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 3rd or 4th 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 15th 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.
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| The LostVikings (well 3 of them) |
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| Loading the rib onto the lorry |
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| John never takes his hat off ! |
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| Stunning sunset |
