Decize was where our exploration of France by canal would end.  We had plenty of time before we got there.  Navigating locks had become almost second nature.  We were now casually securing the boat to the bollards with a single line.  My only wish was for decent lines.  The crunchy blue nylon ropes that come with the boats tend to land in a crunchy blue tangle.  I’d thought about bringing my own lines, but crossed that off the packing list.  They would have been much more practical than the sports coat I never wore. Next time I’ll pack my own lines!

Our cruising style became considerably more laid back.  A sleepy moorage we’d normal chug by became a place to tie up for lunch.  The constant nagging  in our consciousness was the weather report.  We were in for a record breaking heatwave.  The cocktail umbrella was now a permanent fixture on the deck, and we were down to shorts and t-shirts.  The canal was glassy.  If we weren’t moving there were no breezes.  At night the mosquitos gathered in clouds to swarm in through cracked windows.  The weatherman promised rising mercuries.

We passed Nevers by.  It was a detour the guidebook painted as being commercial and pedestrian.  The Aussies we met said it was their favorite stop.  I never figured out if it was the beauty of the place, or the wide variety of cold beer that was available.

We followed a couple from Germany up the canal towards Decize.  He was in the middle of a three month cruise from Brussels to the South of France.  His wife was nearing the end of a two week visit.

Their boat was decked out like a tramp steamer.  Lawn chairs, lanterns, fire extinguishers, life rings, an inflatable raft, and a steering station cloaked in shower curtains made the craft look like a mobile garage sale.

We tried to pass them several times, but as soon as we got close he’d open up the throttle and race ahead.  We’d eventually manage to get within hailing distance and then he’d repeat his maneuvers.  He wanted to be the first one into the locks.

Once in the locks the couple went into their practiced routine.  While totally out of sync they raced around showing off their individual specialties.  She insisted on turning the crank that opened and closed the locks.   He manipulated the throttle to ensure his bow was pinned to the side of the lock.  His backwash was tremendous and following him meant anticipating the bursts on the throttle.  At first he seemed to be popping in and out of the shower curtains just to fiddle with the knots that tied things to his craft.  I soon figured out he didn’t have a clear view forward.  There was too much junk in the way.  He was popping in and out to determine how hard he needed to slam the throttle.  “Wham! Slam!  Roar! Putt-putt!  Wham! Slam! Roar!”

I was determined to pass this garbage barge.  As we approached the final lock of the trip the couple finally pulled along the shore for lunch.  I slammed my throttle forward and passed them.

The final lock was both our first down lock and our first automatic lock.  The procedures seemed clear.  We approached the rope that swung out into the canal and pulled it.  Then we waited.  Nothing happened!

While nothing happened our boat swung out into the canal.  I tried reverse knowing I’d get maybe two boat lengths before the wheel became useless. I got maybe half that before we started floating down the canal and away from the lock.  A slow circle was in order.  I eased the boat forward.

The light on the lock was still bright red.  So, I swung into another slow circle.  On the next trip around I noticed the lock slowly filling with water.  Good news, because I was ready to try pulling that rope again.

Eventually the light turned green and we headed across the canal.  Just then the German couple rounded the bend at full steam.  Another boat was behind them and closing in.  The Germans blasted one of the seventeen airhorns attached to their craft.  The wife waved both of her hands in the air.

We waited until they passed and entered our final lock.  Automatic doesn’t mean fast.  This was a slow smooth passage down into the basin where we’d park the Cirrus B one last time.

 

 

 

According to food writer Nick Lander there are two things to know about cooking Tete de Veau.  “Firstly, this is one dish that has to be cooked completely.  There is no more certain way of putting someone off Tete de Veau forever than to serve it undercooked.  Second is that once you have finished cooking it you must allow it to cool completely…otherwise it will explode.”

Le Guetin is just down the canal from Cours-les-Barres.  I only mention this because Cours-les-Barres is where the deceptively named Auberge du Canal is located.  If you are tired and hungry you might think you are going to one of the Loire Valley’s most celebrated restaurants.  Trust me!  That won’t be the case!!!  The 5 star restaurant in the Michelin guide is Auberge du Pont Canal in Le Guetin.  The “Pont” is critical.

Le Guetin is a tourist destination.  It has a double lock that is connected to an elevated canal.  It is quite common to have swarming crowds watch you navigate the locks.  We were scheduled to go through in the afternoon when the crowds were at their peak.  A quick consultation had us choosing to make a run at the locks in the morning.  With luck we’d go through before the tourists started swarming.

Staying on the Le Guetin side of the locks would also give us time to visit Apremont.  The village has been officially designated “The prettiest town in France.”  Given the meal in Cours-les-Barres, a momentary grounding, and an unscheduled dip into the canal, a bike ride to Apremont was on the agenda. First, we were going to eat in a 5 star restaurant.

