Blog 8 2018

After breakfast a car came from the boat hirers and picked up the Aussie and his family who terminated their travels unexpectedly at Fleury and left the boat tied up once they had loaded their belongings into the family car. We were now on our own until the guingette opened at 7pm.

Fortunately a VNF van turned up later that morning to announce that the canal would be opened the next day as far as Decize, but boats beyond that would be stranded until the repairs were completed further down the line. SAVED!

Relaxed, we made Decize by midday the following day and moored to a pontoon in the huge modern harbour equipped with a restaurant and bar, and a good supermarket nearby, so we had everything we needed. EXCEPT SHADE!

A couple of days to re-stock the larder and we would be off on our way north up our beloved Nivernais and then to our home port. It would probably take a couple of weeks of steady travel if all went well but we would still be in St. Florentin well before the end of August.

The daily temperature was now upwards of 32 degrees and it was a 20 minute hot walk to the far bank of the Loire with its sand dunes, shallow water ( ¼ mile wide but with loads of sandbanks) and shady trees.  Laddie had a ball (literally) for several days and cooled down.

But then after 5 days of being fried alive out on our mooring in the middle of the harbour with no shade we saw the 7-day forecast was for the temperature to keep climbing every day towards 40 degrees and after much discussion we decided to abandon ship. A call to French boating friends Michel and Nathalie in St. Florentin and they came down the next day, Monday 30^th July and took me back to St. Flo to pick up our car. The plan was to pay 1200 Euros to leave Blue Moon in Decize over winter and start from there in 2019. Fortunately our luck was in and they volunteered to sail her back to St. Flo for us.

Their own boat had too big a draught to sail the Nivernais so it served their purpose as well as ours and everyone was a winner!

We should have called this story ‘Bordering on the Loire’

Get it?

More next year, au revoir

John Sue and Laddie

Blog 7 2018

BEFFES

A good day’s cruise brings us to a modern port just outside the tiny far-from-modern port of Beffes. We’re finally making progress now and walk in to look for a café to reward ourselves with a cup of coffee or maybe a beer, who knows? 2 beers later its 7 o’clock and the little restaurant we had passed across the road  serves us 2 wonderful steaks on hatchets (yes) and a bottle of delicious RED Sancerre. Who knew? OK, we didn’t and it was a pleasant surprise. We had assumed wrongly that all Sancerre wine was white. We rolled happily along the towpath that night.

After a day doing the washing, and Talksport delivering England 1 Croatia 2 we were eager to get going south again and pushed out at 0930 next morning. Then DISASTER.

After 100 yards or so for some reason Sue checks for coolant water coming out the return at the stern. This had bubbled out as usual when I started the engine but inexplicably was totally absent now a few minutes later.  This is NOT good.

Immediately we reversed back into the mooring and switched the engine off as fast as possible. Now what? Impeller? Unlikely as we had recently replaced it. No-one around (no port office here) and one boat left on the far pontoon so I wander over to hopefully pick his brains  The friendly owner is fortunately a French local and  tells me we are only about 5 kms from a marine engineer further upstream whose name he gives me. Sue by this time has stripped out the impeller which is intact. A call to ‘our’ engineer in St.Flo tells me; ‘it’s probably the pump- I did one last week- it cost 2000 Euros, fitted.’

Christ! ‘I’ll get back to you Didier’ (he is 2-1/2 to 3 hours each way to reach us at 60 Euros per hour before we start).

I call the local company and the guy tells me he’ll come and have a look later today. We sit and wait then amazingly at 12 0’clock (lunchtime!) a white van pulls up. An hour later after a thorough examination below the floorboards he confirms it’s the pump and he’ll call us later today with the price. His dedication to the task is duly noted and we decide to go with him.

Long story short, it’ll cost just short of 1000 Euros BUT it will take a week for the delivery even if we pay more for faster service (we tried, but it’s Bastille Day National holiday weekend). 7 days later the motor arrives by post from Marseilles and 9 nights after arriving in Beffes we go on our way again.

In between time we (Sue) had some stressful situations:

- shortage of ready cash and banks, so ordered some 500 Euros cash from the lady owner of the Chez Irene café (48 hours’ notice required and 1 Euro per transaction. No ATM’s here) to purchase food at the little supermarket in town.

-Sue managed to get WiFi in the grounds of the cyclist’s hotel opposite in order to contact the bank to transfer Euros to pay for the pump.

- at the  same time Sue managed to purchase extra G’s to keep our English company  ‘phone operational once she had managed to track Matt down for the password. Which was no easy task

-got confirmation from NHS (via Julia opening our mail) of Sue’s operation on 13^th September (after waiting from 2^nd February for this information) when we had told them we would be in France, PLUS they would need her to be available 2 weeks before that for a check-up but couldn’t confirm a date for that unless we accepted the 13^th Date. (Why send letters to an empty house?) Stress- we would have to go home early and re-plan things.

We swapped some Morbier smelly cheese we didn’t like with a Swiss boat in exchange for some dog-calming pills (Fireworks on 14^th July) .On the Sunday afternoon my new Swiss friend and I put on our blue T-shirts to go down to Chez Irene’s and support the French to beat the Croats 4-2 in the cup final on the Sunday afternoon and revenge the England defeat for us. An air horn helped with the atmosphere with the 20 or so customers in the tiny bar once our hearing returned. Car horns continued the cacophony well into the night as people drove round and round with young fans hanging out of the windows singing, shouting and cheering.

Where did England suddenly go wrong? They won’t get a clearer field than this year for a shot at the title.

Finally, after a farewell hatchet steak at Le Crozet des Chemins and some windy, but hot and stormy weather we were ready to leave with our new pump happily whizzing round and water spurting out of the rear of the boat to our great relief.  Bye-bye Beffes. (And Irene).

As we are still heading south into the sun, we put up the canvas winter hood to shroud the sides of the cockpit steering position, with windows zipped open and doors left off this gives some relief from the heat and easily folds forward at the frequent bridges.

We overnight at Le Guetin, en route for NEMOURS, and at 9 the next morning we have an appointment to pass through the huge double lock, the first of which is 9 metres deep (nearly 30ft).

