willing to tackle a hundred uneven steps, Fort Saint Louis remains one of the island’s most rewarding vantage points and a tangible reminder that even modest fortifications once shaped Caribbean trade and defense.”
Fort Saint Louis was ordered built in the late eighteenth century under King Louis XVI to protect the port’s customs warehouse, where sugar, coffee, salt and rum waited for export. The French commander on Saint Martin feared both European rivals and Caribbean privateers, and the hill provided a natural artillery position that could sweep the bay. Masonry casemates, a powder magazine and a cistern were completed by 1789, only months before events in Paris rendered the king powerless.
British forces occupied the fort several times during the Napoleonic wars, and Dutch troops briefly held it later in the nineteenth century, but its guns never fired in anger. By the 1850s steam warships and new trade routes made coastal bastions obsolete, and the garrison withdrew. The site fell into ruin until volunteers cleared vegetation and stabilized the walls in the 1990s, leaving a shell that speaks louder about the colonial era than any museum plaque.
Inside the fort today I walked on crushed coral paths that weave through low stone walls. A half-moon parapet faces the harbor, and three rusted iron cannons sit on concrete cradles aimed at the sea lanes. Their bronze siblings were long ago carted off for scrap, yet these survivors still hint at the power once projected from this perch. The magazine’s arched ceiling is gone; only rough limestone blocks frame an empty vault where kegs of powder once lay. A rainwater cistern beside it now collects nothing but leaves. Iguanas the length of my forearm lounged on the sun-heated stones, bobbing their heads when I stepped too close and then scurrying into crevices. Their presence seemed fitting: reptiles, like fortifications, thrive in heat and endure long after the soldiers have marched away.
From the gun line the view stretches in every direction. Directly below, Marigot’s marina floats clusters of catamarans and fishing boats that look like toys from this height. To the east I picked out the bell tower of Saint-Martin-de-Tours Church and the concrete outline of the prefecture. Southward across the Simpson Bay Lagoon, the Dutch side hotel strip shimmered in haze. On a clear morning you can trace the ridge of Pic Paradis and, beyond the channel, the flat silhouette of Anguilla. To the west the Caribbean blends into an indistinct horizon broken only by the wakes of yachts sailing for Prickly Pear Cays. I stood for several minutes, letting a steady trade wind pull sweat from my shirt while seabirds circled below.
Although the fort is unstaffed, a small kiosk at the entrance gate displays a faded panel in French and English summarizing its construction and noting that admission is free. There are no restrooms, no gift shop and no shade besides the shadow cast by the surviving walls, so visitors should carry water and either wear a hat or choose early hours.
If you start from Marigot market, budget about half an hour for a leisurely stroll up and another half an hour to wander the ruins. Those staying on the Dutch side without a rental car have three practical options: the public vans that I used, which run from Simpson Bay to the Marigot terminal for a few dollars and do not require advance booking, the SXM taxi rideshare app, or a licensed taxi arranged through hotel reception. No passport control operates at the border but carrying identification is still wise.
Drivers who come by rental car will find a brown heritage sign on Boulevard de France pointing toward “Fort Louis.” The access road climbs behind the post office and narrows to one lane before ending in a gravel turnout that holds about ten vehicles. Spaces fill quickly on cruise-ship days when shore-excursion buses pause here, so arriving before mid-morning improves your chances. Once parked, you still must negotiate the final flight of steps, so sneakers are preferable to sandals.
The fort sits at only 100 meters above sea level. I was told that the wind rarely feels severe, but it was very windy at the summit when I visited. Sun exposure is constant. I carried sunscreen and reapplied halfway through my visit. The French flag at the fort is replaced every few months when the trade winds fray the fabric.
Descending was quicker than the climb, though the steep pitch tested my knees. Back at ground level I rewarded myself with an iced coffee near the waterfront. From there the hill no longer appeared imposing—just another green knoll crowned by battered stone. Yet the memory of the cannon-lined parapet and the silent lizards basking on ancient walls lingered. The short excursion had delivered more than a postcard panorama; it linked the French capital of this divided island to centuries of maritime rivalry and to the quieter dramas of reptiles staking out warm rocks.
I ordered an SXM taxi back to the hotel, as the sun was too hot to wait for a bus. As we drove off, the French flag on the hill was no longer visible, but I knew exactly where it fluttered above Marigot, marking a place where colonial history, sweeping vistas, and curious wildlife converge in less time than it takes most travelers to finish a long lunch. The climb may not suit every visitor, yet for those willing to tackle a hundred uneven steps, Fort Saint Louis remains one of the island’s most rewarding vantage points and a tangible reminder that even modest fortifications once shaped Caribbean trade and defense.
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