After
nearly 4 weeks in our home port of St Florentin we finally got underway on
Saturday 2nd 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 3rd 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 12th 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 9th 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