At 8am Laddie and I set off on our quest for breakfast having spotted a potential boulangerie or possibly a simple depot de pain we had spotted near the restaurant the night before. The doors were open and several guys sipping coffee stared at us when we entered. There wasn’t a baguette or a croissant in sight but I asked the obvious question. ‘Boulengier en vacances m’sieur’ came the reply .And so the curse of the missing croissant struck again and we slunk off to give Sue the bad news and get the Coco Pops out again.

 By appointment with the eclusier the previous evening, Spot on 0900 we motored slowly into the lock spot on 0900 and were calm but apprehensive – scared in other words. When the massive doors close behind the boat you are in a huge dark cavern with slimy dripping walls and with a huge powerful waterfall about to be unleashed from a great height yards in front of the boat from the lock above. The experienced lockkeeper had lowered a hook on a line and hauled up our mooring ropes, passed them round an unseen bollard way above our heads, and passed the fore and aft lines back to us to hang on to. Fortunately we are all alone in the lock with plenty of space should we need it. As the eclusier gradually opens the paddles a waterspout forms and gives Sue a gentle shower as a torrent of water hits the bows where Sue stands grimly holding the line to stop the boat from bucking around. She hauls on her rope to take up the slack as we rise slowly skywards. I glance upwards where a sea of faces looks down from behind a restraining barrier, as tourists – cyclers and hikers mainly - stop on the towpath to gawp at this dramatic spectacle, just as we had done the previous day on our recce to check it out. Forewarned is forearmed.

Once through, we enter directly into the second lock and in turn out on to a canal bridge, similar to the Pont Canal at Briare, but this one goes over the wide course of the river Allier, again with a sheer drop on both sides. So a 3-in-1 experience but smoothly done thanks to a cheerful and experienced lockkeeper. We glide off the end of the canal bridge and back on to the Canal lateral a la Loire direction Nemours.

The day is yet young and with the bonus of a 20 kms run without locks we make good progress and to decide to bypass the turn off the link canal to Nemours and carry on towards  Decize where we will turn north on the Nivernais canal, and eventually home to St. Florentin.

But it was not to be as simple as that.

That afternoon we pull in at a pretty mooring in a little village called Fleury- sur- Loire where a Guingette tent has been erected on the wide grassy banks so we knew we could get a meal that night, and hopefully a cold beer as well.

Then the bad news. An Aussie-manned rental boat we had spoken with earlier that day came in and moored to the bank in front of us. The guy announced he had just made it through the nearby lock as the canal had been closed due to an accident further down the line. Later a VNF (Voies Navigables de France) van pulled up and announced that an accident in a lock beyond Decize had damaged the lock gates AND the masonry wall and it may take a month to repair. In the meantime 40kms of canal was closed until the damage had been surveyed and we would be updated in due course.

So near and so far- we were less than one days travel away from the turning off this canal at Decize to go north up the Nivernais which had been one of the things we had been most looking forward to as we had never travelled the lower section of the Nivernais before, and it would lead us towards home.

Not knowing how long our meagre supplies would last – surely we wouldn’t be stranded there a month?- we ate a meal at the guingette that night, worried that we would have to have some sort of plan B if that were the case.

How would I get back to the car 3 hours drive away from this remote village? I would have to leave Sue and Laddie and then come back for them, even if I could find a station and a train, with a rail strike in progress. Then what? Could we leave the boat here unguarded? But then where would we stay? Hotel or return to England?–  both expensive, but then we would have to come back again when the canal was opened. No immediate solutions came to mind.

Next morning started with worse news. Laddie and I set off on foot to explore this tiny village and find the shop and/or some bread and croissants. I spotted a local and asked the question, and -yes, you’ve guessed it- ‘en vacances monsieur! the nearest boulangerie is 5 or 6 kilometres away.’ Coco-Pops again then laddie.

Blog 6 2018

Sancerre Port is long and narrow with boats moored alongside, on both sides, a bit like cars parked in a suburban street. I choose a big gap and nose gently in to the bank, spotting a handy electricity and water post. Sue stands in the bow, coil of rope expectantly held out for help. I reach for the stern line to do the same when, as if in a dream I see 2 half-naked (bikini-clad) young, leggy, blonde, Scandinavian beauties detach themselves from the boat alongside and, smiling, take the rope from my hands and tie us up. Sue went to fetch some cold water to pour over me as I tried to recover from this shock vision. I am still asking myself if this really happened while Sue is laughing at my attempts to be cool in another sense. I can say I can’t speak Swedish/Norwegian in both languages, but for once I was tongue-tied. (Un)-fortunately this Danish family left shortly afterwards and I could relax.

Laddie and I went for a walk around and to look for the office to pay the mooring fees but there was no official presence or proper office in the port. This had some amusing consequences later.

We had arrived around lunchtime and as the port filled up during the afternoon with boats of varying lengths, shapes and sizes the remaining gaps shrank. Rental boats never plan and consequently continue until the locks close at 7pm and then can’t find a space.

Sure enough around 7pm a 15 metre rental boat came into the port and as it passed us there was standing in the bows–would you believe- a young lady with a boathook, and about to bump into us. As she went past – slower this time- I recognised her, and she me. Simultaneously we both said: Oh! Hello! It’s you! Again! And they continued up the port looking for a non –existent mooring space for one of the longest boats in the harbour.

We had a quick consultation and while they performed a tricky 180 degree manoeuvre at the cul-de sac end of the ‘street’ Sue took control and persuaded the two German lads in the boat behind us to stop drinking beer for a moment and to move into a smaller space in front of us thus leaving space for the Swiss boat. They happily obliged. From past strong friendships with Swiss nationals we were also happy to help.

Meanwhile as the Swiss slowly headed back towards us looking concerned as to where they were going to spend the night, I waved and shouted the good news and we helped them squeeze into the new gap and moor up. They were so relieved that bottles of beer were handed to us, the Germans joined in plus a couple of other boaters, bottles of wine appeared and an impromptu party developed on the grassy bankside. It transpired that the Swiss teachers had booked the previous boat for a one-way trip and after the first breakdown incident which we witnessed close-up, they had contacted the hire company who had picked them up and given them another, identical, boat. However they were not allowed to continue to their intended destination but had to return to base at the end of their original holiday period with no compensation. Cheers, Le Boat.

