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!