We start the week, on Monday 9^th, accompanying Di and Garry to Bordeaux station in a taxi.  They depart for San Sebastian in Spain an hour before our train back to Bergerac.  We wave goodbye to them and are sad to see them go.  We have had such a fun adventure with them and they are great travelling companions.  Plus great cooks.

Our train is a direct 90 minute journey this time and we are now adept at calling for a taxi from the station to Hertz at the airport, where we take delivery of a small Renault.  Hertz accept Cherrie’s RMS print out verifying her licence details and she can now drive the car too.  Oh joy.  Back to Les Couges, where our plan is for a couple of quiet days lying low, sobering up and eating only dried crusts.  Well, figuratively speaking.

We start by spending an entire day at home on phone and computer in an attempt to sort out our insurance claims.  Cherrie has to list, in painful detail, everything in her stolen bag, down to the last safety pin.  I spend some time in communication with Amex with regard to the car insurance claim.  It seems that the wheel rims were damaged and Hertz have hit me with an obscenely high bill, which they have already charged to my Amex account.  This is one for me to deal with in an English speaking country, not here, so I decide to suck it and see.

Our Dutch neighbours, Tim and Frederike, stop their car on the way home to have a chat.  A 40 minute chat.  We first met them at the Beaumont markets last week where  Tim sells tea and Frederike sells pastries she has made and items she has crocheted.  They tell us that the tea and pastries always sell well.  I guess that means the crochet does a slow trade.  They are very friendly and keen to socialise.  We agree that they will come in for a drink one evening.

We make a trip into the nearest village, the medieval delight that is Monpazier, peruse their Thursday market and pick up a few more bread crusts for our highly unsuccessful fast.  Fortunately the village has moved forward a few centuries and the library is able to scan the insurance documents so they can be emailed to an unsympathetic and uncaring insurer back home who doesn’t even have the decency to acknowledge receipt of Cherrie’s hours of work documenting everything.  She has edited photographs of her wearing her black pearl necklace, her ears with beautiful pearl drop earrings, and an incredible amount of supporting documentation, proof of purchase, credit card statements etc, all of which has eaten into several hours of our holiday.  It’s enough to put me back onto the grog, which it does.  A day or two of abstinence is quite enough I decide.

Time to cook the pigeons, I reckon.  Having defrosted two, I spend some time faithfully following Dany Chouet’s recipe.  It looks pretty good when I serve it.  The pea puree is delicious, as are the confit onions.  As for the pigeons, well what can I say?  They are dreadful.  Tough, all carcass and no meat and perhaps undercooked, even though I gave them a little longer as suggested by the recipe if we didn’t want rare.  Such a disappointment, especially with a week-long build up. A mercy that Di and Garry weren’t here to share in my humiliation.  Two pigeons will stay in the freezer here, to be put in the hands of a more accomplished pigeon chef than I.

We hear that our friends from Australia, who own this beautiful villa and who are due to join us over the weekend, are not coming.  He has been ill and whilst recovering well simply does not feel strong enough to make the epic trip.  At least not while we are here, which is disappointing but unavoidable.  We think we might debunk earlier and head to Paris next week, rather than on the 26^th as planned.  Cherrie is feeling particularly displaced with no ID at all and is keen to get her temporary passport, which she can only do at the Australian Embassy in Paris.

On Friday we drive into Sarlat, where we had just a short time with Garry and Di on our garden tour day, the fateful car trip day.  We surmised then that this was a city worthy of a longer visit so we book accommodation for the night and drive in a leisurely manner there.  We pass through so many medieval villages, Franceis littered with them, and we stop at Beynac et Cazenac for café.

Shocking to say, I know, but we have become almost blasé about the beauty of these ancient villages.  Well, except when we have to drive through them – that’s always  a challenge for those of us attuned to driving on the correct side of the road.  It’s the off side that’s the issue, not actually driving on the right hand side.  Since Cherrie has been able to drive here, I recognise that it is probably more stressful to be the front seat passenger than the driver, as they are the ones who can see that the car is about to run off the road.

Once in Sarlat, we first drive to the railway station where I manage to make myself understood that we want to change our train tickets from Bergerac to Paris from the 26^th to the 18^th.  I feel quite proud that I achieve this, and pass over the required exchange fee of €44.  Mindful that it’s quite possible I have just been ripped off due to my shameful lack of language skills, I smile sweetly and wish the man bon journo.  It may well be a particularly bon journo for him.

We leave our car at the cheap hotel we have booked at the top of the hill and walk into this beautiful town.

We figure we can have lunch today because we’ll walk it off going back up, but we settle on a light lunch because we have booked a really good restaurant for tonight.  Enough of this fasting malarkey.   We specially chose a bistrot off the beaten track to avoid the tourist prices.  This one is also avoided by the locals, and we soon realise that’s for good reason.  We chose the plat du jour, which is coq au vin.  Literally.  And a good deal more coq than vin.  This was the oldest rooster known to man with enormous leg bones which would put a spring lamb to shame.  Still, we’ve left room for our much anticipated dinner.  When we get back outside, it’s raining.  Of course we have no wet weather gear with us.  I find a hairdressing salon which looks to be good, that is the women leaving seem to have good haircuts.  I’m overdue for a style, and luckily they can fit me in.  My hair is cut by a Frenchman who speaks excellent English.  When I complement him, he says that he lived in America for 21 years and has returned to France with his American wife, who was a French teacher prior to her recent retirement.  Their adult children have stayed in America.  I am happy with my haircut and as my long term hairdresser in Sydney is French I think that perhaps I need to stick with only French hair stylists.  The Russian who cut it in New York was, I think, trained as a hedge trimmer.  Cherrie has been wandering as best she can under cover (not in the change of ID sense, which right now she is perfectly suited for, but in the staying out of the rain sense) and has found a pair of gold knot earrings very similar to those that were amongst her stolen jewellery.  She takes me to look at them and I agree that they are lovely and so I buy them for her.  This makes me sound incredibly generous, but of course Cherrie has no means of paying for anything, poor thing.

By now the rain is so heavy that there is no way we will walk the rooster off and so I ring for a taxi to pick us up in the Rue de la Republique, by the Banque Populaire.  The taxi driver laughs at me over the phone, such is my shocking French.  He speaks perfect English, German, Dutch and Spanish, as well as French.  We warns me that he can’t get to us without a 30 minute wait which I agree to, so embarrassed am I.  It’s cold as well as wet, but we dutifully wait under the awning of the Banque and he turns up 35 minutes later and very quickly becomes our driver for the day, with an agreement that he will pick us up for dinner and again to return us at the end of the evening.

At the hotel, we make our Paris plans, which include a two day side trip to Normandy to see Saint Marlo and Mont Saint Michel, as well at the D Day landing beaches and Bayeaux. We book a hotel before we can take our apartment in Les Invalides, which we have been able to secure two days earlier.