A passing  South African guy we are chatting with has problems getting a refill of water to his boat as the only mooring space is too far for his hose to reach from the nearest tap. You’ve guessed it- Simpson Services comes to his aid and lends him our extra-length expanding hose. An hour later I get worried he hasn’t brought it back and no tank can possibly be that big. I wander down to his mooring and find out he has discovered some sort of leak so it will never fill but he needs to fill other containers so I leave it with him again.

When he returns the hosepipe later that evening he presents us with a bottle of St. Emilion Premier Cru 2010 as a thank you. No problem! Anything else I can help you with?

The town of Sancerre is perched on top of a big hill a mile or two away overlooking the port. Next day enthusiastic tourists are hoisting back packs and others pumping up bicycle tyres ready for the assault on the summit, and the hoped-for wine tasting tour.

We decide it is too hot, and anyway we have already tasted 2 different types on our neighbour’s boat the other night. What would we do with Laddie, anyway? Also he and I are underfed for such a huge effort as we had walked to the nearest boulangerie that morning, a TUESDAY, only to find it ‘Fermé le Mardi’. Another day of the week with no croissant and no fresh bread. With shoulders slumped we opened a year-old pack of coco-pops and tried to toast some remnants of yesterday’s loaf.

Blog 5 2018

ROGNY-LES-7 ECLUSES No Pizza on Thursdays. Today is Thursday. Merde alors! Back to poached eggs on toast.

Rogny’s 7 locks, no longer in use except for photos.

Friday 22^nd June: OUZOUER-SUR –TREZEE: Can you pronounce it? Lovely gardens for Laddie to romp in.

Next stop BRIARE. On advice we ‘phone ahead to speak to the harbour manageress Dorothy Maas (Dutch lady) to book a place in the main marina (there are other, less favourable moorings) and also less expensive at 14 Euros a night!  But we’re in the town centre and opposite a large park.

Monday 25^th June

The housekeeper advises me that we urgently need to find a big supermarket as stocks are running low, except for baked beans- we have loads of those, as well as tea-bags for the entire Briare population.

We ask around but there is nothing within our walking and carrying range so after exhausting other transport possibilities we reluctantly call a taxi who can fit us in for 1 hour between other clients. Sue heads off with him for the massive Carrefour outside town and to everyone’s subsequent disbelief, including the local taxi driver, it’s CLOSED! At 2 o’clock on a Monday afternoon. Exceptionally supermarkets are not normally ferme le lundi like other shops.

It takes nearly half an hour to go to the nearest alternative, which is in the diametrically opposite direction and also in a nearby town, leaving Sue less than 20 minutes to do a trolley dash in a strange supermarket.

Sunday 24^th  After failure to find ‘poulet rôti’ to take home for Sunday lunch Laddie and I set out for the large café bar in the central square where they are certain to have the 2pm England-Panama match on the telly. Aren’t they? Rounding the corner the ‘Place’ is deserted. Horror of horrors they are stacking the chairs inside as the café is CLOSED on Sunday afternoons. Hurry back to boat where Sue manages to pick up Radio 5 Live via Belgium (BBC is NOT allowed in France). England win 6-1. Life can be really tricky when you don’t know all the rules but, hey, I could follow the match in English.

Next day we cross one of the most famous landmarks of the central region – the Briare

Pont Canal opened in 1896 - a huge viaduct crossing the entire Loire valley (see photo) with a single-lane canal in the middle. Amazingly there are no traffic controls and it’s first come first served and just don’t come head to head with a tour boat (or anyone else for that matter) in the middle as they have priority and it’s a long way to reverse (steering doesn’t work like a car). As it happens the other end is clear and another boat is entering in front of us so we tuck in behind him and Sue films the crossing. Otherwise she would probably faint from the vertiginous sheer drops only 2 metres away from the edge of the boat. The bridge is busy with sightseers walking the 700 metres on both sides. It’s a beautiful day and the scenery is unique over the centre of the Loire.

And so on past Beaulieu to Belleville (is every town beautiful round here?) Must be something to do with the 47 chateaux I count on the charts around the Loire valley within a few kilometres of the river.

As the moorings are free of charge, include electricity and water, and have a small supermarket and a restaurant nearby, as well as a municipal swimming pool we decide Belleville IS beautiful.

As the temperature climbs day by day from 30 to 34 and the up to 36 and 38 degrees we stay the entire week and beyond. Laddie develops ‘the runs’ for several days and our neighbour Alain generously offers to take us to the vet in the nearby town where Laddie gets a thorough health check, followed by injections and tablets. All for 69 Euros, excellent value.

 Alain’s wife Marie-Claude kindly takes Sue to a supermarket in Bonny (another fine town!) and she re-stocks for the forthcoming leg of the journey south. Alain and I drink beer in his air-conditioned boat. He produces a bottle of something called Picon – looks like Martini- and is suspiciously called a beer aperitif. ‘You have to try this – the taste is amazing’, and he pours a small amount into my glass under my cautious gaze. It tastes wonderful and after the second (or is it the third?) large glass I stand up to leave and the boat sways for some reason. We now have a bottle of Picon on board Blue Moon.

Then a near-miss by a big rental boat with 6 Swiss teachers on board coming at some speed on collision course for our stern where we are sitting at our mooring one afternoon. At their bow a young lady is screaming a warning whilst brandishing a boathook in preparation for the inevitable collision. ‘‘We can’t stop the engine – the control’s broken!’’ On the top deck above her two guys appear to be wrestling with the throttle and steering controls on top deck, with no luck as she manages to thrust the pole at our hull as they surge past and we watch them career past several other moored private boats and disappear from sight.

These boats are 50ft long and 12ft wide and sleep up to 8 people. The hirers are given around 10 or 15 minutes instruction, need no permit or previous experience, and the keys are handed over for 2 weeks holiday afloat. We owners have to pass a written and a practical exam to get an International Licence without which we cannot cruise the French waterways or get insurance.

Next day we get England v Colombia (England win on penalties) on Talksport with clear reception and proving better information and commentary than TV. Same for England beating Sweden four days later.