Auberge du Pont Canal serves simple standard French cuisine. It is reasonably priced and includes traditional items such as frog legs and calf sweetbreads.  A quick look at the plates sitting in front of other diners gave us a great deal of hope. They were contentedly grazing.  I ordered a beautiful salad with shrimp, mushrooms, and sundried tomatoes.  Donna ordered the Tete de Veau.  She was expecting something akin to beef cheeks, or Mexican style cabeza.  What arrived was something else again.

I was busy digging into my salad when Donna looked across the table and spoke.  She turned the contents of her bowl over with a fork and quietly said, “Oh, I just can’t!”  A close examination revealed glutinous masses of jellylike substance and very little meat.  “Oh, I just can’t!”  

My reputation for eating almost anything doesn’t always work in my favor.  I looked around again.  The gentleman at the table next to ours ordered Tete de Veau as well.  He was digging in with gusto.  Donna and I exchanged our food across the table.

I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what I was eating.  It was like eating unflavored gelatin cubes bathed in chicken stock.  The gray slices mixed throughout had a slightly different texture, but the flavor was pretty much the same.  I figured I was eating a stew made out of boiled cartilage.  I was building strong bones and body!

Back on the boat I did a quick Google search.  The first paragraph in this blog entry was what popped up first.  I had eaten boiled calf face and brains.  Most recipes include more meat, but this was a traditional preparation stemming from the war years when people were starving.  Tete de Veau takes 5 to 8 hours to prepare.  It was frequently served for Sunday dinner.  It is a nostalgic dish that I’m sure brings back fond memories.  I experienced none of this.  What my brain told me was that I had eaten boiled calf face and brains.  Ewww!   A wag asked if eating brains made me any smarter.  I replied, “No, but I’ve started mooing!”

I had eaten some of the best prepared Tete de Veau in France. The Michelin stars and the rest of the meal assured me this was true!

APREMONT: The Prettiest Town in France

Apremont is described as being the prettiest village in France.  It’s nestled along the Allier River.  There are beautifully maintained cottages and the acclaimed A Parc Floral.  There is an impressive Chateau overlooking the village.  What is less mentioned is the Stable and Carriage Museum and its rotating special exhibits. In 2016 the museum is showing an exhibit detailing the history of Michelin.  In 2015 it was the Charles Perrault Fairy Tale Exhibition.

We unloaded the bikes and set out on the 6 km jaunt to France’s beauty spot.  It was 90 degrees, but the path was shaded.  There was a slight breeze coming from an abandoned canal.  The terrain was mostly flat with a few downhill inclines.  We passed a long abandoned and rare round lock, and a brand new hydroelectric facility.  Then we rolled into Apremont.

Apremont is exactly as described.  In this case pictures are worth a thousand words.

The Charles Perrault Fairy Tale Exhibition was something else again.  It stands as a testament to the dysfunction of committees the world round.  How else to explain the spectacle on display?

The idea was to create tableaux representing Perrault’s most lurid and gory fairytale masterpieces.  A portion of an outbuilding that once housed stables and carriages was allocated for this purpose.  Then someone collected, over what must have been robust objections, the mannequins.  Ninety-five percent of them were male.  The other five percent were androgynous.  Nowhere in this collection were the plump maidens of yore that populate fairy tales.  These were razor thin specimens with chiseled features.  Someone either had undue influence, or got a heck of a deal.

In the end these dudes were magnificently tarted up.  They were bewigged, lusciously gowned, and bejeweled.  Cleavers were placed in hands and red paint was liberally splashed around.  There planted in France’s prettiest town was the Quintessential Gay Night Club Halloween Drag Show Haunted House.  The word I’m looking for here is “Fabulous!!!”  I can’t be sure if that was the effect they were going for, but they absolutely nailed it!  Admission was included in the Apremont tour package!

 

 

None of the guidebooks said much about La Charite sur Loire.  The landing was as described and not particularly impressive.  It was nestled next to a grain silo in an industrial parking lot.  Scruffy trailers lined the fence.  There was free water and electricity.  Along a route where water availability is sketchy, water hook ups are a big plus.  We filled the tanks, took a shower, and headed for town.

Before we left we tried to make reservations at the top rated restaurant in town.  No deal!  Auberge de Seyr is frequently booked four weeks in advance.  Finding a suitable alternative meant taking a hike into La Charite sur Loire.  It was blisteringly hot, and muggy.  2.5 kilometers never seemed so far.

Donna opted for a sooner the better pace.  I opted for a slow Southern saunter.  We met in the middle and were thankful when the cool breezes off the Loire appeared.