Our taxi driver delivers us to our chosen restaurant, which is listed in the top 3 restaurants in Sarlat.  After a few days of light food, we are ready for a feast of the gastronomic kind.  It’s a 7pm booking and we are not surprised when we are the first to arrive.  And the last. It doesn’t take us long to realise that we are at Fawlty Towers and served by a young man who is the perfect combination of Basil and Manuel.  He’s all legs and all dim. The menu is completely uninspiring and there is nothing on it that we want to eat.  However, not surprisingly perhaps, we do order.  We both have the soft shell crab followed by fillet of beef for Cherrie and duck breast for me.  The crab comes cunningly disguised as chicken nuggets, but not as tasty, and the duck is almost inedible.  I have ordered pink but it arrived julienned, overcooked to a grey colour and with a nice edging of unrendered fat.  Inedible.  We get the giggles, as we truly had expected a good meal in a good restaurant, our last hurrah before Paris where we don’t expect to be able to indulge in gastronomie.  The only person to share in the joke is Manuel and it seems cruel to include him, as he is trying so hard.  Our mirth increases when I return from a visit to the loo and insist that Cherrie check it out.  Here’s why

And here’s a photo of the restaurant when we leave it at 8.40pm

 On Saturday we had planned to visit the famed Sarlat markets but it is raining again, we have not bought wet weather gear with us and anyway we can’t find anywhere to park the car for love nor money.  So we drive back to Les Couges, stopping at a little village on the way to buy baguette and a lamb shoulder to slow cook for tonight, and the remainder of our nights here.  It’s nice to be ‘home’ again, driving through very pretty country to arrive at our place in the country, surrounded by fields and vegetable gardens lovingly tendered by their owners, the plentiful roses and wisteria which seemingly grow everywhere.

 After two weeks here in the Dordogne, and our time in the Loire, Languedoc and right down the Canal du Midi, we both have a really good understanding of the French countryside, its beauty and diversity.

My slow cooked lamb with garlic, anchovies and thyme is more successful than the rubber pigeon and we enjoy a game of vigorous ping pong prior to tucking in.

We have made contact with Jan, a friend of our friend Gil, and she has suggested that we meet up today, Sunday, at a speciality plant show at L’Abbaye Nouvelle near Gourdon in the Lot, a neighbouring district to the Dordogne. It’s a little over an hour’s drive, on a different route again and again through beautiful country. We park on the side of the road and walk to the Abbey and the fair

A fabulous collection of plants, displayed and for sale by their proud growers.  Many of the plants were recognisable to Cherrie but most notable was the wide variety of figs and lavenders.

It was a beautiful day, the first sun we have seen (and felt) in a few days and perfect for this sort of outing.  Jan and her husband Philippe were entertaining at a friends house on top of the hill just above the Abbey and we were invited up there for a drink, an invitation we readily accepted.  It turned out to be an ex-pats party – full of English, Australian and Kiwis, all living in this area and all very friendly and charming.  We spent another couple of hours in this convivial company before embarking on the drive home, where we now are.

Tomorrow, Monday, is another public holiday, the 4^th this month.  We will spend it in a leisurely manner, cleaning the house and packing for Paris.  Tomorrow evening Tim and Frederike and their son Boris will join us for a drink.  And then to gay Paris…..

But Bordeaux beckons

Friday 6 May 2016

We played 500 last night and had a good laugh.  Wins all round.

Up early this morning in naïve anticipation that Hertz will ring with news of a new car waiting for us and a taxi on the way to deliver us to it.  I said naïve didn’t I?  At 9.30am I ring Hertz and get through amazingly quickly – only 3 minutes wait this time.   I am told that they have not got us a car yet because the office does not open until 9am.  When I point out that it is already 9.30am she acknowledges that she will check on progress, which she does and reports that they have not yet been able to find a car for us.  “Please wait, I will ring back”.  We wait.  And wait.  At 10.30am I ring back.  “Please wait, I will ring back”.  We settle in for a long wait.  Which was sensible.  To save you the agony of the wait, we finally get word that they have found a car for us at Bergerac Airport and that a taxi will collect us in 45 minutes.  About 45 minutes later, now 11.30am, we receive a telephone call from our ‘chauffer’ who says he will be with us in about 45 minutes but he doesn’t know how to get to us.  We agree that we will walk the 1km into Lolme and meet him there.  Lolme consists of a church, and indeed exactly 45 minutes later our taxi pulls up next to the church and in we pile.  Of course, the Hertz office will now be closed for lunch so Garry suggests that we go to lunch at a restaurant he and Di discovered when they were last in Bergerac three years ago, L’Imparfait, like we need more food.  He rings and books a table for 1.30pm and we have a delightful lunch, but it was a shame to have to hurry in this lovely restaurant, clearly one designed for a long and leisurely experience.  The restaurant calls us a taxi at 3pm and the same driver turns up and takes us to Hertz.  Which is closed.

But, the Europcar operator next door points us to the carpark, where we find the detailer who opens the office, makes some phone calls for instructions, gives us an incident report to complete with regard to the previous car, and then finally gives us the keys to our new car, which is clearly a self-cleaning model, called a Duster.  We need to be home by 5.30pm in order to freshen up and leave at 6pm to drive to Dany and Trish’s.  But, we need to collect the pigeons en route.  We pull up at the Boucherie in Beaumont du Perigord at 4.30pm and Di and Garry run in to do the explaining and make the purchase while I keep the motor running in my illegal parking spot,  although that seems to make me more of a local.  A few minutes later the pigeons are in the car, as are my travelling McDonald’s and we continue the drive to the Supermarche, as our provisions are dwindling at home.  We may need dinner tonight, although we suspect that Dany and Trish will have prepared enough nibblies to keep us going.  We get home at 5.30pm, do a quick turnaround and pull out at 6pm for our 6.30pm drinks.  Their house, which they have lived in for 12 years, is a magnificent 15^th Century mansion with grand rooms and lovely interior colour scheme, as would be expected by anyone who remembers Cleopatra at Blackheath.  The garden, too, is expansive with beautiful plantings and lovely swimming pool, which they expect to open for the summer in about 2 weeks.  They don’t have a vegetable garden, “why would we when we can get everything we want direct from the grower at the market?”  They grow only herbs.

We enjoy a glass of rose, although as the driver I abstain, and a couple of savoury biscuits with spread.  Once they learn that we are going to Bordeaux tomorrow and Di and Garry are going onto the Spain we get lots of tips where to eat.  There’s that assumption again, that we need to eat more!  At 8.30pm I announce that I wish to leave now, in order not to drive in the dark.  It’s still light until about 9.15pm, by which time we are home and I am whipping up a risotto, which we really don’t need but this eating lark is a hard habit to break.  In true French style it is after 10 when we sit down to eat, and once we have cleaned up we head straight for bed and our early start tomorrow, well early start French style.

