St. Florentin, Thursday, 24 August 2017

Lost Vikings, Welsh Australians and Wily Bisons, plus 3G pitch

Yes, we’re still here in St Flo because the world comes to us and brings us all sorts of fascinating people who arrive at the end of a rope. It may sound obvious but it’s customary if a boat comes into port that the nearest person on land hovers nearby to take the rope as there are a lot of old crocks like us who cannot leap like springboks anymore and are glad of a helping hand to get the boat secured so that they or their wife can descend in a more stately manner (or otherwise) to shore. Then it takes a while to establish their identity. I go through French, then German then if that fails they tell me they’re Flemish or Faroese, as happened the other day. I stood there, mouth open, as I told them I’d never ever met anyone from the Faroes (I’ve no doubt met Flams before, but they’re Belgian, so they don’t count) as I struggled to remember just where, and how remote, they were. I gave up and shook his hand wished him bienvenu and pointed him to the boulangerie.

We’re in a central position here so we can sit on the boat with a view up and down the canal and watch passing boats and new arrivals.

7pm a week or so ago the buzz of a small outboard engine heralds the arrival of 4 men dressed all in black sitting in 2 rows on an open boat, with a Swedish flag. Nothing like this has been seen here for some time, if ever. Like an SAS (or SBS) raid.

The boat also is black, a large inflatable on a kind of steel hull below the waterline. They moor opposite us, about 50 yards away. We all stare as these 4 big guys climb off the hard moulded seats and disappear into the port office.

Later we’re supping wine on the back deck when we see them walk off in the direction of St.Flo town centre.

“They’re off to find a meal and a hotel” I say to Sue.

“No, they’ll sleep on the boat”

“No way. They’ll want a meal and a comfortable bed after a day on that thing.”

Later they came back and slept on the boat, with a white sheet hanging over the side. Oh, well.

Next morning I wander over while they are yawning and stretching.

“We are the Lost Vikings” one of them says, pointing to the logo on their black T-shirts. “Where are we?”

“On the Burgundy canal. Where are you going?”

“Marseilles. We sailed from the east coast of Sweden down through the Baltic and the Kiel Canal past Denmark then Holland, Belgium and France. All in 2 weeks!!We can do 100 kilometres an hour.”

(The Kiel Canal has 2 locks – one at the beginning and one at the end)

In addition to the little outboard they had another massive 300 HP engine clamped alongside it.

“It will take you another month. There are 189 locks just to get to the bottom of the Burgundy canal so you’ve around 180 to go and there’s a speed limit of 8kms. Would you like some breakfast – I’m driving up to the supermarket now?”

And so one of them came with me and came back clutching some salami and cheese. He hesitated before the checkout and then doubled back and picked up the essentials – a 12 pack of Heineken. On the way he told me they were 4 friends from different backgrounds: Navy SEAL, Parachute Regiment, I.T. specialist and Teacher/ round the world sailor. They were drinking beer at the Stockholm boat show last year and decided to have an adventure, and bought the boat which they would sell once they got to the Med. They were filming and posting on Facebook and had to be back for a presentation at the Gothenburg boat show in 2 weeks, followed by Stockholm the week after.

They could not speak French.

A re-think was needed.

Vincent, the Port Manager, put them in touch with a local haulage firm who would supply a mobile crane and a truck to take their boat down to Chalon sur Saône from where they could reach the Rhône, and eventually the Med. 

So for the next two days I ferried them to the supermarket, the bank, the transport Company and eventually the railway station in the nearby town. Sue fed them lunch and I helped them with their communications. They slept without complaint either on the floor of the port office or on the hard boat seats and were constantly good-humoured and full of fun (and Heineken). 

The lift-out and subsequent loading on to the truck provided entertainment for a couple of hours on what was otherwise a plain old boring day here in the Burgundy sunshine imbibing cheese and wine.

I had my photo taken with the Lost Vikings and when I looked on Facebook there was a lovely picture of ……………..Laddie. Cheers guys, I hope you made it.

For some reason Sue was not keen on my proposal to fly to Gothenburg (or Stockholm) to meet them at the other end. Oh well…

BISON FUTÉ (pron. Beeson fewtay)

As any Parisian resident will tell you August is the month the boulangeries, and other small local shops close for 3 or 4 weeks, stick a notice on the door saying when in September they’ll be back, and disappear on their holidays.

Along with thousands of other French, British and Dutch the majority of the traffic is on a North-South Axis down the A6 motorway to Provence and back.

As the busiest times are weekends, this allows the authorities to predict the traffic black spots and on which particular weekends this is most critical. These are called chassée/croisée weekends when those returning from the south pass those still on their way down, and detailed maps of France are printed in the newspaper with various regions marked in ascending levels of horror from ‘very busy’ to ‘don’t even consider it’. Anywhere around or south of Lyon can be a nightmare.