We sat down at the first cafe we found.  The special written on the door promised a cold drink for 3,60 euro.  We ordered the citron.  What arrived was a 1/2 glass of freshly squeezed juice, sugar, and a pitcher of water.  The drink was alcohol free, but it packed a lip puckering, gland torturing kick.  More water, and more sugar were added.  The kick was barely diminished.  It was exactly what we needed.

Refreshed we visited the church, Notre Dame de Charite.  It was blessedly cool.  Then we hit the tourist office.  Donna had the girl working the counter call for reservations at the completely full Auberge de Seyr. Somehow we got reservations for two at 7 pm.  It was either a language thing, or a special deal with the tourist office.  Either way, I was half afraid we’d show up for dinner and find out it was a big mistake.

We walked the main drag for two hours.  During that time we looked at every menu on display, bought bottled water, and got drinks at Babette and Eva.

Babette and Eva is listed in the guidebooks as a dining destination.  The food promised to be locally sourced with purveyors listed on the menu.  It sounded like a good second choice.  Babette was supervising the installation of outdoor umbrellas.  So we asked her if the bar was open.  After a consultation with a gentleman who turned out to be a guest Babette invited us in.

Babette and Eva no longer serves dinner.  It is a bar with snacks and music nights.  The decorations were dusty antiques and for sale.  Donna opted for a table and a bench.  I opted for the adjacent red leather chair.  A shandy and a glass of wine appeared in no time.  The workman who was installing the umbrellas tried to tell us a joke.  Since we were Americans he wondered if we had, “Meekreephomes like the En Ess Ahh?”  It took a second, but I finally joked that Obama was listening to us as we spoke.  With some semblance of understanding we shared a chuckle.  America’s clumsy international spying efforts had made an impression!

While the guidebook fails to gush about La Charite sur Loire it does gush about Auberge de Seyr.  It is listed as one of La Charite’s delights.  It gets 4 1/2 stars in a town full of 3 and 4 star restaurants.  It’s often booked weeks in advance.  Even though the tourist office promised us reservations I was still wary.  Their promise was good.  We had legitimate reservations to the best La Charite has to offer.

What La Charite’s best looks like is pretty good.  What it tastes like is even better.  First up was a salad with sun dried tomatoes, a cheese filled puff, jambon, and a little scoop of creamy ice cream.  The ice cream was a pleasant surprise in 90 degree weather. Putting a scoop of ice cream on your salad would work anytime.  Its coolness wakes up the palate.

The main course was Beef Bourguignon.  We’d seen it served, and tried variations.  This was the real deal.  Tender beef and a perfect balance of flavors enhanced by the local wine.  I don’t usually eat leftovers.  It’s a leftover from a childhood of eating them.  I justify it with some sound food science, but it’s a food prejudice.  A prejudice I overcome for a few items eaten cold, and only cold.  Add Auberge de Seyr’s Beef Bourguignon to the list.  I’d eat it on a crusty baguette for breakfast, lunch, dinner, or a midnight snack.

The dessert course was right out of our regular dining playbook.  Chocolate pie for Donna, “Of Course!”  And a lemon tart for me, “Of course!”  The flavors impressed.  The chocolate was dark and rich.  The lemon tart was tart.  Auberge de Seyr earned its stars.

The following day we hiked back into La Charite for the Saturday market.  It was everything a Saturday market is supposed to be…fresh and colorful.  We bought a baguette, fresh chèvre, cherries, and an olive mix.  I couldn’t resist buying another sausage and a pound of freshly ground coffee.

 

 

It’s hard to get a decent baguette outside of France.  Hard is the key word here.  Baguettes are designed to be eaten fresh.  A day old baguette can be used to play baseball.  The flavor is still there, but the crunch goes all the way through.  You need quality breadcrumbs?  The baguette you didn’t finish yesterday will give you all you need.  American style baguettes have the right shape and more staying power.  They just don’t have the right texture or  flavor.  Buying a fresh baguette every morning is absolutely deliciously necessary.

A day old croissant on the other hand is still edible.  It isn’t as good.  It’s drier and denser, but you won’t break a molar on it.  Dunked in coffee, or eaten with liberal doses of jam and then dunked, it makes a passable breakfast.  Only to be eaten on Mondays when bakeries are closed though.

At 12:30 the restaurants in Sancerre started serving.  We were seated and the long wait began.  Tables around us received water and baskets of bread.  We waited.  Tables had their orders taken and delivered.  We waited.  Trying to make eye contact was impossible.  The head waitress scooted by with her nose in the air.  The other waitresses followed suit.  Eventually I snagged a young waitress.  It turned out to be her first day on the job.  After consulting with the head waitress the newbie brought our water and took our orders.