Saturday 7 May

Our train to Bordeaux leaves Bergerac at 10.30am and we need to refill the car, return it to Hertz at the airport and take a taxi to the train station.  We leave the house at 7.45am, Garry and Di for the last time, and head for the airport.  We pull into the supermarket for fuel but the machine won’t accept either of my credit cards. We continue onto the airport and find a fuel station which actually has a human attendant and refuel with no problem.  We return the car keys, call a cab and are at the station an hour before the train.  A cup of coffee on the street opposite fills in enough time and we take an uneventful ride on the first train from Bergerac to Libourne, where we change for our train to Bordeaux.  However we are sent outside to a bus.  Not sure why, but we are bussing it to Bordeaux rather than train.  No problem, it’s a comfortable bus and we have a different view than that from the train.  We alight the bus at Gare Bordeaux which is surrounded by crime scene tape, as well as Police and Civil Protection officers.  There has been a bomb scare, hence the closure of the station, but it appears to have been a false alarm.  I guess France is ultra-sensitive now to the threat of terrorist attacks.  Our taxi drops us at our hotel right in the centre of Bordeaux, we dump our bags and head off on foot.  Oh my, what a gloriously beautiful city this is.

 Di and Garry go to the Musee Beaux Arts while Cherrie and I show our uncultured streak by walking down to the River Garonne.  We discover the markets full of the most wonderful French provincial furniture and mentally furnish our house and garden ten times over. Fabulous stuff.   The ritual of luncheon is alive and well at these markets and the stall holders are all sitting down at whatever dining tables they happen to have for sale today, with family and friends and partaking in hot meals with wine.   It’s a joy to behold.

We spend some hours in this area, wandering the markets which include trees, flowers and seedlings.

We could have bought any number of old, very old, olive trees

some cloud pruned, as well as some old grape vines, but we surmised we probably wouldn’t get them on the plane home

We wandered up the riverfront boulevard and revelled in watching children play on the water mirror, a tiled wet area where bare feet can kick up water and provide a fun frolic.  Every 30 minutes it is sprayed with a light mist from below, resulting in delighted shrieks.

The streets are teeming with people but that cannot deter from the beauty of this city.

Even the electric trams are sleek, quiet and have no advertising on them.

 And the chocolates are a work of art

Back at the hotel, we meet Garry and Di for a glass of wine at 6.30pm, a complimentary service provided by the hotel, before an hour later walking a short distance up the road to Le Chapon Fin, a renowned Bordeaux restaurant which opened in the 18^th Century and which is highly recommended by Michelin.  We booked for this months ago and have decided that tonight caution goes out the window and we eat, drink and be merry.  Although it might be noted by the keen observer of this blog that restraint is not a characteristic which has featured widely recently.

We have the most fabulous night.  This is true theatre as well as fine food.  Great service, much made of the appertif champagne cart, the decanting of the wine, the service of the food but all without pretension.  We order our entrée, main and cheese but resist the invitation to order dessert. Until we have finished our cheeses.  It is then that we order our dessert, which we all agree the next day was a mistake.  We should have left it with the cheese.  We don’t need dessert and frankly it was too much.  We just got carried away by the occasion, and what an occasion it was.  A fabulous night, with 3 1/2 hours of pure indulgence.

Sunday 8 May

Today is another French public holiday.  Ascension Day, although we all agree that for us it is Expansion Day.  We walk down to the river this morning for….you guessed it….the food markets.  Just for a window shop.  We can’t get enough of these markets, with their wide selection of meats, fish, vegetables, charcuterie, cheeses.  We completely understand Dany and Trish’s decision to buy from the markets rather than grow their own.  We walk further up the river, and threw these beautiful streets, far less busy today.  This is a clean, very cared for city, which we are enjoying very much.  We have a light lunch in a square which seems to be entirely Spanish, and then we separate.  Garry and Di in one direction, which we covered yesterday, and we in another.  We all even manage an afternoon siesta, before once again meeting for the complimentary pre-dinner wine. We walk to a Brasserie recommended by Dany but all four of us have capitulated and confess to being fooded out.  This might cause a seismic shift in the earth, but there, we have fessed up.  One course only, not finished by anyone, and back to the hotel for an early night.

Tomorrow we bid farewell to the McDonalds who take their train to Spain whilst we take ours in the opposite direction to Bergerac, and to face Hertz and the enormous repair bill they have sent us.

Tuesday 3, Wednesday 4 and Thursday 5 May

This house, Les Couges, is just gorgeous.

  It’s casual and comfortable and perfect for our holiday.  On Tuesday morning we drive into nearby Beaumont du Perigord, where we peruse the market place.  Our purchase of the olives nearly breaks the bank.  They are lovely olives though and I am saving the stones because I am sure once I clean them I will discover gold.  We do some basic shopping, find a bouchier with an array of such enticing meats that we are seen to drool.  Eventually we buy rabbit for tonight, which Garry and Di will cook, and order four pigeons to collect tomorrow.  I have found a recipe I want to try out on the guinea pigs here (although I won’t serve guinea pig on this occasion) and it’s not that easy to find pigeon in Australia, unless you happen to be driving recklessly through Hyde Park.  After a coffee in the square, we return home to devour the remainder of last night’s slow cooked lamb, courtesy of these wonderful cooks we are sharing this holiday with.  Thanks, Di and Garry.

We then head out again, this time to the local town Monpazier, and what a lovely town it is.  One of the ‘plus beaux villages de France’, it is old.  In fact it was founded in 1284 by England’s King Edward 1 and remains pretty much unchanged since then.

 We managed to find an English speaking woman in the little library who printed out a driver licence receipt which Cherrie has downloaded from the RMA website, which we hope might allow her to drive in France.

Tonight our personal chefs create a wonderful rabbit dish with tomato and olives.  How fabulous to have such talent in house.

Wednesday 4 May

Today we decide to do some gardens.  We plan our day carefully around picking up the pigeons and decide that we will do the gardens first and then come home via Beaumont and the Boucherie.  So, we head out early and drive the one hour to Sarlat, a beautiful drive through this glorious countryside.  It’s so pretty, and varies between valleys, hills and flat, unlike the Loire and Languedoc, both of which don’t vary much.  We go drive through the medieval town of Sarlat to the gardens of Marqueyssac, which we are told are spectacular.  Such a disappointment.  They are ALL box hedges, nothing else, trimmed into topiary.  But rather in need of a trim, actually.  A little bit scruffy.  And you know what box smells like don’t you?  Garry put his nose to one hedge and sniffed, as if it were a glass of wine.  “Mmm, Persian”, “Ah, Manx”, “Tabby”, “Tom” etc.  A perfect description.  Built basically as a park designed for walking, it does provide spectacular views of the Dordogne valley and river.  But we find the plantings and the topiary unimaginative and disappointing.