If you’ve ever been stuck in France and seen a roadside picture of a bison and wondered what the hell it was all about, it’s a ‘Wily Bison’ who will guide you away from the traffic jams. Apparently. There must be a Big Chief Wily Bison somewhere sitting in his Parisian lair directing his minor Bison dotted around France, desperately trying to be wily in the face of millions of angry motorists. Don’t blame me if you get lost on a Bison Futé……..but at least you now know what it is.

Just had a busy week with our daughter Caroline, husband Gaz, Jake12 and Ollie 10 staying on board and cruising with us, including 3 bikes, an inflatable kayak and a football. The football seemed to be surgically attached to the boys’ feet night and day such was their skill in keepie-uppie (or whatever it’s called nowadays) and absolute passion for the game.

We moored alongside the park in Auxerre, near the football stadium and the outdoor/indoor swimming pool complex, complete with big water slides which I felt sure would be a big attraction. However the sports facilities are nothing short of superb for a town of 40,000 population and the enclosed, but free for all, training pitch sported a 3 or 4G pitch, which I am told is a 3^rd or 4^th Generation development above the original Astroturf, and much sought-after. The boys had the treat of one of the Auxerre squad players who was training alone, having a kick-around with them. I had told him that the older boy was on contract as a goalie with Sheffield Wednesday a Championship club, so he obviously wanted to rub shoulders with a rated English player.

When I asked the boys what were their highlights of the week, number one was ‘Dad falling into the river trying to launch the kayak’, followed by football, the crêpes at Vincelles and the fabulous ‘feu d’artifice spectacle’ or firework display with music which went on for a full 15 minutes on the eve of the national holiday for the 15^th August. We had a grandstand view from the deck of the boat as this took place on the pitch at the side of the canal. It was genuinely stunning and must have cost a fortune.

We cooled off with a swim in the river that day which was wonderfully refreshing, and Gary did spectacular dives off the side of the boat. The fish remained unimpressed, but everyone else was.

Question: What do you do in France if you get 12 points and lose your driving licence?

Answer: Buy a little car with 3 cylinders and keep on speeding and drunk driving as before. 

You don’t need a licence, only insurance. I swear this is true.

They are called voitures sans permis and made by Ligier, amongst others.

When I first heard one of these little runabouts it was rattling so loudly that I thought it must be about to break down as the big end bearing was gone, but it turned out they are all like that. I asked a French colleague yesterday what these cars were and got the unbelievable truth. They are specially designed for people either incapable or unwilling to pass a test, or banned from driving. Is this an EU directive? I think not. There are loads of them around – you can hear them before you see them.

“What about the Welsh Australians” did I hear you ask?

We helped a nearby barge owner from somewhere near Wagga-Wagga (honest) between Sydney and the Snowy Mountains (really). He and his Welsh-born wife had left the rat-race to open a little bakery in Oz and buy a huge Dutch Péniche to cruise the French waterways for 6 months or more but needed to get a residence permit as he was technically an illegal immigrant whereas she had a European passport.

The forms were available at the préfecture in Auxerre, 35 minutes drive away.

They were going to go by train. As I knew the local station was about a mile away and the same at the other end, and the temperature 30 degrees Sue and I volunteered to drive them there and have a day out in Auxerre for a change.

When we found the préfecture they were very polite so we asked if we could fill out the application there and then, and submit it. Sorry, it’s Wednesday, and it’s closed on Wednesdays. But we’re here now and you’re open. Yes but it’s closed you’ll have to come back tomorrow. The same office processed the application the next day and we had another day out and a nice bottle of Burgundy as a thank you.

Our new-found friends sailed off happily into the sunset. It was an echo of 1966 when I helped a Czech dissident student escape from Yugoslavia to the west, but without the armed guards patrolling the boat.

We’ve now added fermé le mercredi to our regular fermé le lundi vocab. It’s a total lottery. Some also close Tuesdays because the market day is Monday and the surrounding population surges into town centres to snap up cheap food (note from Sue – not that cheap) and catch up with all the gossip. Laddie gets so much attention on these occasions it’s almost embarrassing - kisses and hugs right left and centre (that’s the dog) while we stand there lapping up the praise and confirming his age, and yes, it’s a boy. We love France!

If you do, I can’t praise highly enough the books by An Englishman, Martin Walker, set in Perigueux (the Dordogne region) in the South West of France. about Bruno a village policeman.

Coming home in September so this may be last message this summer.

Au Revoir mes amis.

The LostVikings (well 3 of them)

Loading the rib onto the lorry

 

John never takes his hat off !

Stunning sunset

St.Florentin, Thursday 27th July 2017

Alors, mes amis, where were we? 

Well, it’s festival season in France and all sorts of things are happening from ‘Vide greniers’ everywhere in the smallest towns to ‘fêtes foraines’ (fairgrounds) in the bigger towns with open spaces, accompanied by live music, dancing and eating and drinking, and usually fireworks. 