When the bread and food arrived the head waitress set them down without looking at us  The storied French service had finally arrived.  I watched as it was duplicated for the two African women seated in front of us.

This legendary French service is almost a relic of the past.  The tourist industry collected poll data and determined France was losing out on tourist dollars.  Rude French service was the number one cause.  The basic restaurant survival code was being ignored. “People come for the food, but return for the hospitality.”  In this case too many people were checking France off of their list.  The French tourist industry worked hard to provide world class customer service training.  Friendly welcoming service is what we had found.  The Sancerre lunch stood out as a rarity.

We loaded up on fine local wines at a wine shop.  They were far better than the samplings we’d had at home.  A wine maker told us when French wines are exported additional sulfites are added.  Swirl the wine around in the glass.  Slurp it while sucking in air.  Stick your nose in the glass and give it a lusty sniff.  Truthfully, I can’t pinpoint why French wines are better in France.  They just are!

We then made our way to the scenic overlook.  It revealed a panoramic view of the Loire Valley.  We met a couple from Chicago and exchanged travel stories.  His dreams held  boat adventures.  His wife’s did not.  I shared that our canal trip was the perfect compromise.  I was in a boat.  It didn’t heel.  I couldn’t crash it through waves at full throttle.  In fact on a canal boat full throttle is a stately 6 to 8 knots.  He wasn’t sold on the idea that his wife could be sold.  We took their picture.  They took ours.  Then we went our separate ways.

In the heat of the day we took the direct route from Sancerre to Manetreol.  Just as the shoulders and walking paths disappeared the couple from Chicago arrived.  They gave us a ride down the hill.  It wasn’t the scenic route.  It was the direct route.  It was the one time we were glad to see a car.

We motored into Manetreol in time for lunch.  The restaurant across from the moorage was packed with locals.  We tied up and walked across the street.  At Le Floroine 15 euros gets you the buffet, a plate of beef stew, a broiled spud, a cheese course, wine, and dessert.

We’d been on short rations in Lere.  So, we ordered the full meal deal.  The buffet would have been enough.  Cucumbers and cream, slices of jambon, beets, pasta salad, potatoes with mayo and cubed meat, mackerel, herring, shrimp, deviled eggs, avocado in a creamy sauce, and pickled carrots soon filled our plates.

As soon as our plates were empty out came the beef stew.  It was savory and tender.  The baguette was perfect for sopping up the sauce.  The wine was local and delicious.  Then came the cheese!

I was scoping out desserts as they were served to other diners.  The cherry pastry with pits looked perfect.  When I was a kid Grandpa Gustav had rules for cherry pies.  You got an extra slice if you found a pit.  He carefully placed cherry pits in Grandma’s pies and marked their locations.  All those cherry pits piling up on a plate reminded me what an extra piece of pie tastes like.  Donna ordered the chocolate something.

After lunch we explored Manetreol.  We discovered the aqueduct, the bakery, and some shuttered restaurants.  There was a sad little restaurant next to the bakery.  It didn’t look long for this world.  The restaurant where we had lunch was still packed.

We discovered the proprietress of the restaurant/hotel was also the harbor master.  If you arrive by boat you have to stop at her place. She makes it more than worth your while.  Le Floroine is where Sancerre’s repair and delivery men take their hour long French lunch break.

We set out early the next morning to hike up to Sancerre.  Google maps presented two routes.  My thought was the route closest to the boat was the most direct.  It was also the route with the most cars. French drivers enjoy pretending they are in the Gran Prix. Sidewalks and shoulders are rare. If there was a genuine walking route we were going to take it.

We walked past the aqueduct and found a sign pointing to Sancerre.  After a quarter mile  Google cut out.  Donna was sure we were going in the wrong direction.  I was sure we weren’t.

After a long climb there was no sign of Sancerre.  It wasn’t where I thought it should be. We were either lost, or on the scenic route.  As I was contemplating a full admission of lostness Ms. Google piped up. “Stay on this road.”  Donna piped up too.  “I don’t think she knows what the Hell she’s talking about!”  Since the only other road was a dirt rut into the unknown we followed Google’s directions.

When we got out of the woods the first thing we saw was the wrong town.  After a march around a long blind curve our destination was finally revealed. We started out south of Sancerre.  We skirted it and wound up north of town.  There was a long winding climb ahead of us.  We had taken the scenic route.  No cars though!

 

 

It took two locks, dry land practice, and tossing the guidebook out, but we finally got going through locks down to…almost enjoyable.  The guidebook assumes a larger crew, helpful lock keepers, and a certain degree of familiarity with the boat.  “Toss the line to the lock keeper.  Have a crew member climb the ladder and toss the lines to them.”  This isn’t helpful if the lock keeper has a cell phone pasted to the side of his head and is discussing party plans with his girlfriend.  It isn’t helpful if the lock keeper is pretending she can’t see you.  Then there is the ladder the crew refuses to climb!