After 11 nights at Belleville the temperature is down to 30 and the night storms are over. Laddie is feeling better and the wine capital of Sancerre awaits 20 kilometres upstream, a single morning’s cruise, with any luck.

Blog 4 2018

MONTARGIS

I don’t know if we’re unusually lucky, or if we appear totally helpless (despite my incomparable handling of the boat in all situations AND in both gears-forward and reverse), but people spring to their feet to help us when we enter a mooring, a manoeuvre which Sue dreads as she doesn’t like leaping off a moving boat as we come alongside (there is no handbrake unfortunately, and a 15-ton boat does not stop on a sixpence).

The one exception in 3 months was an irate German who we unwittingly roused from his afternoon siesta (or other activity) rather than risk damage to his expensive yacht as we squeezed into the tiny and only available space in Montargis port. As I was still at the helm I missed this Teutonic exchange between Sue, in her usual docking position in the bow, and Mr Angry, but I understand that a knowledge of German language was not necessary.

However the mood was lifted in this unexpectedly trendy little town as we sipped coffees in the café and spotted a hairdressers run by a sprightly elderly lady across the square. The rest of the afternoon was passed in free entertainment as one after the other we sat in her chair to be interviewed and bombarded with a torrent of repartee accompanied by wild gesticulations. Cutting stopped at crucial points where particularly important opinions were reinforced (or contested) requiring agitated gestures. All discussion and comments were shared with another lady sitting on a nearby chair who joined in every debate and laughed along with us and the proprietress. 20 Euros for me and 24 for Sue later we emerged with the first coiffures since leaving England 8 weeks previously and in high spirits, especially as we found a rare SPAR mini supermarket nearby. 3 problems solved in one afternoon. Bingo.

POST SCRIPT:  That was 16^th June. Sue’s cut has lasted until now, 7^th September, without maintenance. Good value, although she can’t see anything.

MONTBUOY  Monday 18^th June

Next day we charged off deeper into the wilds of France to Montbuoy. The Canal du Loing had now become the Canal de Briare. As we drew into the bank a group of cyclists were lunching at the picnic tables. Sue stood hopefully on front deck with a coil of mooring rope in her hands trying to look helpless. No need. One of the cyclists had already moved over to help us moor.

While we were securing the boat the cyclists were preparing to move off and one of them walked over bottle in hand, half full of red wine which he proceeded to donate to us as they couldn’t take it with them. Merci beaucoup and cheers!

I went over to plug in to the electricity outlet which was surprisingly available in such a small village. ‘Jetons’, small metal coins, were required to activate the power for a 6-hour period. We didn’t have any, having never been to Montbuoy before.

Laddie and I took an exploratory walk to find the source of supply. There was a beautifully preserved 12^th Century church close by, and behind an open lawn area stood the impressive statuesque and stately stone-built ‘Mairie’ with the usual huge tricolour flying from the pole projecting from the balcony. Not a soul in sight but a dilapidated-looking shop stood atop a small rise in the road. A bell over the door à la Arkwright’s tinkled as we went into the gloomy interior which held a selection of hardware, food and sacks of goodness knows what else. A youngish chap emerged from a side room, chewing, and addressed us:

 ‘‘This is a local shop for local people’’ SORRY got carried away there. (League of Gentlemen; this was the French Royston Vasey)

Me: ‘Sorry I don’t need anything except some ‘jetons’.’

Shopkeeper: ‘Ah, je regrette, I don’t have any. I meant to get some from the Mairie this morning but I forgot and they’re closed this afternoon. Why don’t you call them and ask for help as a visitor.’

Call the Mairie?? Are you crazy?? Well why not? Town Halls look like imposing symbols of  authoritarian bureaucracy, that’s why.

So off we went back to the boat where the kettle was on the gas hob, left a message on the Mairie’s ansafone and settled down with a cup of tea and cheese and pate spreads to await developments.

After 2pm a car pulls up alongside the boat and a young lady climbs out.

‘Bonjour, my name’s Marie from the Mairie. I speak a leetle English. I’m sorry you’ve had a problem getting the jetons for the electricity.

‘Pas de problème. Have you brought some?’ I reach for the Euros.

‘No. We’re not allowed to handle the money. I’ll go and get some jetons and take them to the epicerie who can sell them to you. The shopkeeper didn’t know that in fact this Monday we were closed in the morning and open in the afternoon, instead of the other way round, so he couldn’t have got them himself this morning anyway.’ Right.

A short while later the car pulls up again. She is back to tell us she has delivered the jetons to the shop and we can go and buy them. Machiavelli would have been proud. With a cheery wave she wished us ‘bonnes vacances’ jumped in the car and went back to work.

So Marie from the Mairie has rescued us in a typical French and charming way. Just don’t expect instant solutions in France- especially at lunchtime.

Back to the shop and jetons bought and inserted in the meter, so we decide to stay the night (Monday) particularly as I had already checked out that the Boulangerie was closed only on Wednesdays, and Sunday afternoons, and therefore I could look forward to my croissant with black cherry jam the next morning and a proper start to the day. I might even have a tranche de baguette as well

That evening after dinner we are sitting contentedly on a midsummer’s evening (18^th June) appreciating the peace and quiet of this little village and sipping red wine when  a man approaches from the only other boat in the port, which had moored at the far end, about 100 yards away.

Neither his boat nor he look familiar to us. He looks vaguely English with a check shirt and even trousers. Curiously he is carrying a glass and a bottle of red wine. He climbs unannounced on to Blue Moon rear deck, the bottle having secured our total attention.

‘Evening!’ He sits down as we shuffle up and pours us some wine into our glasses. His boat is called ‘Valkyrie Storm’ (!) and his name is John from Peterborough or somewhere similar. After the usual pleasantries his wife Sharon is signalled to join us now we have proved friendly, and we polish off all his wine and add some of our own.  A lively boater’s chat ensues and we part company very late for us– around 11pm. We never saw them again as they went off early the next morning.

This day at Montbuoy, which we had never heard of before or since, was to us typical of the serendipity of this trip and the successive encounters in strange-sounding places:

CHATILLON-COLIGNY: Loud Australian and partner invited for apéros gets drunker and louder and I hide remainder of bottle of Rosé from him as I want my dinner and he shows no sign of slowing down or reducing volume. We later apologise to neighbouring (English) couple moored behind us and, sitting in their bows, have calmly observed the proceedings from close quarters while sipping their wine. They are quietly amused and invite us to sample their recent purchase of a case of Sancerre the following night. With nibbles- yummy. Result!