A big fête is due here in the port on the 5^th and 6^th August with a firework display as well as the most import thing for most Frenchmen - a 'concours de peche', a fishing competition. 

Judging by the number of anglers on the canal and river sides I am amazed that fish still allow themselves to be regularly caught, (and mainly returned to the water now, rather than to the table). Laddie loves to watch them and has to be restrained from diving in to pursue the float and learning new French phrases from the bank side. He is getting quite fluent now and enjoys huge cuddles from our frequent visitors and passers -by. The conversation always goes like this:
 'Qu'est-ce qu'elle est belle!!' 
Me: NON! 'Qu'est-ce qu'il est beau!' He is a garçon. 'Ah, yes he is called Laydee.'
Me: NON! 'Laddie'. Lady is a woman. Ah yes. 'Viens ici Laydi'.
Then, 'where are you from from, Holland?'
'No, Angleterre'
'Do you own the boat?'
'Yes, we come here every summer'
'You sail it from England?'
'No, we bought it in France'
'Really?' (Said with surprise.) 'And what do you do with it in the winter?'
'We moor it in France in September and pick it up in April.'
And so on.....

We have been in St Flo so long that Laddie has trained all the locals who come to their social club (picnic table) every afternoon under the trees in the port, to throw the ball down the slipway for him. Mind you, they have little choice as he runs back soaking wet and sits between their legs and has a good shake, but they don't mind and I get a handshake from them as they arrive and a 'bonsoir' as they leave. (we're fortunately not at kissing stage yet).

Vide Greniers:
Unlike UK there are no charity shops in France as we know them (it is thought they would damage the local economy) so everyone tries to dispose of their old clothes and bric à brac via the Vide Grenier (loft clearance). These are held after heavy local publicity in open spaces in parks or community car parks every weekend. People pay a small fee to spread their unwanted stuff on a cloth on the ground or a trestle table and other people come to spend a morning poking around and scoffing at the dozens of little pot figureens and other accumulated detritus which seems to go round and round year after year. I doubt whether much money changes hands and reports of falling attendances are in the local paper, but the bigger ones create huge interest and parking problems nearby.

Now, as you know, the biggest festival is the 14^th July (Bastille Day ) to commemorate the founding of the Republic, with a public holiday and huge firework displays in the major towns. This year the big display was cancelled in Auxerre at the last minute (lunchtime, as boats were in the process of being moved out of the way on the river Yonne). Apparently now it is necessary (presumably as an anti terrorist measure to have an explosives licence signed IN PARIS and someone had either forgotten or not bothered. 

Anyway one of Auxerre’s biggest events of the year didn’t happen, but get this:

According to our local daily paper, the Yonne Republicaine, during the celebrations on the nights of 13^th and 14^th July a total of 897 cars were burned, and 368 people arrested. Wow! That’s what I call a serious celebration. According to the Minister of the Interior ‘the number of incidents was limited due to the large deployment of the Forces of Order, and only slightly more than last year’. That’s OK then.

Chatting to Vincent, the port manager here, I remarked on this, and he seemed totally unsurprised.

‘So do people buy, or even steal, old bangers for the purpose of a ritual burning?’ (thinking of Guy Fawkes effigies on our bonfires) ‘No they just burn any car. They’ll be insured.’ End of.

While on the subject of cars, 326 people died on France’s roads in June, up 15% on last year. About one third are due to alcohol and another third due to speeding. How many are due to speeding drunks is not noted. I’ve no idea how this compares to the UK, but every day in the local paper there is a photo of yesterday’s mangled wreck either wrapped around a tree or another car and the number of dead or injured. You get the names of all the services who have attended from the hospitals, the police inspector and the mayor as well as the ‘pompiers’ (firemen) who often take the injured to hospital. If you’re in trouble in rural France you first dial 18 for the pompiers and they’ll be first on the scene for any emergency it seems, not just fires. The local mayor never fails to attend at some stage – good for votes I guess. In between you’ll get various levels of police and Gendarmes and private ambulance services, helicopters, whatever it takes- everyone wants a slice of the action, (and there seems to be plenty of that).

On the plus side we have been taking advantage of reunion with our air-conditioned car to get away from the waterside and into the beautiful Burgundy countryside with its rolling hills and massive forests of oak, ash and a wide variety of hard and softwoods. 

We deliberately choose cross country D roads (Departmental, not national) to get to our destination and yesterday we drove for 2 or 3 hours on empty roads for mile after mile through acres and acres of smiling sunflowers and harvested wheat fields under a sunny blue sky, and weaved through tiny villages and farms as old as time itself with the occasional dramatic chateau peeking out from behind a screen of trees and then disappearing when you turn off to look for them. Huge birds of prey circle in the sky reminding me to drink plenty of water otherwise my corpse will be contributing to the world wildlife fund.  Along the canals herons wait patiently and then glide gracefully away and settle 100 yards further on to wait for you to catch up and repeat the exercise over and over seemingly without boredom.