The thing about the ladder is this.  It is widely advertised that French canal boats have through hull heads.  When you flush the toilet it goes through a crude blender and then straight into the canal.  My crew was doing a surgical scrub every time she handled a line.  She was heard to say, “If I knew the canal was full of shit, I never would have booked this trip!”  Now we were in a lock with a brown sludge covered ladder.  Donna was never going to climb that thing!  Never!!!

I suggested letting Donna off the boat before the locks and then piloting in.  This was dismissed by an English couple with 15 years of experience under their belts.  We met them while going through the second lock.  They supervised getting a boat that had gone aground off a silt ledge.  This involved lots of eye rolling and snorts of disapproval.  I suspect watching novices attempt the locks is one of their forms of entertainment. We took their advice and Donna rode into the locks looking for someone, (ANYONE!!!) to throw a line to.  Only luck, and the bossy husband in the boat ahead of us saved the day. The ladder was not going to be touched, climbed, looked at, or even mentioned again!

No one to throw a line to, and a sludge covered ladder???  We were back to the plan we had for the second lock.  We were back to, ” I’ll pilot the boat and you walk.  We’ll coil the bow and stern lines next to the helm.  I’ll toss the bow line first.  Secure it, and then I’ll toss the stern line.  Wrap it around the bollard and toss it back to me.”  ” Great!  I can’t handle two lines”  “Try stepping on the bow line.”  ” It just slides off the bollard!”

Bollards are bulbous protrusions made out of steel.  You slip your lines around them and then hang on for dear life.  The lines control your boat while water rushes in or out of the locks.  There aren’t many cleats in the locks or marinas.  There are bollards, or circus tent stakes you pound into the ground with a mallet.

The guidebooks made navigating the locks sound easy.  In reality it went like this.  No matter how nicely the lines were coiled they landed in a crunchy tangled knot at Donna’s feet. Donna untangled them.  It was difficult to tell which line was which.  Lines  were slipping and sliding.  Donna was juggling ropes.  She had one foot on the stern line while she tried to secure the bow line.  It looked like she might attempt the splits!

Hmmm! A half hitch could come in handy here.  Secure the bow line to the bollard with a half hitch.  Then deal with the stern line.  We practiced the half hitch maneuver while the boat was moored.  It was a move that ensured Donna was only dealing with one line at a time.  I learned this knot back when I was a Boy Scout. It made life and the locks easier.

Boat handling drills helped too.  Our boat was easy to oversteer.  When it went wonky it felt like you were piloting a bumper car.  Slow easy corrections and a little speed seemed to work best.  Current, curves, and wind could quickly put you back into bumper car mode.  Slowing down to enter the locks effected steering as well.

What to do?  While puttering down the canal we practiced bringing the boat to a slow straight stop.  We practiced bringing the boat to a complete stop at a specific tree, rock, or bollard on the shore.  We brought the boat to shore on quiet stretches of water.  We  tossed lines just to get the feel of them.  We tied half hitches.  If we could do these things outside of a lock, we’d have a better chance of doing them inside.  We expected to screw up!  We started to see progress!

It should go without saying that practicing patience, giving clear simple instructions, and refraining from loud colorful language are absolutely necessary.  I have watched couples attempting to launch boats enough times to know that boat ramps and locks are prime locations to watch couples put major dents in their relationships.  You see it in the eyes of the wife!  He’s losing it and she’s planning a mutiny!!!

By the third lock Donna was getting off the boat and walking to the locks. I piloted the boat into the lock.  Once the boat was nestled against the wall I tossed Donna the bow line.  She secured it to the bollard with a half hitch.  I tossed her the stern line.  She wrapped it around another bollard and passed it back to me.  Wrapping the stern line counter clockwise seemed to work best. Then Donna went back to the bow line, untied the half hitch and controlled the bow.  I was in charge of the stern.  The boat rode up the lock.  At the top we flipped the lines off. Donna got back on the boat and we departed.

The last paragraph wasn’t in our guidebooks. It’s what worked for us.  If there was an easier way, we’d find it.

 

It was almost a ghost town.  In France shops tend to be closed on Mondays.  The banks, the butcher, the beauty shop, the Post Office, the bakery, the pizza place, and all the restaurants…closed.  Flurries of traffic sped through the narrow streets of Lere and were gone.

Then there were the mystery stop lights that stopped cars 100 meters from the corner.  They stopped them again at the intersection.  Everyone dutifully stopped at both.  I don’t know why.