We retreat to Sarlat for lunch and find a beautiful little restaurant in a garden courtyard which does us nicely.  After lunch we head to our second and final garden for the day, Eyrignac Manor Garden another 3o minutes away.  This private garden does not disappoint, and whilst it too has lots of topiary they are set within mass plantings of yew, hornbeam, and more box but it is truly beautiful.

We happily spend a couple of hours wandering around here, Cherrie snapping away on my inadequate iphone, well compared to her beautiful Sony camera which some thief is now enjoying, until we decide that we’d better make tracks in order to reach the pigeons in time.

Our trusty in-car GPS leads us on a curious scenic route towards Beaumont.  We know that it is an hours drive but the butcher doesn’t close until 7pm so we’re not in a screaming hurry.  Which is clearly evident to the cars behind us, driven by impatient Frenchmen who have no time for our hesitation at roundabouts or us pulling over on roads too narrow to bear that description when confronted with an oncoming wide truck. However, we are undeterred and drive carefully through a number of very pretty towns.  We come unstuck in one however, and it’s not even pretty.  We hit something on the road that makes a frightful noise.  We pull up, half on the pavement in order to make as little impact on traffic as possible.  This is a pretty busy road, and so we quick thinkers even turn on the hazard lights. We all alight, and yes, there is it.  A flat tyre at the back.  Then we look to the front.  Another flat tyre.  Picture this if you will.  Two flat tyres, 5.15pm, paperwork for the rental car back at the house, busy road which we have now rendered single lane and four pigeons awaiting, which will not find their way to our home.  Trust me, it’s not a good look.    Garry’s phone is at 50%, mine at 30%, Di’s doesn’t work in France and Cherrie’s is in the hands of the same thief who is currently taking photos of his bastard children with her camera.  An internet hunt on my rapidly weakening phone reveals a  number for France Hertz.  I use Garry’s phone to ring but predictably get a recorded message and Hertz France has the temerity to speak in French.  I have no idea what they are saying.  I hang up and keep dialing, in the hope that the message will miraculously translate itself into English.  Perhaps unsurprisingly it does not.  Eventually a man approaches us. Ah, at last help is here we think.  Wrong.  He speaks no English at all.  I show him my Hertz Gold card in the hope that he can listen to the recorded message on the phone and at least advise them that we are in trouble and need to speak to someone in English.  Wrong again.  He has no idea what I am saying, thinks my member number is a phone number and that Christine Dunstan is the model of the car.  Well, I can see why I might be mistaken for a tank but this was no time for self reflection.  It’s getting more evident by the minute that this man cannot help us, until his daughter, maybe 7 years old, makes a suggestion to which he responds positively and off they head.  Did she suggest a beer, or dinner?  We are not sure but watch them head across the road, now quite congested thanks to us.  I continue the battle of the telephones, ringing every number I can find for Hertz, without any success at all.  By now Garry’s phone charge has equalled mine at 30%.  A few minutes later a man approaches us, and in the voice of an angel says “I believe you might need some help” He’s an Englishman!  He uses Garry’s phone, rings the Hertz number I give him, which of course is central reservations, but in his perfect French he turns on the charm and finds the number of the Hertz assistance line.  He rings that for us, listens to the message and presses 2, which means that I will speak to someone in English. Someone who understands what I am saying and will speak back to me in English.  Of course, the wait is interminable during which time we bond with our angel, David, and establish that we are probably 45 minutes from Les Couges.  Eventually, after literally 12 minutes, I do indeed get onto someone, explain the situation and then try to tell her where we are.  David fulfils that bit expertly, Miss Hertz tells me she will dispatch help and that I should ring her back once help comes.  We are relieved but uncertain what form this help will take.  David pops home and then returns to us with a list of taxi numbers if we need them.  He has even gone to the trouble of ringing some of the taxis himself, but they have all said that as tomorrow is a public holiday they can’t possibly take a fare tonight.  Go figure.  He has also spoken to a friend of his, explained the situation, and thinks that his friend may be able to drive us later if we are prepared to wait.  Such kindness.  Our French friend rejoins the party and everyone thinks we should move the car further up the road so that it can revert to two lanes.  This doesn’t seem a good idea to me as I fear that any movement will damage the wheel rims.  Lots of animated discussion about the pros of reopening the road vs the cons of moving the car until I pull rank and say that the contract is in my name and the car stays here.  Everyone steps back!  David then heads off to do some shopping and says he will pop by later to check up on us. Realising that we are not going to be consuming pigeon any time soon Di and Cherrie head off to a supermarket for emergency supplies for tonight and all day tomorrow – nothing open on a public holiday in France. 50 minutes later a huge tow truck pulls up.  Here is our assistance.  He looks at the tyres and shakes his head in some amusement.  He indicates that I should ring Hertz back and while I do, he, seemingly without effort, lowers the tray on his truck, carefully drives our car onto it, winches it up, raises the tray.  All one within 5 minutes.

Now he waits with us until Hertz answer – another 12 minutes at least.  He talks to them, tells us that we should wait at the Tabac up the road which is much more comfortable and drives off with a jaunty wave.  Hertz will organise a replacement car for us.  Tonight.  She will ring me back, on Garry’s phone.  My phone by now is down to 18% and we turn it off.   We head up the road, with two bags of our coats etc from the car and our groceries, and have a mineral water while we wait for Hertz to ring back with car details.  And wait, and wait.  Then I notice a missed call on Garry’s phone.  He curses that the phone has been problematic for ages and he never hears it ring.  The ‘do not disturb’ is on!  Get rid of that and ring Hertz back.  This wait is for 18 minutes.  They can’t get us a car tonight.  But they will get us a cab, that’s all included in our Amex insurance.  Oh joy to Amex again.  They know the pick up address, thanks to David, but the drop off address at Les Couges is another matter.  There is no address.  “Just get us to Lolme” I say “and we will direct the driver from there”.  “There is no place called Lolme” she says.  Banter between she and me goes on for a long time.  I try very hard to remain calm.   Meanwhile the others return to our original position down the road for fear that the taxi might arrive and we not be there, whilst I negotiate my way around this issue.  Garry’s phone is down to 12%, it’s now 8.15pm and I start to become seriously concerned that we might have to find David’s friend to drive us back.  But no, we have to stick with the insurance conditions which are that Hertz provide the taxi.  “My phone is going to be without charge very soon” I say “please let us direct the taxi”.  Somehow my pleas are heard and she says that a taxi will be here in 20-30 minutes.  Phew.  A text message comes through pretty quickly with a revised pick up time – 45 minutes.  We four pace, play silly “who am I games” and generally work hard to keep our spirits up. Garry paces further than us and fortunately is in sight of the Tabac when he sees a taxi pull in at 9.15pm.  The tow truck driver has told Hertz that we will be there!  Garry waves his arms about and attracts the drivers attention and we all make a relieved run for the cab.  He has no GPS, has not heard of Lolme either, but does know Monpazier which is a relief because we have no idea where we are.  He agrees to take us to Monpazier and allow us to navigate from there.  I tremulously turn my phone on – 6% – and my TomTom guides us to Les Couges.  We pull up at 10.10pm.  I think some of us thought we would never see this place again.  Wine and pate for dinner.  We are prisoners here until we speak with Hertz tomorrow to arrange a new car.