In amongst the empty narrow streets of a tiny village with dilapidated shutters are sudden surprises: a children’s playground with bright shiny equipment designed for fun and special exercises which would put our British swings and roundabouts to shame, and a small art gallery. Breath-taking views on the way back from the heights of Chablis and dropping down to the valley floor with literally the world’s supply of Chablis grapes as far as the eye can see, every row trimmed to perfection, up and down the steep hillsides, with tractors ‘on stilts ‘ continually watering and pruning this huge source of wealth for the region.

The canal weed cutter finally arrived here last week - quite a contraption ! No wonder it takes so long to get from place to place - have a look at the video - nope video won't load so you'll have to settle for a picture!

Don’t know where this stuff comes from but hope you enjoy it.

Ratty and Mole

St. Florentin, Tuesday 11th July 2017

Snippets of French life from the last couple of weeks:

The Paris- Clermont Ferrand express ‘forgot’ to stop at Nevers. When they caught up with it in Clermont the driver was drunk and there was a cube of Rosé wine in his cab.

Schools broke up for summer last Friday and fire crackers have been going off day and night ever since, what with Bastille Day fireworks due this Friday the 14^th. 

When pupils go back in September a new law has been passed to cancel Wednesdays and go to a 4-day week. Parents all seem to be in favour. Imagine the chaos in England.

There is a cacophony of car horns every Saturday afternoon and night as processions of cars circle the town celebrating a wedding and yelling out the windows. Later they scream past on the wrong side of the road, drunk, and performing wheelies and skids on gravel car parks. I never did anything like that of course. I didn’t wait for a wedding………..

This morning I was walking Laddie round the grounds of the port which is by a lovely park just outside the town centre with a car parking area in a lay-by. In the middle of nowhere girls in white blouses and black skirts were setting up some podiums (podia??) and a trestle table with white tablecloths and beside the road a black refrigerated Mercedes ‘Traiteur’  van (fine food and drinks) was offloading cases of champagne and orange juice and no doubt helpings of smoked salmon. 

It was 11-30.

“Allo, allo” says I, “what’s this all about then?” 

15 minutes later, on my way back, there is a group of smartly-dressed people gathered, mayor, press and flash-bulbs, the whole bit. I hung around but no-one offered me a glass so unable to contain myself any longer I approached the staff who were struggling to erect a small tent arrangement (it had started to rain) and said “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” (It is acceptable in France, Paris excepted, to approach and speak to almost anybody in public, but you have to be prepared to accept that you may not be able to disengage for some considerable time on some occasions).

“It is an inauguration.”

“Inauguration of what?”

“The new electric car charging point.”

Hence the set-up at the side of the road.

No doubt the local paper will have photos of the Mayor and the car charger tomorrow. Exciting stuff. Meantime let’s raise a glass to the pollution-free future of the automobile. Donald Trump eat your heart out, the French are coming.

Incidentally sales of electric cars in France, at 27% of the total have exceeded sales of diesel and petrol engine cars for the first time at around 25% each.

Current best price for diesel is 1.14 Euros, approx. £1.00 per litre.

A quiet scorching hot afternoon moored in Pouilly a couple of weeks ago with only 2 boats in the port, when a dark blue people carrier screeches (well stops suddenly) opposite Blue Moon and all 4 doors open simultaneously and fully armed Gendarmes leap out, slowly, and I stick my head over the side to watch someone get raided. Must be a drugs bust or something. To my shock 2 of them approached me. Very politely I was asked to produce VNF cruising licence, identity, proof of boat ownership, insurance, fire extinguishers, life jackets, etc.

Sue was at the supermarket but thanks to her organised documentation your correspondent is still a free man and the cops walked away empty-handed.

Last week we were in Tanlay port one of our favourite stops, after another long hot day, and on our way to the on-site café 100 yards away for an ice-cold draft beer or two and I had promised Sue I would spoil her with a Pizza. I just can’t fight my generous nature.

A boat was coming in with an elderly-ish lady (Note from Sue – younger than John) on the front looking uncertain and a gruff-looking bloke at the helm trying to line the boat up to the quayside, so I took the rope and helped them moor up. As I did so I thought I heard a miaow but assumed I was wrong.

At the café they sat at the next table under the tree in the shade and ordered a beer and a pichet of Chablis. We all sat relaxing looking at the boats when a dog jumped off theirs, closely followed by a black cat. It’s OK the lady said, we have 2 cats and a dog travelling with us. The other cat is more timid and will only come out later if it wants. It is tiger-coloured. The black one will wander round and go back on board later. The owners, Urs and Doris were Swiss and owned a restaurant at lock 34 at the southern end of the Burgundy canal and were bringing their boat up for a repair at St. Flo.