Blog 3 2018

No, we have not forgotten you all – it’s just been too infernally hot to sit inside the cabin and write for any length of time and I am a slow typist (should that be keyboard operator?) as I know some of you can only read slowly. Fortunately diary notes have served as a reminder, and here is a quick summary of the next blogs (cut into bite-sized pieces):

Frenchman’s fancy knickers- coiffure comedy- rescued by Marie from the Mairie- free wine twice in one day-croissant nightmares- Laddie needs the vet (again) - Sue takes control of shipping in Sancerre port- Breakdown again, in Beffes- Stress- canal closed- heatwave again –rescue and abandon ship.

MORET

One afternoon in Moret 4 Parisians on a small French boat pulled in and moored in front of us. Soon one of the guys was walking up and down with a puzzled look and a piece of hosepipe in his hand. Obviously a case for Simpson Services to step in and after dazzling them with my command of the language I ended up getting out my hose (extra length of course- what did you expect?)  and  rescued them from a night without washing or drinking water ( the latter in emergencies only if you are French). Possibly the former also! As the guy, who looked quite a character, got back on their boat he briefly dropped the back of his shorts and flashed his brightly coloured ladybird pattern pants at us and disappeared inside as Sue and I burst into laughter. Half an hour later I was sitting on their front deck drinking ‘apéros’ with them. Planters punch or Goudale (brown ale)? I’ll have a beer thank you very much, until Sue shouts me for dinner. She would rather not get involved in an all-French chat, and I don’t blame her. Their gratitude ran to more than one drink, shall we say and much laughter.

 That night, 9^th June, there was another electric storm, but fine the next morning with grey skies.

On leaving Moret the lady in charge of the port handed us a remote control as the next series of locks was automated and with no lockkeepers, just an overseer who travelled up and down in case of difficulties. This meant in theory we could travel at any time of day we wanted (automatic traffic lights told us when we could enter, and no doubt the power was turned off at night)

NEMOURS

The next day we reached the rather industrial mooring at Nemours at 4pm. An hour later the same French boat arrived and pulled in near us. After the usual greetings I left them to it. It wasn’t long before I noticed some frustrated gestures from Monsieur Ladybird pants who was standing by his boat with an electric cable in his hands and shrugs from a fellow ‘battelier’. Another case for SS to come to the rescue with a spare cable with the relevant connector to enable the French boat to have power and light that evening. Unfortunately I had to go and socialise with more apéros on their front deck once again until Sue’s dulcet tones called me staggering back home to Blue Moon once more. Hard work this boating lark.

Something strange happened the next day, Monday. Apart from the trauma of not finding a Boulangerie within walking distance we were sitting breadless on the boat in the pouring rain when, around mid-afternoon, with it raining heavier than ever, we both felt and heard a banging sound on the hull. I leaped out (slowly, you understand) to investigate who or what was crashing into us, or if our mooring line was loose and we were hitting the wharf side. Nothing to see, so went below. Banging started again. Up on deck again we lifted the lid and found the gas locker flooded and 2 heavy cubes of gas floating around, one still attached to the supply line, and banging the hull as well as banging into each other. Somehow, the drain hole in the locker base had become   blocked with dirt and some flakes of rust. The locker was an arm’s length deep requiring us to lay flat on the soaking wet deck and manually scoop out the debris in the filthy water.  Once we had cleared this we retired below, drenched, for a cuppa, with gas bottles secured and silent. Of all the possible boating problems this was definitely not on our list of possibilities. Still, we had not much else to do on a wet afternoon and it was another new experience to add to the general boating repertoire and laugh about once back ashore.

The next morning we were congratulating ourselves on having had 3 free nights mooring at Nemours. Laddie and I walked miles, well, a kilometre or so, to secure bread and croissants for breakfast and the day’s journey. On our return all the other travellers had cleared off and just as we were about to leave after breakfast a Gendarme’s van turned up and politely demanded 27 euros for the three nights stay. Typical! When I complained that no-one else had paid they were sorry, but they had been busy all weekend until then. So was I.

Happy to leave Nemours behind, we continue cruising through rural France, gliding along at around 5mph (8kph speed limit) between vast forests of oak and other hardwoods with occasional views over Charolais –populated fields to distant hills. Stopping at small ports, or even in the wild overnight, we meet other travellers on long trips and especially those going in the opposite direction So many small shops have closed down, we interrogate each other as to the location of boulangeries, small supermarkets and restaurants, and what day of the week they close. Not all are closed on Mondays but catch you out on other mid-week days, and Laddie and I trudge back to the boat at 8-30 with empty shopping bag, hungry and disappointed, on a Tuesday, Wednesday or even a Thursday morning.

Over a drink we meet people of various nationalities and update our cruising charts with relevant up-to –the-minute info. from their latest experiences as well as passing on our own tips.

It may not be obvious to non-travellers but fresh milk is extremely rare in the rural villages and we seize 2 or 3 bottles of demi-écrémé for our cups of tea wherever we can and cram them into the fridge. French people consume little milk so long life is readily available if they don’t want black coffee. ‘Tea’ is normally a catch-all word for a herbal infusion, without milk. We frequently re-inforce national stereotypes by making a brew around 4 o’clock. Ah oui, they say knowingly, c’est l’heure du the anglais.. One afternoon in port I offered a cup of tea to a group of French friends our own age, one at a time, and without exception they recoiled in horror as if I had offered them a cup of poison, and politely declined, preferring water (or so they said!)

 

Blog 2 Friday 8th June – Moret sur Loing

 THE JOURNEY BEGINS

After nearly 4 weeks in our home port of St Florentin we finally got underway on Saturday 2^nd June when the lock opened at 9am. What took us so long I hear you ask? Waiting for parts mainly, all from within France, and promised ‘normalement’ within 2 or 3 days (weeks more like). Frequent phone calls from our French engineer to the suppliers of toilet parts had no effect so Sue got a next day delivery from a French supplier much to his astonishment (and possible dismay –for obvious reasons as you can imagine). So toilet fixed, then domestic water pump failed (after 26 years’ service), fire extinguishers had to be checked and stamped, sun blinds made (again by Sue) and fitted etc. etc.

