Tales from the riverbank: Blog 2 Friday 8th June

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.