There is no such thing as taking the scenic route in Lere.  It’s all scenic.  There is nothing but stone houses and well maintained gardens.  No one is home though.  Lere is a suburban bedroom community.  Its rural heritage evident in the scattering of rustic barns and crowing roosters.

A menu was posted outside of the town’s notable restaurant.  La Gaiete Lerienne’s menu was reasonable and impressive. In France they still cook with butter, but everything is closed on Monday.  I let the menu slip my mind.

The schools were loudly open.  Kids were going home for lunch.  I remember doing that in the 50’s.  During our afternoon walk we heard kids again.  As we walked by the school we saw mixed age and gender groupings chattering and joking around.  Not a bright orange vest, or an adult in sight.

At the end of a dusty main arterial there was a mini-mart that appeared to be, if not promising, open.  We made our way past closed sidewalks and road construction to a sad little storefront.  There was a wall of magazines, and a wall of tobacco products.  There were a couple of shelves reserved for hard liquor, a row of wine, and a half wall dedicated to canned goods.  There were pre-made salads and sandwiches in a small refrigerated case.  A tray of baguettes and croissants sat next to the cash register.  Tired collections of fruits and vegetables were displayed in boxes on the floor and out on the sidewalk.  We bought a petite baguette, two croissants, a mini watermelon, some sausage, and some pre-packaged tabouli that came with a lime green fork. The fork came in two pieces. We bought Dijon mustard too.

This would be the stuff of our lunch and dinner.  The sausage, tomato, goat cheese, green olive, and mustard sandwich on a baguette was tasty. The baguette was good!  For dinner we added cucumber, tomato, a few olives, the last of the cheese, and a glug of olive oil to the tabouli.  It was passable when served with a bottle of red wine.  We ate the croissants for dessert.  They were the best croissants we’d had so far.  Good enough to have us walking into town on Tuesday morning for breakfast at the local bakery.

I walked into town early on Tuesday.  Surely a rural baker would be up at the crack of dawn baking.  6:30 AM came and went.  There wasn’t a stick of bread in the place.  It looked as closed as it did on Monday.  It looked closed enough to be shuttered forever.  I took another walk through town trying to capture the morning light.

7 AM came and went. Still no bakers.  I walked down to the mini-mart.  It was closed too.  I took another circuit through town.  At 7:30 a white delivery van sped past and parked on the sidewalk.  A sleepy eyed driver and two women got out.  They started hauling in bread and pastries.  I bought a baguette out of a box.  Out of another box I bought two plain and two chocolate croissants.

Back on the boat we ate the chocolate croissants and had coffee.  On Monday Lere is closed.  On Tuesday it sleeps in.

 

From Briare we headed to Lere.  This involved our first and second locks.  What we learned was critical.  The guide books tell you to throw a line to the lock keeper.  The first lock keeper we encountered had a cell phone pasted to his head.  Donna tossed him the bow line and he instructed me to pull the boat up as far as possible.  He headed towards the front of the locks with line in hand.  He passed one bollard, and then another.  I followed him.  He was headed to the last bollard.  I followed him.  He kept talking on his cell phone.  At the last minute he looped the line over a bollard, but he didn’t pull it tight.  The boat crashed into the lock gate.  It was the second “Boom” of the trip.  This one was louder.

After leaving the locks I felt pretty good.  We didn’t thrash around inside, or bash the walls.  I thought the anchor made contact with the gate.  I called brightly to Donna, “Well, that went pretty well!”  Donna scowled and asked why I didn’t stop when she said, “STOP!”  I told her I was following the lock keeper’s lead.  ” Come look at what you did! ”  There was a nice dent in the bow.

The lock keeper won’t guide you.  He/she will hold the line and that’s all.  I thought the lock keeper was in charge once he had control of the line.  Wrong!  The lock keeper deferred to the Captain…right into the gate.

Donna was adamant that she wasn’t casting blame.  Her look and tightly controlled questions suggested something else. Not blame. It was more like, “What the Hell were you thinking?” and “This is going to be a very long trip!”

It’s never a good thing when the crew loses faith in the Captain.  The next lock was faced with trepidation despite my assurances.  “It wasn’t a boat handling issue.  It was a judgement call based upon an erroneous assumption.”  I didn’t actually say, “Erroneous!”  It didn’t really matter.  Donna was dubious.

The second lock loomed.  We were enjoying the scenery, but somewhere up ahead there was a lock I should start slowing down for.  The reminders were frequent.  The lock eventually appeared.

We tied up behind a boat that had gone aground on a silt deposit next to the bank.  The wash as he tried to grind off the silt ledge threatened to pull us off the bank.  I retied the lines. Then we helped rock the Frenchman’s boat off the ledge.