Then, one day before departure both Sue and Laddie developed shall we say ‘digestive’ problems. True to form neither of them wanted to go to the doctors, but Laddie had no choice so we took him to the local vet who gave him two strong injections and a load of tablets, all for 69 Euros. They could do nothing for Sue that would be printable.

On our return to the harbour I fell full length on a slippery edge of the slipway on to solid concrete and nearly broke my nose, elbow, thigh and shoulder, but after being picked up and dusted down by the French gang, a couple of beers and much sympathy I emerged shaken but not stirred. I told our friends who picked me up and dusted me down 'je me suis casse la gueule’ literally ‘I broke my gob’ and I fell in the merde, to great laughter.

The next day we set off early and it took until just after lunch to cover the 8 or so locks to the end of the Burgundy Canal and join the relatively massive Yonne River in the general direction of Paris 3or 4 days travel to the North. We wanted to go south eventually, down the Loire valley but first we needed to go up to the junction with the Seine and branch off on other canals taking us across there.

Our colleague Johnny Mac and his dog Reggie, on board Sirius, a similar size boat to ours, had already left for the northern end of the Yonne and were due to return and meet up with us halfway. This proved to be a blessing in disguise.

Day 2 of our trip, Sunday 3^rd June we were heading up from our overnight mooring in Joigny having secured the essential croissant and baguettes from the nearby Boulangerie for breakfast and lunch. The weed filter had been checked and engine cooling water was spurting reassuringly out of the stern outlet. The sun was shining with little wind, the motor was purring, three hire boats had already left in the opposite direction and we had the entire river to ourselves, about a quarter mile wide. There were no real speed restrictions to worry about and with beautiful forest scenery all around a millionaire on his billion pound yacht could not have been happier. But then…………….

About 10 am the river was diverted onto a much narrower bypass section like a canal with huge rocks forming the banks. Still no traffic in sight. A gentle peaceful cruise until we could rejoin the main river again. Then came a piercing alarm from the dashboard. Engine overheating signal! Then a piercing cry from front deck: JOHN STOP THE ENGINE!! Then the engine stopped all on its own.

We were now floating uncontrolled in the middle of the waterway with no steering other than  a bow thruster, a sort of reversible fan used for fine tuning the direction of the nose at low speeds, but heavy on battery power and liable to burn out fuses if overused.

I centred the boat and dashed below to join Sue in an emergency meeting.

Let’s check the filter.

No weed in filter.

Check the radiator. Carefully release red hot cap. Full.

That only leaves the dreaded impeller.

When you buy a boat nobody tells you about impellers, but as you travel you hear horror stories about breakdowns, and also you find out that everyone (except you) carries a spare one (or more).

It’s a rotating hard rubber moulded device with short wings which you have to compress by hand into a horizontal chamber about 4-5 inch diameter located in the engine compartment below the floor. When working it spins round and impels the cooling water from the river or canal around the engine block and exhaust system with no further maintenance until it breaks up with overuse and stress (sound familiar?)

Up came the board over the engine and our plucky cabin girl flung herself headlong on the floor and supported only by her frontal assets (and at great risk to same) hung her head and arms over the edge of the compartment, dangling in front of the impeller housing. Then came the tricky bit. The captain’s mini socket set was dusted off from below the stairs and a half turn made to release the 6 tiny brass screws holding the face plate of the impeller housing in place. Any slip at this point could be fatal as the drop into the bottom of the hull would make it extremely difficult to retrieve these special screws (‘a piece of cheese on a stick’ I was told when I eventually asked the inevitable question).

With bated breath I watched as her nimble fingers teased the fine threads out one at a time and passed them over to me on the other side of the hatch, kneeling in the galley. Then the face plate. And then the shattered remains of the impeller which was fitted by Johnny Mac last year and never replaced during the winter servicing.

This meant that the new replacement we had bought was still on the shelf in the cabin, still in its box complete with gasket and as it turned out erroneous and inadequate instructions. The new impeller was eventually persuaded into place after much cursing and with the aid of a mallet, the gasket greased with the little bubble of lubricant provided and the face plate screwed in place.

Let’s try it!

OK …..

I started up the stairs to go and check if the water was coming out the back of the boat while Sue started the engine from below.

UNFORTUNATELY the boat surged forward and crashed into the rocks lining the side of the canal because a) I had left it in gear when the engine failed and b) we had drifted into the edge while we had been laid on the floor below.

Our lovely bow now has an ugly dent with paintwork and hull visibly damaged.

HOWEVER, I didn’t have time to cry as worse still, the impeller wasn’t working and no water was coming out.

Merde.

Re-think: let’s call Johnny Mac on his mobile.

‘Hi John, where are you?’

‘I’m on my way south and I can be with you in about 4 hours – in the meantime try turning the impeller the other way round and see if that works. The wings should be bent clockwise on some boats and others anticlockwise.’

‘Cheers. See you later’

The whole routine repeated and the impeller turned. Still no water. Sue extremely frustrated and puzzled so nothing for it but to wait for John Mac.

Back up on deck.

Boat free of the rocks, still adrift and fortunately still no traffic. In the distance I can just see a lock about a kilometre away. The current is in that direction and so is the lightest of all breezes, combining to give us about half a mile per hour progress if we can keep the nose straight.

With Laddie whining for the toilet we all hang on until just before the lock he can’t hold any longer and it’s a bucket and mop for the poor dog (and Sue) and another of the Vet’s tablets (for Laddie).

The eclusier emerges from his cabin, and takes our rope, amused, as he’s been watching us creep ever closer for the last hour, and it’s nearly lunchtime. We explain that rescue is coming and we need to moor up outside the lock until he gets here. No problem.

Thank God none of the huge barges up to 200ft long came through that day as their wake would have churned up so much turbulence that without a mooring line and no steering we would have been smashed up on the rocks lining this section of canal, much narrower than the wide river and only just wide enough for a boat and a barge to pass each other.

