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!)