Thursday 5 May

We all sleep in, after an exhausting day yesterday.  I ring Hertz at 10am and undertake the usual wait.  I explain the situation and the kind woman offers to investigate and ring me back, which she does about an hour later.  We can’t pick up a car today because…it’s a public holiday.  She will ring me tomorrow!  We don’t mind too much, we are happy to have a day at home to potter.  I ring David to thank him for everything he did for us yesterday.  He came to find us but when we were not at the crime scene he assumed that everything had been resolved and was relieved to find “that France sometimes works”!  I told him we were at the Tabac but that everything had worked out.  I ring Trish Hobbs and Dany Chouet (who used to own Cleopatra in Blackheath), with whom we were to have a drink tonight.  They moved back to France 16 years ago and live near here.  We will see them tomorrow night instead.  Assuming we have a car.  We are literally marooned here without one.  There are worse places to be marooned but we have very few supplies.

Di makes a lovely Spanish omelette for lunch, and we eat outside on this lovely day.  We marvel at the perfect blue sky and what a busy flight path is over this part of France, as there are so many jet streams.

Hopefully tomorrow we will be whisked away in a taxi to a Hertz office and a shiny new car, with four functioning wheels.  Then we have to go to the butcher and explain the pigeons.  On our recent history I expect it will be the guillotine for us.

 

 

Sunday 1 May

It’s May Day in France and it’s a public holiday.  We have pre-booked a taxi to collect the four of us from the boat base to deliver us to Beziers railway station for our 9.50am train to Bordeaux with a transfer to a second train to Bergerac.  From there we take a taxi to Bergerac airport to collect our Hertz car and embark on a drive which we think is less than an hour to Les Couges, a house belonging to old friends where Cherrie and I will reside for the next three weeks.  The McDonalds leave us next week to go to Spain.  We expect to arrive there about 6pm and mindful that nothing is open on a Sunday in France, let alone on a public holiday, we carry supper supplies with us.

We arrive at the station on time and our train is listed on the board with the scheduled departure time.  However, next to it was a word we don’t recognise.  Di and I queue for nearly half an hour to get to the one open window in the ticket office and when we are finally attended to it doesn’t take long to learn that the unrecognisable word means that the train has been cancelled.  There is another one in 3 hours time and we can reserve seats on that one if we wish.  We join the others to confer.  After discussing several options we decide to take the later trains and overnight in Bergerac, delaying the collection of the rental car until tomorrow morning.  Cherrie fires up her computer to change the Hertz booking, I fire mine up to find accommodation while Garry and Di go back to the ticket counter.  Tickets sorted, car sorted, hotel sorted.  Cherrie turns to the luggage, sitting right next to us, and discovers her handbag/backpack has been stolen.  From right under our noses.  Passport, our holiday cash, phone, jewellery, credit cards, drivers licence, camera, kindle….all gone.  Makes you feel sick doesn’t it?

We eventually find someone on the railway staff to report it to and he gives us the address of the police station.  Leaving our suitcases with Di and Garry, Cherrie and I take a 10 minute drive in a taxi to the Hotel De Police.  It’s locked.   It is a public holiday, and a Sunday to boot.  But surely the cop shop is open?  We press the button on the wall outside and it seems that the Pharmacist answers.  I don’t speak French, but I do understand the word “Pharmacie”.  He does not understand my perfectly clear phrase “Police au Gendarmes sil vous plait” and hangs up.  We try the door again, to no avail, so give up and walk away.  We see a helpful looking man, “Police?” we say.  He points us to the Hotel De Police.  “Non, ferme” I say.  “Non, ouvre” he says.  Of course, I argue and leads us to the locked door, just as someone leaves the button in the wall and is buzzed in.  We see our friend mouth “told you so” in French and we wave our thanks to him and gate crash the open door. We are met by a plain clothes female police officer with a very large hand gun on her hip.  Fortunately she speaks enough English to understand what we want to report and asks us to wait, whilst she escorts the legal intruder through another locked door.  We wait.  And wait.  I use the time to ring American Express who are absolutely wonderful and immediately cancel Cherrie’s card and also speak to the insurance company and transfer me through.  Wow, that Amex Platinum card really came into its own.  Without even asking, our insurance claim is now lodged and Amex and Ace Insurance couldn’t have been more helpful.  Thanks Amex.  Eventually someone opens a hatch in the wall and gives Cherrie a four page form to fill out.  She does and we wait longer.  Then the Brigadier in charge of the station, with a similarly large hand gun on his hip, escorts us backstage, through the staff cafeteria and into his office.  He speaks a little English and all messages get through.  He completes the details on his computer, has Cherrie sign everything, and gives us copies.  When I ask if he can call us a taxi he kindly tries but clearly the public holiday is in the way.  So, he arranges for another female officer, in plain clothes but with a big gun to walk us out the back door, through the car park, up the road, around the corner and to a taxi rank.  How kind they all are.

We get back to the station by 12.15pm and board our train at 12.45.  Meanwhile we speak to Visa and Telstra and cancel those.  We will call the Australian Embassy tomorrow.  We realise that without her licence, Cherrie won’t be able to drive a Hertz car?  For the next week the driving can be shared with Garry and Di but once they go at the end of the week, then it’s up to me.  Just as well I like driving.  Just not on the wrong side of the road.

Cherrie is particularly concerned about all the information which her stolen phone carries, and the possibility of identity theft.  This is a very real concern and one which troubles her.