The heat builds up and around 4pm John Reggie and Sirius arrive. After a cold drink he dives below and removes the impeller and carefully re-installs it after checking which way the engine turns. Half way through fitting the gasket seal it dawns on him that although it looks perfectly circular it has a small sticky-out bit

(technical term) and has to match the same sticky-out bit on the housing otherwise the seal will fail (which it did) even if everything else is correct (which it was).

THIS IMPORTANT DETAIL WAS NOT MENTIONED IN THE FITTING INSTRUCTIONS NOR IN THE ON-LINE VIDEO THAT WE WATCHED WHILST AWAITING RESCUE!

What chump writes these things and why did the engineer not change the damn thing at the end of last season?

Sue was like a bulldog chewing a wasp for several days after that.

As you can imagine we promised John a slap-up meal once we got to port, as a huge thank you (once again).

So dogs and crews were loaded up and off we went to find a secure mooring for the night, back on the main river.

Sorry if all that was a bit boring but it was a hugely stressful experience for us, but a problem we had 90% solved except for that crazy detail. Frustrating!

Anyway back to the travelogue bit and the reason we love doing this boating thing.

The upper part of the Yonne and the Seine were almost boat-free and people-free.

For mile after mile the river twisted gently between vast dense forests of all kinds of trees – it could have been the Amazon or central Canada or Africa. Occasionally vine covered hillsides were visible in the distance. Hard to imagine Paris was only an hour’s drive away from this jungle.

Pont-sur- Yonne followed Sens and Villeneuve where Johnny Mac, 100 metres or so in front of us stopped to rescue a Frenchman we had spotted standing up in a small motor boat drifting in the middle of the river who obviously had a problem. I approached to help as John has almost no French whatsoever, and a diagnosis might help. But by then John had expertly thrown him a line and brought him alongside to tow him back into his marina. All this single-handed.

When he caught up with us I was curious.

‘What happened to him, John?’

‘Water in the fuel, probably condensation after a winter in dock’

‘How did you know what he said?’

‘Sign language, basically’ (And lots of experience, I thought)

Having advanced Anglo-French relationships further, we moved on.

The locks on the Yonne are some of the biggest in France at 92 metres long and the commercial barges with sand and gravel can take up most of that. We were opposite one as it prepared to leave the lock in front of us (naturally; there is no contest there as to who goes first!). Even at tickover the thrust from its prop needed all our strength plus the engine power to stop the ropes from being wrenched from our grasp as the swirling maelstrom pulled us towards it.

The sides of these big locks are sloping so that as you descend you move further away from the mooring bollard and you also have to use a bargepole fore and aft to push away from the sides creeping up below you. All the while trying not to trip over the Border Collie and his lead tied to the stern rail and listening to Sue screaming instructions (or is she shouting for help?) from the other end of the boat. JOHN! I’M RUNNUNG OUT OF ROPE!! I’m thinking of becoming a ballet dancer after this. Or a neuro surgeon. The lock keepers cycle from one end to the other and one guy even has a car.

Then came the jumbo lock on the Seine. At 180 metres (nearly 600 ft.) long it was the size of 2 football pitches with a control tower like an airfield and took an age to empty. Fortunately it was empty of other traffic and we breathed a sigh of relief as we turned south at St. Mammès onto the Canal du Loing and ‘normal’ cruising, swearing never ever to go back on to the Seine or the upper Yonne with the commercial barges.

It’s not all stress and problems however.

Massive contrast between 2 small towns on opposite banks and 5 minutes cruise apart. First St Mammès. We crawled through the abandoned and rusting hulks of large barges and someone’s holiday dreams fifty years or more ago.  Not worth anything? So just moor up and leave it to the elements. If not totally rusted these are all year round ‘live-aboards’ cluttering both sides of the canal, mostly never intending to move on.

‘Surely someone can’t be living on that wreck?’

‘There’s washing hanging up’

Then round the corner into Moret-sur Loing and a beautifully kept, clean and tidy port with green lawns and beautiful houses and gardens lining the banks. A walk of 5 to ten minutes took us into an equally lovely 12^th Century medieval town with narrow streets with fortifications at either end of the main street and cafes and restaurant by the riverside. The Impressionist Sisley lived here and his landscapes are reproduced in huge format on the walls of the Mairie and the ancient stone buildings. A warm and welcoming place and we stayed 4 nights, the third night being Johnny Mac’s last with us so we treated him to a thank you meal at the most popular restaurant a local Crêperie on a high terrace perched above the river, all washed down with Breton Cider. No expense spared with the Simpsons!

We have had violent electric storms since the beginning of June, often with downpours, and mainly at night, and that night, the 9^th was the first without thunder and lightning although they resumed on the following 3 nights, all as predicted by the local meteo.

We have since progressed down the Loing to Nemours, Souppes sur Loing and Montargis heading for the Canal de Briare, so more later as soon as we can find a Wi-Fi spot.

Happy woofs from Laddie to all his friends.

Close encounter

Moret sur Loing

Keep your elbows in

The longest lock

Post 1 of 2018 May 24th

‘Allo mes amis, a new boating season 2018 has started.’

We left on Tuesday 8^th May after one of the hottest May days on record.

I cannot adequately describe the pure joy of leaving behind the horror of the nose-to-tail potholed rat-race motorways en route to Ashford, Kent and gliding smoothly and quietly through the lush green countryside of northern France where traffic density is virtually unknown and on perfect road surfaces. No tailgating, no potholes, no aggro. And no litter! (have you been down the A1 lately?)We could feel the tension ebbing away as we motored less than an hour to our country hotel to let Laddie and me stretch our legs in the large garden before dinner.

I’m sorry, but you have to drive on a French motorway to realise how appalling our roads are, and how overcrowded  much of Britain is. OK it cost us 30 Euros in total by the end of our journey over two days to central Burgundy, but worth every centime for our wellbeing (and safety).

On arrival in our home port of St. Florentin, we drove through the security gate and pulled up by our boat, moored close to some picnic benches on the grassy area nearby. There sat a group of 5 or 6 of our French friends (the usual suspects, all in their sixties and seventies, who come down to the marina to sit and chat most afternoons and generally chill out and have a laugh with us when we’re here.)