The noise from frogs has been almost deafening at several ports and tonight was no exception with non-stop croaking contests well into the small hours apparently, according to light sleepers. Most long-term boaters, like us, are not young and we start yawning around 9.30 and bed by 10 if we can hold on till then. The fresh air, heat and constant movement around the boat all day usually ensure sound sleep.

Anyway, this particular night apart from the frogs we also hear that unique painful screaming of cats fighting. Next morning a distressed Doris is out, still in night attire, calling for the ‘tiger’ cat which has managed to escape through a rooflight in the middle of the night. She is even more upset because she explains she lost another cat 2 years ago at this exact same spot. I promise to look out for it as I walk into the village for our bread and croissant for breakfast. I see one cat but it doesn’t fit the description. Later as we say our goodbyes and cast off she is still there looking forlorn. “We’ll just have to stay another day and see if he comes back”, she says. We will message them soon and check the outcome.

We have made some new French friends this week. After 5 days at Montbard marina sitting on the boat watching the rain come down from leaden grey skies there was a break in the weather forecast for Monday 3^rd July onwards. So on Saturday afternoon I wandered with Laddie up to the first lock on the route to arrange a departure time with the lockkeeper. “Is 9 tomorrow morning (when they first open) OK?”  “No problem. You will travel with Soraya.” He pointed to a beautiful large cruiser in immaculate condition half a kilometre away in the port.

As they were moored some way away from us I had not seen the owners coming and going so I went up to introduce myself. It can be a bit of a lottery as you are stuck with them the whole day, and sometimes more. It can be dangerous as the boats surge around in the lock and you can easily get damaged if you are with a novice or someone not calm. So you need to establish who will go in front and who behind, both of which have advantages and drawbacks such as breathing the diesel fumes of the boat in front.

“Hi I’m John, Blue Moon.” “ Michel.”  He was very polite and gave me the choice to go first. We were going ‘downhill’ which is easier, so Sue could control the boat on a single central rope so she chose to go second, at the back of the lock. I would sit on the throttle contemplating nature and talking to Laddie instead of making sure the boat didn’t get swept back and sit down on the ‘step’ in front of the rear gates as the water level dropped. (not as rare an event as you might think.)

This would tip the boat up and we would all be in the drink never to sail again. On the other hand we were perilously close to being swept forward into the back of Soraya, totally sociably unacceptable to say the least. As we sallied back and forth in the swirls and eddies between these two fates Sue would helpfully scream the occasional obscenity at me to ensure my attention did not wander from the task in hand.

Michel and his charming wife Chantal were calm and experienced and they leaped ashore and took our ropes every time we stopped. Sue’s foreboding about breakdowns persisted, correctly as it turned out, and we followed them slowly all week through the sea of clinging weeds, reversing the propeller every so often to untangle them and clearing out the water filter or ‘salad basket’ more and more frequently, twice a day became every 2 locks it was so bad. Then we stopped the engine completely in the bottom of a lock, as no water at all was coming out of the exhaust coolant pipe.

Sue was on her knees with the floor up and frantically rodding the vertical water intake tube, about an inch and a half diameter, with a kind of flue brush at the end of a cable, while the lock-keepers watched anxiously as we were now holding up the canal, with other boats waiting. But it was rock solid. Michel came to the rescue, climbing over from his boat with a kind of electric blower, a vacuum in reverse. I passed our cable reel up to the dockside and a helpful resident plugged it in to his mains and Michel blasted out the blockage in an explosion of air, water and weed from under the boat. Saved again from an ignominious and expensive fate. Another bottle of Chablis was called for and duly drunk together with them once we reached St. Florentin an hour later.

Apart from that we’ve nothing to report except that the hugely anticipated aircon once we got back to our car after 6 weeks travelling, failed. 89 Euros and Monday morning later we’re back in business.

 

More in a week or so. A bientot.

Back in MONTBARD, Thursday 29th June

Well so much for our travel plans! 

I know it was extremely hot in UK last week so you can imagine what it was like even hotter (35C-39C shade temp most days) living in and on a steel boat which only cooled to around 30C at midnight. 

So we had to stay a week at Pouilly-en-Auxois port, about ¾ mile outside the town, which was the only mooring within easy reach where we could guarantee to have electricity -  vital to work the cooling fans in the saloon and bedroom. (We tried to buy portable aircon but by then the whole of France was sold out). 

Other key elements for survival in the port, apart from plentiful water, were:

1.    A Super U supermarket within walking distance, (also with bread and croissants, but fermé le dimanche unfortunately)

2.    A shady area under the trees with picnic tables (have you ever tried sitting on a wooden bench at between 95 and 100 Fahrenheit in the shade for an entire day trying to keep a Border Collie entertained with a ball?)

3.    Laddie’s personal swimming pool. A sectioned off part of the harbour with a launch ramp. He learned to dive after a while (see video clip but don't worry if it won't open - we are new to this!)

By day 3 we were going up the wall, tired, hot and irritable (more than usual in Sue’s case). And there’s only so many times you can throw a ball in a pool and then have to fetch it back yourself as Laddie is hiding in the bushes nearby while you’re out in the burning sun.