We finally board our train and along the way a rapid fire announcement comes through.  Our resident interpreter, Diane, who is brilliant at her petite peu French, in a perfect accent (“it’s just like acting” she says), at understands enough of the commentary to ascertain that we are running behind schedule.  We seek the advice of the 50 something woman sitting opposite.  This woman is dressed in a combination of lemon yellow and hot pink, and that includes her hair.  She has clearly cultivated a ‘look’, wears high heeled ankle boots, hot pink leggings, lemon top, gold earrings nearly the size of our boat, a face which has not avoided cosmetic surgery, shoulder   length blonde hair which has forgotten its natural colour, all topped off with a bracelet of hot pink leather and gold chain which conveniently houses her mobile phone.  Which has not stopped ringing or beeping long enough for her to top up the lippy.  She asks us something, without moving a single facial muscle, and when Di responds that we are Australian she visibly recoils.  When we ask her what time we are now due into Bordeaux, she spits something French at us and returns to her phone.  She then ignores any further pleas from us.  Fortunately we find another passenger who speaks no English but is very helpful and points to 3 minutes to 6 on my watch.  That leaves us 5 minutes to transfer to our Bergerac train, once we arrive in Bordeaux.  That’s tight, what with getting luggage out of the racks, off the train, down the steps, finding the next platform, dragging the cases up the steps and then onto the train.  But with what we have endured today we can do it.

We actually get into Bordeaux at 3 minutes to 5, an hour earlier than our helpful fellow passenger suggested and so we have plenty of time for the transfer to our three carriage train to Bergerac.  We have paid for 1^st class tickets but there is no such thing on this train, so we grab whatever seats we can and endure our 90 minute trip.  We arrive in Bergerac on time at 7.30pm but of course there is no taxi.  Fortunately there is a board with the taxi number on it, we ring and about 20 minutes later it arrives and delivers us to our hotel in the middle of nowhere, but only 5 minutes from the airport where we will collect our car in the morning.  The hotel has a bistro attached and we eat there.

In deference to the dreadful day, we knock back two bottles of vin rouge.

Monday 2 May

We breakfast in the hotel and get back to our room to ring the Australian Embassy in Paris about the passport before heading off to collect the car.  Their answer machine tells us that they are closed until Wednesday for a public holiday.  We suspect this message is a week old and refers to Anzac Day.  However repeated attempts fail to rouse anyone.  We use my phone to try to ring DFAT in Canberra, an option offered on the Embassy message.  However my French SIM card won’t ring Australia.  We remove that SIM, insert my Australian SIM and try again.  But I can’t get signal.  We give up, reinsert the French SIM only to find that it is now locked and requires a password.  Which we don’t have.  Today’s not started well.

We four take the taxi to Hertz and collect our car.  As we suspected, Cherrie can’t drive without her licence.  We decide to go straight to the villa and worry about shopping later.    I drive, keeping to the right, and manage to arrive at the villa, 45 minutes later intact.  It was the right decision to come straight here because this place is just gorgeous and will be good for our bruised souls.

We all celebrate the washing machine which gets a good workout.  Until now,  since New York, we have hand washed only.  We use the hand basin but Garry carries an amusing device called the Scrubber Washer.  Here’s an unauthorised photo of this cunning device  in use, which involves the user inserting the soiled clothing in the bag which has the sole of a Dr Scholl sandal attached to one interior side, adding water and detergent, sealing the ziplock and kneading it all like dough.  Empty the contents, rinse the clothes and you have much the same result as doing it all in the sink like most people.

There’s one born every minute…..

Di and Garry drive into town to shop while Cherrie and I start the onerous business of sorting the reporting of the stolen items and securing her identity by cancelling passwords etc.   Fortunately there is a landline here which we use and Cherrie gets onto Canberra who say the Paris Embassy is not closed and can’t explain the answer machine.  However, they deal with her issue and take down her details.  She will collect a new passport when we are in Paris.   I manage to find an English speaking person at the mobile phone company who gives me the factory setting of the password and my phone is back in business.

More soon, hopefully with photos taken with my phone.  It’s our only option!

Sunday 24 April

We have a lazy morning at the Chateau with a tiny breakfast comprising coffee and a small hunk of baguette.  We also talk our quasi-Frenchman guide, aka Angus, into taking us to the boat via Carcassonne.  He acquiesces and how pleased we are.  It is a remarkable, old and very touristy town, like France’s answer to Old Sydney Town.

People wandering around in medieval outfits looking ridiculous, some even smoking.  Who knew Philip Morris was that old?

There is a very strong wind which is practically arctic, and quite different to the cassoulet wind.

In the cathedral we are reminded of our NY apartment.

Again we are joined by Nelson and Annie and we seven have an unprecedented one course lunch in Carcassonne before proceeding to Homps and the Le Boat base.

We unload our baggage from Gus’ van, bid farewell to him and his family and sign our nautical lives away in the office, before being led to our enormous boat

 

by a Scot who fails to introduce himself but who will induct us into the ways of the boat, in a very strong Scottish accent.  Pretty quickly we four name him Jock McHaggis.  He is bolshy and clearly keen to get rid of the Aussies and head to the pub for a Piper Down Scottish Ale.  The induction, directed to all of us, proceeds at a rate of knots.  Here is how you tie the ropes, here is where you fill the water, here is the generator but you don’t need to know that, see this – don’t worry about that, this is how to plug into mains power when available, don’t take any notice of this switch, this is where the light switches are, this is how to turn the light switches on, how to flush the toilet and “by the way” says Jock “nothing but paper down the toilet as it all goes into the canal”.  Immediately Garry’s plans for catching dinner go out the porthole.   And he bought a bigger suitcase to hold his fold up rods.  Ah, merde, hope there is fishing near Liz’s house where we are going from the canal.   We can’t congitate for long on this disaster because Jock is now on the engine and the navigational system.  Garry is the nominated Captain and he tries hard to keep up with Jock’s rapid fire directions, as do we all.  We don’t dare ask a question because experience has already taught us that such a cheek results in ire of Jock.  “I was coming to that”, “Just listento me” but mostly it’s “ok?”, aww right?”. He clearly knows that Garry has an AM because he refers to Garry as “Sir”. We hear about compressors, generators, mains power top ups, the perils of running out of water, fuses blowing, bilge pumps etc.  Then we get to the briefing about the locks we will have to pass through, and the inherent danger within.  Jock demonstrates this with the aid of a dishrack falling off the edge of the table, which really is quite alarming.  We resolve not to use the dishrack on board.  Oh, and we must wear life jackets whilst in the locks, presumably so our bodies will float to the top and make the retrieval easier.  By now we have reached the instructions about how to turn the engine on.  Here’s another challenge, but one which our Captain meets with alacrity. Jock tries to show us all the machinations of the boat.  It’s incredibly detailed and we are reeling with the complexities of navigating this boat down the Canal du Midi for a week.   Jock puts Garry behind the wheel and we proceed out of the very tight berthing, make a 120◦ turn into the Canal, proceed downstream for a short distance and then under a low bridge which is only just wider than my hips.  Garry does brilliantly, and then Jock insists he execute a U Turn and take us back.  It’s all necessary, of course, but the fierce wind is making it nearly impossible to control the boat.  Even Jock acquieses that the wind is problematic but nonetheless Garry reverses us back into the incredibly tight spot brilliantly.  Jock attempts to show us how to use the bimini, which is a nautical term for the awning which swings up on a frame to keep the sun off.  But the gale force winds ensure that we abandon the attempt and Diane is heard to comment that that is not the first bimbo to experience wind problems.