The Frenchman entered the locks first.  Donna asked, “How are we going to keep from ramming into him?”  We followed without incident, but the lock keeper had no interest in catching lines.  I suggested a scramble up the mucky ladder.  Donna looked at the brown goo that covered the ladder and made a quick calculation.  She called out to the crew of the boat ahead of us.  The crew snapped out of her grounding induced reverie and caught the line Donna tossed in her direction. It was quickly wrapped around a bollard.  The Frenchman snapped a commanding, “The stern line! The stern line!“, and his wife hopped to.  In seconds we were secured and riding up the locks.

Once safely underway Donna asked, “What was I supposed to do?  All the books say you just throw a line to the lock keeper.  She wasn’t even anywhere to throw to!”

Lock keepers don’t alway catch lines, or take charge when they do.  In the second lock I followed my own lead and held the boat in place with wheel and throttle.  I learned the sense of urgency caused by unfamiliarity calls for slow deliberate action.  Speed is secondary.  The thing is…being deliberate while being unfamiliar is difficult to pull off.

That’s the nuts and bolts of our trip from Briare to Lere.  It skips the beauty of having a heron skim the surface of the water and glide effortlessly down the canal in front of you.  It skips past greenery so lush it almost aches.  It says nothing about the sound of cuckoos echoing in the woods.

Later we motored past Lere.  Its sign was obscured by a gigantic barge.  The conveniences listed in the guide book were too minimal to notice.  This would be our first turnaround.  We managed a complete 180 in the narrowest part of the canal.  Then we motored back to Lere where everything is closed on Mondays.

 

 

Birds are still singing as I write this.  It’s 9 PM and I am moored at Chatillon sur Loire.  We stowed our gear, checked the boat out, and went to town to buy provisions.  On a boat you don’t have groceries.  You have provisions.

Oh, what provisions though.  Baguettes and pastries from the local bakery.  Local chèvre rolled in ash, duck pate, local cream, a nice pink Grenache, imported Brazilian coffee, and well…absolutely nothing practical.  The grocery store in Chatillon is half 7-11 and half well-stocked deli.  We are provisioned.

For lunch we walked to a restaurant in an old lock keeper’s house.  A simple yet delicious meal was highlighted by a wedding photo shoot, and a cat that decided to climb up on Donna’s lap for a cuddle.

There was a town party in Briare, the next town up river.  We opted for more puttering and naps.  We found the corkscrew, and the single roll of toilet paper on the boat.  We made a less romantic shopping list: toilet paper, paper towels, foil, ziplock bags, garbage bags, olive oil, eggs, more wine, more water.

In the morning we’ll fine tune the bike storage, unplug the shore power and do a shake down cruise to Briare and the Sunday market.  The slow down effect is already in motion.  Quiet conversations in French coming from the boats moored around us, and all those birds still singing.

BRIARE

The shakedown cruise to Briare was mostly uneventful.  The boat survived.  One bumper didn’t.  The Cirrus B proved to be lively at the helm.  Breezes, current, and inattention made gentle corrections necessary.  I spent a lot of time over steering and over correcting.  Finding the sweet spot to keep her on track wasn’t easy.  It wasn’t impossible though.  The more power you applied the easier it got.

Coming into Briare you have to cross an elevated canal designed by Eiffel.  Crossing it was a transcendent feeling, absolutely beautiful.  I laughed aloud and exclaimed, “This may be the coolest thing I’ve ever done!”  This is a narrow canal, very narrow.  We caught a breeze at the half-way point. “Bam!!!”  I scraped the side of the canal.  A line parted and we were trailing a bumper.  “Don’t over correct!”  The rest of the way through the canal I didn’t let my attention stray.

Docking in Briare was uneventful.  We did manage to get a bumper line caught on a cleat, but I backed off with no damage.  Once docked I used a found piece of nylon rope, a corkscrew, and a knife to put the slightly shredded bumper back into place.

Then we walked into Briare.  Church bells welcomed us.  Once in town a pipe organ and horns lured us into the church.  Donna lit a candle for her stepsister, Karla, whose illness had returned. Then we explored.  What appeared to be a recording in an empty church turned out to be a rehearsal.  A pipe organ, a trumpet, and a soprano were working out a difficult, but beautiful passage.

In town the Sunday market was in full swing.  We bought an eggplant, heirloom tomatoes, a cucumber, and a bouquet of white and pink radishes.  Then we bought two ham and cheese baguettes.  The sample sealed the deal.  The baguette I ate by myself wasn’t even a guilty pleasure.  I could have eaten ten of them.  Delicious!

We got all of the practical provisions, bought an ice cream cone and headed back to the boat.  Of course a return trip was necessary.  We forgot the olive oil and decided the butcher’s shop and cheese vendor needed a visit.  We bought the sausage of the house, and fresh chèvre.