So we hired an air-conditioned car for 3 days from a local garage and toured the local beautiful green hilly countryside and ancient villages such as Semur en Auxois and Chateauneuf castle. Also into Dijon where we got horrendously lost looking for an electrical warehouse in the vain hope of finding some aircon.

Beyond the scary 3.3km long Pouilly tunnel facing us if we went further was the reputedly highly scenic Vallee de L’Ouche, (the Switzerland of Burgundy one book claimed) but on the downside very few moorings with power or shops and restaurants) 

Also incoming travellers told us horrendous tales of weed in Dijon and 20 kms beyond which we would have to get through without tangling the prop and the rudder or worse, blocking the cooling system and stalling the engine (which we had already experienced to our cost).

So, discretion being the better part of valour, we decided to visit the hillsides and castles of the Ouche valley by car, and turn the boat round and head back up through the weeds we’d already met to our future base in St. Florentin, as soon as the heat wave eased off.

Tales from the Pouilly tunnel:

-A Dutch guy and his wife we had met before, were moored at the other end of the Port preparing their boat to go through the tunnel (for obvious reasons you have to have a pre-arranged time as it’s limited height and width and one – way). He was busy sawing planks of wood by hand and screwing large castors on the end and fixing the planks at deck level. He explained that if he strayed from the centre of the arch his cabin roof would hit the walls as it was a rather large barge, and the wheels on the end of his planks would run along the walls keeping him straight. Some people take their leisure very seriously. I’ve never seen him sitting on the boat relaxing with a glass of wine. His wife looks permanently stressed, never relaxed. Maybe they are if they survived the tunnel.

- On the other hand a motley group of Kiwis pulled into Pouilly on a group timeshare boat looking very tatty. Did we know anyone who could repair canvas? No. He hadn’t bothered to take down the Bimini hood and the tunnel roof had wrecked it. The next lot coming in would not be well pleased. Hey Ho.

Four days into that return trip brought us here to Montbard during which we only passed ONE boat going the other way. We were on our own in all 64 locks, and 57kms, and there were no other boats in the moorings apart from the odd long-term resident. Great for us and peaceful nights, too, but it felt very strange.

Now we are sitting huddled in the rain as the storms started Tuesday night after our arrival and are forecast to continue to the weekend. Happy days! Good job we brought some crossword books.

Just heard that one of the hotel barges (1930 built) has no customers for 2 months, but the ones we met have about 12 – 20 passengers or more, a mixture of Americans and Australians. They charge ‘from’ 6912 dollars per person for 6 nights, 7 days for the lowest category cabins!!Was a growing business but fear of terrorism seems to have had an effect, not the price.

For those interested, we pay around 300 Euros per year for our VNF (Voies Navigables de France) licence, like a car tax disc which lets us cruise all French canals and rivers, and pays for the éclusiers (lockkeepers) and frequently éclusières. These guys open and close the lock gates and you can help them if you want but you’re not allowed to open the sluices. 

On the Burgundy Canal because the locks are sometimes in flights or staircases the éclusiers have scooters or mopeds and follow you for a whole series of locks working in teams to close the gates behind you and then race past you to open the next set which can be only a few hundred yards away in some cases. They can be a cheery bunch especially the young ones and you establish quite a rapport chatting while waiting for the lock to fill or empty. They check with you where you’re going to stop and what time you want to leave the next morning. They work from 9-12 and you have to moor up for lunch until they return at 1 o’clock and start again until 7pm if you want, although we’ve had enough by about 2 or 3, and you can’t leave it too late in the season like all the rental boats do, when there’s no space in the moorings.

You can also ‘wild moor’ anywhere as long as you’re not blocking any entrances or on tight bends. We can do this easily with solar panels and 400 litres of water on board, but you risk getting stuck in shallow waters on the bankside if you’re not careful and it’s not pretty trying to escape the mud and stones (and  the weeds this year!)

Bonnet de douche! As Del Boy Trotter used to say in the bar.

If you’re still awake after all that, well done.

Chateaneuf

When the sun was around

The old electric chain tug at Pouilly

Valley of the Ouche

Sunday 18th June, Pouilly-en Auxois

Well we made it to the summit (up 55 locks) and we’ve got 30-34 degrees forecast for today and the next few days so we dropped anchor here yesterday afternoon until it goes cooler and we can proceed through the tunnel and thence downhill (yay!) for quite a way to Dijon and beyond, weeds permitting.

I forgot to mention something that happened just after our arrival in France. The first of May fell on a Sunday and Laddie and I went over the bridge in Auxerre to fetch the bread and croissant for breakfast from the renowned Roy’s Boulangerie, next to which is a small vegetable market on Sundays. However this time, in addition to the market a number of small folding picnic tables had been set up immediately in front of the shop around the steps.