Cries of greeting came over as we got out of the car and I approached with arms outstretched, braced for the inevitable kisses and hugs. Nothing happened. ‘Laddie! They cried. Laddies back!!’ Once they’d stopped hugging and kissing Laddie it was out turn and we were really made welcome, which was very flattering.

For the next hour or so they threw the ball for Laddie while we started to unpack.

Today, Monday 21^st it’s another public holiday ( we’ve only just got past the V-E day and Ascension Day holidays which bridge together to form a full week) and the group have just arrived 2-30pm  and 25 degrees, to sit in the shade and play with Laddie.

When I commented on the good weather one of the older guys asked me what the fog was like in England. Fortunately I had a copy of last Tuesday’s Times with me and I showed them the photo of thousands of people crowded almost shoulder to shoulder on Bournemouth beach with the temperature at 27 degrees. ‘Ooh-la -la’ was the response - nuff said.

Every day I have been asked if I am going to The Wedding, as it’s totally dominated the news and the conversations over here. They are so jealous and full of admiration for our Royal Family and full of regret to have lost theirs and part of their self-esteem wit it apparently. TV coverage was immense although we didn’t get to see more than 5 minutes as we can’t get telly easily. (Long story but BBC officially not available). Lady Di is pictured frequently in the newspapers even now.

I was invited by my friend Vincent, the Port Manager to come and watch the football and eat Pizza with other people in the port office last Saturday night. Oh, you mean for the UK cup final? I said hopefully, ready to accept.

‘No, it’s the final day of the French League’

‘Ah, no thanks, we had pizza last night’………..

I continue …….

Next morning I set out for the boulangerie, around 8.30 as usual, and went to shake hands (I have to do this with at least 6 people some mornings before I can get to my car in the compound) with Vincent, a Marseilles supporter.

‘Eh, bien?’

Long face.

‘They lost??’

‘No they won, but so did the others (Lyon)’

‘How was the Pizza?

‘Meh!’

‘OK, do you want a croissant?’

‘OK, breeng me one pleez.’

I set off on my lucrative bread and croissant delivery run. As the supermarket is on the very edge of the town at the top of a long and massive hill, and our Australian neighbours and other visitors on boats only have small bikes they’re so extremely grateful for me fetching the day’s supply of baguettes, croissants and pain au chocolat that they throw extra money at me so they don’t have to pedal up the hill before breakfast. A lot of fun as I get to speak with various nationalities. This week it was French-speaking Quebecois (Canada), a Berliner married to a Czech as well as Aussies and French.

We’re currently waiting for a seal for the toilet which broke down and leaked on arrival and still is, but the engineer shrugs and it will arrive ‘bientôt’ like everything here. There is no such thing as next day or even next week guaranteed service. The favourite word is ‘normalement’ it should be here, followed by a false promise. In the meantime we learn to shrug, eat well, enjoy the wine and sunshine and put our wellies on to go to the bathroom!

Yesterday we saw two ducks near us while we were on top deck having breakfast so Sue threw some bread for them and we went out for an hour or so. When we got back my French neighbour opposite was desperate to tell me something. Apparently a huge fish called a Silure had jumped up and swallowed one of the ducks in one go. It was broad daylight and I don’t think he had been drinking so we had to believe it. These fish are as big as a man with large mouths, obviously.

Two things about France haven’t changed.

First they kill themselves on the roads in a ratio to 2 to 1 with UK- 3000 per year to our 1500. A 45 year old motorcyclist was killed in a nearby village the other day when an 81 year old car driver came out of a side road without stopping, because he had ‘prorité à droite’ which technically means the law is on his side. The biker was the 9^th to die in this area alone this year. 16 ‘pompiers’ firemen/emergency ambulances and whatever attended including some from towns and villages miles away, plus 6 gendarmes from different places, plus the  coordinators of all these services as well as a colonel who was in charge. How come France has 10% unemployment?

Two days earlier I was driving in Auxerre on a main road between 2 supermarkets when a car shot out from a 90 degree side road on my right without even slowing down, or possibly even looking, and caused me to brake. When I looked up the car had a sign on the roof ‘Auto Ecole’ and I could see a driver and passenger, presumably instructor and pupil carrying on as if nothing had happened. They are so determined to prove this crazy law is on their side they’re prepared to risk accidents and possibly injury or death for themselves and others. Like the gun lobby in the States.

From 1^st July the speed limit on country roads will be reduced to 70 kms/hr so the backlash will be interesting, especially from truckers. The alcohol limit in UK is 35mg, but 50mg in France. If you eat at a Routiers restaurant in France along the main trunk roads it’s full of truckers and, for around 10 euros, you get several courses of excellent home-made food (no choice of menu). Jugs of wine are placed in the middle of long tables and can be re-filled from a barrel on the side. No extra charge involved for the wine. After 2 o’clock its back to the trucks and off we go again. Woe betide you if one comes up behind you and you don’t accelerate (these are 2-way roads where half the deaths occur so stay on the Autoroute where possible and pay to survive.)

Once you’re caught drink-driving and lose your licence, no problem, just go and buy a small VSP (Voiture Sans Permis) – no licence needed and as one of our crowd told me yesterday ‘It’s great you can just drive past the ‘flic’ (copper) and stick two fingers up. These cars rattle like a bag of broken spanners, but they are expensive. ‘Serves them right I said, they are criminals in any other country’ I think they agreed with me! Tomorrow I will tell them I think Macron’s wonderful and see what happens.

SAYING OF THE MONTH : Les doigts dans le nez (not what you think)

Yesterday I reversed the boat from our mooring alongside the canal, into a crowded marina avoiding several expensive boats and smoothly into our berth inside the marina, all backwards. Vincent told me in French you did that ‘the fingers up the nose’. What??? Equivalent of ‘as easy as falling off a log’ or similar expression’

Can’t wait for another opportunity to use it.

Alors il fait chaud et j’ai soif. 29 -31 degrees forecast this weekend.

 A bientôt

John and Sue

Blue Moon

PS. Pictures of impromptu BBQ organised by Vincent (Port manager) at 2 hours’ notice ‘because it’s going to rain for the next three days (and it did). Anglo French ‘fête champêtre’ with much, much laughter and bonhomie.

 And this is a google imgae of a 'silure'