Briare is on the Loire and is full of canal boats, caravan campers, bicyclists, and beautiful houses for sale.  480,000 euros will get you a mini-castle on the outskirts of town.  75,000 euros will get you two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a detached garage in town.  It was worth fantasizing about.

It was the beginning of the tourist season in Briare and there was anticipation in the air.  After the town party the night before a few hangovers were in evidence.  These were being nursed with coffee, croissants, sunshine, and courageous smiles.  Winter could turn Briare into a sleepy lonely little village, but it’s attractions were currently on full display.  We took our time wandering back to Le Boat for an afternoon snack, a bottle of Cabernet D’Anjou, and some quiet time just watching life unfold from the deck.

 

“Paris is where everyone falls in love with France.” ~ Jan Taylor

We were hurled via shuttle to within walking distance of the Louvre. This involved lots of honking, weaving, and skillful application of the brakes.  With overcast skies Paris felt like home.  It had a backstreet Seattle feel…grittier, older, French…but there was something about the light.

Of course we had our first bump.  We found our first flat, but couldn’t find a way in.  All the contact information was on Donna’s phone.  Verizon hadn’t managed to engage her international plan.  My phone, the one without any useful information on it, was fully operational.  There were several ways to get the information we needed, but we weren’t figuring them out.  After being awake for more than 24 hours standing on a narrow sidewalk in front of a flat you can’t access makes your face ache.  Getting your brain to make coherent connections is challenging.  Communication takes real fortitude.

Part of me was figuring, “What the Hell?”  There was a Hotel down the block and we could attempt to check in.  As I was figuring a flock of perfectly attired elderly women fluttered out of a shop two doors down.  I chanced buzzing into the shop and asking the shopkeeper if she knew the proprietor of the VRBO.  The proprietor was the shopkeeper’s mother.  We were promptly and graciously let into our flat.

A couple of lessons…a hard copy of all contact information is critical.  Also, call your phone company the day before you leave the country to ensure they have done what they said they would.  Being jet lagged in a new city allows a bit of panic to creep in.  The other reality check is that making connections with VRBO hosts in a foreign city isn’t like checking into a hotel.  The place you are staying is going to be on an obscure side street. International travel is going to make you late. Traffic and other appointments will make them late.  The host might send someone who doesn’t speak English, or the language you  diligently practiced for a couple months before you set out.  It has always worked out so far, but that hotel option should probably be written into the plan.

Napped, showered, and changed we headed out to explore.  We wandered down to Jardin Des Tuileries and the Louvre.  Despite overcast skies it was a pleasant 70 degrees and perfect wandering weather.  We got the general lay of the land and then looked for a place to eat.  This involved several phone searches, circling around reading menus, and a Google guided walk to a restaurant.  We almost made it to the restaurant we were headed to, but found a rough substitute instead.  It was a little bistro and several glasses of wine, steak and frites, and a cheese plate later we were satisfactorily fed.

If you can hit a random, but likely looking bistro and it’s actually good, you might be in Paris.  Maybe not the Paris of your dreams, but the real one.  If the person in the flat above you happens to be the mother of a friend??? That’s magic!  It’s what Paris promises and seems to effortlessly deliver.

THE LOUVRE

Carefully composed and stuck up on the walls, or perched on pedestals, the Louvre is full of masterpieces that have endured.  Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, Diana, Sphinxes, and Napoleon’s apartments are all on magnificent display. That said, the Louvre’s most fascinating attraction is people watching.

You can’t help but notice the guided tours.  A flag carrying guide narrates each notable work of art like a game of golf.  The horde bursts into corridors bewildered and expectant, or vaguely frantic, held together by static electricity.  You can’t tell what they are looking at, but it’s not where they are going.  It can be a feeding frenzy, or a detached blank stare focused on upheld cell phones.  It depends upon what is being viewed.  The Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo really froth up the waters.

Every once in a while cell phone Ninjas pop out of the horde.  Cell phones set to video they glide on tiptoes while scanning entire walls of paintings and artifacts.  They work alone, or in groups of two or three, devouring the landscapes and portraits.  When a notable work is recognized they freeze, whirl out of the group and engage in an elaborately choreographed still frame capture dance.  With the image captured they whirl back into their Ninja cohort and work the other side of the room.

I tried to photograph them.  They were in and out of the room and down the corridor in moments.  Too fast to capture.  I can only imagine what watching their videos must be like.  Dizzying to the point of motion sickness, or a grindingly slow blink of single frames.  Either way it’s an exhaustive and exhausting approach.  Cell phone Ninjas engaged in their own intense and purposeful dance.