Each one was manned by family members, sometimes a father and daughter, or a husband and wife, mother and daughter etc., perched on small stools. On each table were small jars with tiny white flowers sticking out and they all seemed to be competing with each other to sell something although they sat quietly there, unlike regular market traders. A beggar lady sat on one of the steps with the same floral offering laid out and a few coppers on a cloth.

Now these people stood between me and my breakfast which is not a good sales pitch in a morning. Also I had not a clue what was going on. The first to get the object of my wrath was a market stall-holder who ventured over as I tied Laddie to the nearby railing. ‘Muguet, m’sieur? Deux euros’

He thrust a bunch of what looked like white weeds at me, eagerly watched by ten pairs of eyes, as to the outcome of this pitch which, if unsuccessful, could yield a later opportunity for them. To his apparent amazement I turned down this opportunity to seize a fistful of daisies at a bargain price and proceeded to queue for my croissant. As I exited the shop I could feel all the eyes watching this flowerless man walking away unconcerned, his 2 Euros still intact.

What could possibly persuade these well-dressed apparently middle class people to sit from early morning hunched on stools trying to earn a couple of Euros from passers-by for something called ‘moo-gay’?

The story doesn’t end there. As I crossed back over the road bridge and turned towards the port a battered old transit van clanked to a halt and a rough-looking peasant woman stuck her head out of the window. Before I could ask what she wanted she screamed at me ‘Give me 2 Euros!!’ ‘What for?’ (I thought she must be begging.) Her partner glared over from the driving seat. ‘MUGUET!! DEUX EUROS!!’ She looked at me as if I were an idiot, a state which was rapidly approaching. After yet another refusal the van revved furiously and shot off in a cloud of dust as further sales opportunities were disappearing quickly.

When I returned to the boat totally perplexed and reached for the dictionary, as some of you will have realised, muguet is lily of the valley and obviously a tradition in France on the 1^st May. Who knew? There is no price war as two euros was a constant feature but there was certainly plenty of competition.

By Monday morning there wasn’t a moo-gay seller in sight and I could relax and buy my croissant in peace and nod genially to the usual guy squatting in the doorway of the building opposite with a few coins in a hat in front of him. He smiles back and we say bonjour and carry on to the café on the corner unless it’s Thursday of course (don’t ask) and I have to remember to buy my copy of the Yonne Republicaine at Roy’s bakery who stock it specially on Thursdays.

French life can be convoluted but fascinating unless you’re not in the mood.

ARKWRIGHTS TILL

We were moored in Tonnerre in a wonderful shady spot right next to a park, with benches alongside the canal, one of them right opposite the boat. On a previous day we had noticed that there seemed to be a few mentally and physically disabled people wandering around usually escorted on walks along the canal bank through the adjacent woodland.

This time, I was preparing to fill the water tank on the boat from taps kindly provided by the port free of charge. I have a long extending hose with a nozzle on the end (stop sniggering at the back there Smithers) which fits into a vertical aperture on one side of the deck. When the filler cap is unscrewed the nozzle pushes in, and with any luck wedges in place, dependant on the water pressure, and it’s a careful balance between the supply tap and the nozzle tap. If both are fully opened you’ll be standing there for ages with your foot on it resisting the pressure, but half measures will fill the tank in about half an hour or more and you can go and make a coffee.

The filler cap this particular day was on the bank side of the boat opposite the bench. As I connected up I was concerned to see a thin young woman on her own rocking violently between sitting upright and bent double with her head between her knees which was quite disturbing as there was no carer in sight.

I carried on setting up the nozzle to be at just the right pressure working from the bank side, and became aware she was watching proceedings but carrying on rocking at the same time. With the taps open, I then realised I needed to get back on the boat but the hose was in the way and perilously close to the finely balanced nozzle with its cold water jet. I deliberately closed in very tentatively and placed one foot on the boat as the girl/woman watched closely with Sue observing from top deck.

So far so good.

I swung my other leg up and the boat tipped but I must have caught the hose as the nozzle leaped out of the opening and spiralled frantically like a wild thing drenching everything in sight including my shorts and trainers until I could wrestle it back into position. Turning round, the lassie on the bench was in hysterics (as was Sue) and I think in some small way I may have helped alleviate whatever she was suffering that day.

We later christened that our ‘Arkwright’s till moment’ from Open All Hours when Ronnie Barker (and later David Jason) almost gets his fingers trapped in the temperamental old till. Any way it was worth getting soaked for, and it was a hot day.

Other moments may follow- watch this space.

Port at Pouilly-en-Auxois

Entrance of the tunnel

Friday 2nd June, Montbard, Canal de Bourgogne

On our way.....

Having managed to persuade the Auxerre port engineer J-P to carry out an unscheduled oil and filter change on Blue Moon we set out on the first leg of our planned journey down the Burgundy Canal in the direction south towards Dijon.