By 5pm, Jock has completed his briefing and is ready for home.  I advise him that our wardrobe door is falling off and it is not without a great big sigh that he heads back to the office to get a new hinge, using one of the four bikes we have hired for the week.  Meanwhile Garry uses the on board toilet and drops his telephone straight down it.  All briefed out, I immediately volunteer to head to the supermarket to buy rice in which to immerse the phone.  Cherrie and Di try the bikes out.  They are boys bikes and Cherrie could not get on, Di got on but could not make it work and the third bike fell over because it didn’t have a stand.  I get back from the supermarket just in time to hear Jock say “Aww right, ok, I’ve finished now but you should stay in shore tonight and get new bikes in the morning” and off he heads like the other Flying Scotsman.  I am not a nautical person, having only ever been on the Manly Ferry once, and ask Garry if we should call the whole thing off and take a 7 day bus tour.  He assures me it will be fine and soon we all fall about laughing about Jock and his impatience, all quietly relieved that we’re going nowhere tonight.   It’s after 6 before we get our luggage into our cabins. Fortunately we took the advice we were given some time ago to take a boat with an extra cabin for our luggage, so that our little sleepers (amusingly referred to as Staterooms in the on board booklet), with two single beds and an ensuite in each are adequate.

A beer for Garry, wine for the girls, and we have bread and cheese for dinner in port.  We are tired, have an early night and hope for calm canals tomorrow.

Monday 25 April

We arise, breakfast on board with bread and cheese purchased at the market yesterday and wheel the three offending bikes to the office which opens at 9am. Other than the bikes, we are seeking further instructions with regard to generator, compressor and engine starting.  To our dismay Jock is the first person we see. He arranges for we girls to wait for new bikes whilst he and Sir proceed to the boat for a refresher course.  Jock is nicer this morning and Garry thinks it’s because his blood sugar levels are up after last night’s bender.

At 10.30am we cast off

 and Capt Gaz steers us down the Canal Du Midi, enroute to Port Cassifieres.  Gus has been laughing at us all week about going on a Noddy boat down the Canal.  This is no Noddy boat, believe me. This three berth monster is whopping 17m long and 4.5 metres high.  It’s Titanic in proportions, although we hope for a better outcome.

Garry is doing well at the wheel and we start to think that maybe we will be able to relax on this cruise after all.  Within 10 or 15 minutes of setting sail we come to our irst lock.  This is the manouvere that Jock has warned us about and the dish rack springs to mind.

The locks take eight hands, two on the controls, four on ropes fore and aft and two on land.  Capt Gaz is on the controls, Di is forward, Christine is aft (as well as daft) and Cherrie leaps ashore to wrap the ropes around the bollard and hand back to the on-board deck hands, who hold the boat in position whilst the engines are idling and while Cherrie walks down to the lower level (we are cruising downstream) to reverse the situation and get herself back on board. There is a lock master who controls the otherwise automatic gates but the real skill rests with the Captain, and Garry is a nautical star, as well as the other star that he has been for so long.

Through the lock, we feel a sense of triumph.  And then very soon we see the next lock.  This one is a double.  In the narrow gates, routine repeated, out of one lock, ropes returned to deck, boat navigated immediately into next lock, crew do their thing and not a moment too soon we emerge from the lock.  In tact. We face another double lock and another single lock today, and have become quite accomplished.  Well, almost.  Then we remember that we forgot the lifejackets.   Clearly they will stay in their packaging for the duration.

It’s not the relaxing cruise that we had hoped for.  At least not yet.  We do cruise through pretty country, but so many of the beautiful plane trees which were planted in the 1830’s are dying.  We believe this is a result of a fungus which was inadvertently introduced by the US in contaminated ammunition boxes during WW2.  There were 42,000 original plane trees and so far 15,000 of them have been felled.

Slowly they are being replaced with pines, poplars and oaks, but those old shade trees are sorely missed.

It’s nice to know that they are being watered

The wind is still very strong, so much for the halcyon climate of southern France.  As we look around it becomes obvious to us that this is a windy area, since the country is dotted with wind turbines.  We comment that Joe Hockey would rather see the country littered with open cut coal mines.

We decide to berth for the day at Argens, which the map tells us is a “lovely little town, clustered around a 14^th Century chateau”.  There’s a marina here and our Captain negotiates the tight marina entrance and identifies a spot to pull into.  We deck hands do our thing and tie the boat up to the bollards. There’s even power here, and water to top up the tank, which we do.  There is a small bistrot nearby and we enjoy a lunch of poached salmon and vegetables.  The first vegetables we have had for a while.  When we ask where the shops are, and most importantly the boulangerie, to stock up for breakfast supplies, we learn there are no shops here.  This is a deserted French town too.  So we reverse the process and continue downstream.  Roubia looks nice and we choose this for the night.  This one has no formal berthing, so when Garry pulls up close to the bank Cherrie jumps ashore with two steel stakes and a mallet.  She deftly hammers the stakes into the ground, fore and aft, and Di and I throw her the ropes which she passes over the stakes and throws back to us.  We tie up, shut down the engines and dismebark.

We walk around the charming concentric streets and see no one.  There are no shops here.  Back to the boat, untie, start up and head off.  This is getting silly now, but at last we find Paraza.  Again we do the stake and mallet trick, and again we disembark and walk around this village.  Again it is deserted, except for a chateau which sells wine.  So much for my theory of a market place in each town.  Nonsense.  Most of rural France is deserted.  No wonder the properties are so cheap.

Once again we head off, for the 4^th time today and finally settle, with some success, on Ventenac-en-Minervois.  This town has proper bollards and a restaurant.

Which is not open on Monday night.  No matter to us, we planned to eat on board anyway, and there is a small grocery shack by the moorings so we buy some ham and eggs and make do with bread, cheese, asparagus and ham.  But before dinner we are joined on board by Karen and Brian, a couple from New York who we met at the Homps base and who are also traversing the canal. 

 Karen is particularly fond of the sound of her own voice and her broad Brooklyn accent.  She is like something that Sid Caesar or Mel Brooks would create, although I suspect she is her own creation.  Brian agrees with everything she says, as she turns to him and says “right?”, “right” he nods.  We think that Karen is older than Brian but they are still a couple in their 40’s.  They travel quite a lot, they had a week in Venice last year and learnt how to gondolier (!), and for this trip they flew from NY into Toulouse on Sunday, took the train to somewhere near Homps, took a taxi to the boat base and slept on board, as did we.  They go home on Sunday next via Dublin for a night to catch up with cousins.  Oh the energy of them.  Eventually Garry stands up and says “well, I guess we’d better be doing something about dinner”, at which we all take our cue and rise too.  Our American friends take the hint and head off to their own boat.