We are travelling with another boat of similar type and size, Sirius, owned by John MacDonald a harness and saddle maker from Somerset and Reggie, his small Yorkshire terrier. 

Reggie is very adventurous and pays frequent unexpected visits to Laddie to check whether he has eaten all his dinner or not. Reggie has a special basket to ride in on the front of John’s bike whenever he goes off to look for supplies and sits there looking cute and attracting attention from all the ladies. John is not averse to this as he is on his own following his wife’s death a couple of years ago.

These last couple of weeks have been extremely arduous. From the start of the Burgundy canal we have several weeks of travel uphill to the summit at Pouilly en Auxois, a climb of over 290 metres in 156 kilometres and 115 locks. We have so far only done 102 kms and 50 locks.

This is hard work. To give you an extreme example, the first lock at Migennes is over 5 metres deep. You motor in and crane your neck up to the blue sky above and hope to see the head of the eclusier or eclusière as is often the case with many lock keepers female, appear.

He lowers a long pole with a hook and you loop your mooring rope on the end. It is looped round an invisible bollard and passed back to first Sue on the bow and then my rope to me on the rear upper deck. We then hang on to this for grim death as the paddles are opened and a torrential waterfall pours in. The boat bucks all over the place in the turbulence getting first pushed back (Sue’s job to hold it) and then sucked forward with incredible force (my job). It’s not possible to tie off the ropes as we are continually rising, so they have to be kept taut. The engine is only used in an emergency due to the noise and fumes.

John’s engine smokes a lot so he always follows us in and Sue is frequently treated to a gentle shower in the front (very welcome on a hot day.) This goes on for 5-10 minutes with arm and leg muscles screaming for relief. We’ll have shoulders like Garth, soon!

Eventually our head and shoulders appear above ground level and Laddie gets a view of the lock-keeper's cottage and garden and often his cat or dog, and we can relax until the next one.

We managed 6 locks between 9-30 and 12 this morning, our record with 2 young and lively guys who earned themselves some cold tinnies as they departed for lunch 12 until 1.

Overall the eclusiers are very friendly and helpful and we occasionally buy produce from them. This week one guy sold us 2 bottles of Chablis then dug up a fresh lettuce from his garden for us while the lock water rose.

It poured with rain the day after our last message, but it’s been scorching hot ever since (30 degrees today) with the hottest May Day since 1922 (36 degrees registered last week) and forecast for a hot summer with droughts in various regions. We can’t raise the Bimini hood when travelling as there are continuous low bridges so we have to slap on the factor 30 and sit and roast most days.

The main problem is the weeds in this canal. In places it’s like a garden lily pond and we have had several breakdowns due to a blocked weed filter. The engine overheats and stops and you are suddenly drifting with no control - rather stressful. Unfortunately a loose wire from our engine to the temperature gauge meant we had no warning and we overheated massively, destroyed the impeller pumping the coolant and damaged the exhaust system. I did not even know I had an impeller, but fortunately John Mac had a spare on his boat, came over in midstream, removed the mangled impeller and inserted his spare, got us going, towed us off the muddy shallows and climbed back on his boat to re-join Reggie.

What a hero. We’re sticking with him for the time being but he has to go back for major engine repair eventually.

Then the engine compartment flooded and he pumped it out with a spare pump he happened to have. The water was soapy and it turned out the shower outlet had been blocked for some time and overflowed round the engine We found a little flue brush in a cupboard and Sue rodded it out. Another problem solved! We don’t paddle in the shower any more:-bliss.

The next day the engine compartment was flooded again and overflowing into the bilges. We called our new Engineer contact, Didier who came out next morning and diagnosed the exhaust coolant problem, tightened a big jubilee clip and kept us on the road until winter repair/replacement can be done. He also reset the water heater, all of which came from the incident with the loose wire.

Nearly 400 Euros of call-outs so far, but all seems well so far now. And we just battle the weeds on a daily basis.

John and I do a little biking locally which is very pleasant but I fall behind on the slopes which he doesn’t even notice. I asked ‘have you done much cycling?’

‘Not until recently but I’ve done John O’ Groats to Lands End, and London to Paris for charity’

He has a daily ride up a one in four hill in Somerset too. Say no more.

An old guy (nearly my age) looking like a tramp pushed a heavily laden bike into our little port the other day, went into the shower block, came out and lay down in the grass, around 4 0’clock. Later he charged his phone and his electric bike battery from the port outlet, made himself some food and lay down on the grass for the night with long gloves and a big hat (in case of foxes.) Next morning I offered him a hot drink which he politely refused with a smile and put on state-of the art cycling gear and prepared for off. Where are you going? I asked ‘Paris’ and he tooted his horn happily as he left. There’s hope yet…….

Sorry this is long but it’s the first Wi-Fi since the last message..

After Pouilly summit there’s an hour long tunnel and then it’s all downhill.

Fingers crossed we can survive until then.

A bientot

In a lock

John and Reggie in Sirius