Tuesday 26 April

Garry is devoted to the baguette so we rely on our captain to trek to the local boulangerie each morning which is now a routine, this being day two, and we enjoy a leisurely on-board breakfast. Garry and Di set off on a post prandial stroll and we agree that we unleash the bikes for a cycle once they return.  However, they are back sooner than we expect with reports that the weather up ahead is looking threatening and we want to beat the rain.  The wind is still strong and unpleasant so we deck hands don our gloves and we cast off in our wet weather gear.  The conditions are not too bad and as the boat has to be captained from the top deck, in the open, we are all up there.  After a while the light rain clears but the wind is still strong.  However once again we cruise through lovely country, lots of vines, grains, and even some poppies.

We pass this boat, which is apparently named for a town and Garry is heard to say “but there’s no one there!”

We arrive at Le Someil and decide to dock for here for the night.  Having knocked in the stakes and tied up, and completed the sailors’ chores, we take a walk through this sweet but tiny town.

We are pleased because this is the town our friends Rosie and Mike mentioned has the wonderful antique book shop and indeed there it is, just there.  Closed Tuesday.  Damn.  Undeterred we walk a little way along the banks and bump straight into our newfound American friends Karen and Brian.  Oops.  After a chat and with some deft footwork from Garry, we give them the slip and walk back over the ancient stone bridge, but not without a  stop on the bridge  to watch two fishermen (don’t they know what’s in this canal?) engaging in what Garry tells me is coarse fishing.  This involves extendable rods with no reels and is apparently riveting stuff for those so inclined.

After a short time we move on, Garry eventually joining us, and we enjoy a leisurely lunch in a sweet little waterside restaurant.  We are all agreed that we need some exercise and so we now unleash the bikes and we cycle 2.5kms to the Supermarche, without incident. We buy a few basic supplies which we evenly distribute into our backpacks plus a few things in the Miss Marple style basket on Garry’s bike, which is the older variety than ours, and head home.  The weight of the Heineken overtakes Garry and the bike tips over, our esteemed Captain with it. All is well, bar a grazed hand and ego.  We redistribute the load so that Miss Marple has little and get back to the boat without further incident.  We return the bikes to the boat, which is no mean feat in itself since where the boat operator suggests they go is in a most inconvenient spot for the aft deck hand (aka Christine) who has insisted they be relocated to the top deck.  This involves all four of us and a considerable amount of grunting.  We stroll along the shore, have a drink in the bar attached to our luncheon restaurant right by the canal, watch the coarse fishermen some more who by now have been joined by ‘proper’ fishermen (I’ll get into trouble for that terminology) and having decided that we will have lunch on the boat tomorrow we order extra bread for collection by Capt Garry tomorrow morning.  We retire back to the boat where we enjoy a meal of pasta with a curious tomato curry sauce kindly given to us by Gus, and a delicious green salad which we all devour as if it were our last meal. Yum, fresh salad greens.  A rarity in rural France.  Another walk, and an exciting viewing of an otter in the canal,

 before Garry fires up his fishing rod, just to explore that movement in the water.

But it’s a bit late and he retires the gear for the night.

Wednesday 27 April

The usual breakfast of baguette, courtesy Le Capitane and cast off at 9am.  This has now become a very relaxing cruise, even though it is very different to what I had imagined.  I had thought that we would, could, pull into where ever we want by simply throwing a rope over a waiting pole, step ashore and explore any number of small villages, buying up fresh food in the process.  But it is not like that at all.  Places to berth are few and far between, and whilst we can hammer the stakes into the ground and secure the ropes to them, it is quite a procedure.  However the greater challenge is finding a town with some life in it.  Half an hour or so after heading off today we pull into a ‘marina’ where we can fill up our water tanks, which we do at the low price of €5.

Once again today we proceed through delightful countryside at a very leisurely speed.

 

There are a number of bridges under which we cruise, three of which today are very low,

and indeed one is so low that it catches the bikes (which you will remember one of our troublesome party has insisted be positioned on the top deck) before a quick thinking Cherrie pulls them down.

We see groups of children everywhere, on bikes, in kayaks, on barges.  Obviously school holiday activities.

We moor under some trees and have a sandwich lunch around our table.

A little dog joins us in our eating quarters below deck and we all ooh and ahh as we are all missing our dogs. 

We have seen lots of resident boat dogs on our cruise, which amuses and delights us.

We stroll up by the canal, find the home of our visitor, and continue our walk a little way. We then set off again, and continue our relaxing pace just cruisin’ and lookin’.  Past more gorgeous fields of poppies

 As we near our final destination for today, Capistan, we are confronted with the lowest, narrowest and quite the most challenging bridge on the whole route.  But Garry steers a stable ship and we make it.

 We berth where there is both water and power, for the first time, and as luck would have it Karen and Brian are here too.  Oh joy!  Have they got the hint?  Maybe….they go off to shower in the public facilities (their boat doesn’t enjoy the staterooms that ours does) and we hot foot it in the other direction for a walk through town.  This is a larger town and we pass no fewer than three boulangeries – all closed for the school holidays!

This evening we leave the boat for our first dinner out.  Di closes the door to their stateroom, but it clearly wants to come with us!

As we walk to our chosen restaurant for dinner we are reminded of how many children we see playing in the squares and we are so impressed at how clever these French kids are.  No matter how young, they all speak fluent French.

On the way back from dinner we bump into…….you’ve got it…..Karen and Brian.  We all feigned exhaustion and after a short chat, well actually we don’t chat to Karen we listen, we made for home.

Thursday 29 April

Today we depart a little uncertain as to how far we will proceed.  We know that the Fonserannes Staircase awaits us, which is made up of 7 joining locks, which descends more than 20 metres.  There are specific times that the locks are open and only twice locks for tomorrow and tackle only the Malpas tunnel today, which is 160m long and one way, so that we have to sound our horn before entering.  We travel along in a most leisurely way, and Capt Garry has a number of tight corners to navigate.  Today is the first day we have seen sun and the wind has at last died down so we are basking.  Four puffer coats lie discarded, for the first time in a week.

Every day we pass an abandoned boat on the canal, which seems to such a waste as well as an environmental issue.

 

We berth at Poilhes, another sweet little deserted town, except for the artisinal beer place housed in a gorgeous and ancient ‘cave’.  Garry doesn’t taste, it’s not yet midday, but he does buy a couple of bottles each of amber and blonde, highly recommended in print under the displayed photo of ex ABC Europe correspondent Philip Williams.  A coffee break and then we pull up stumps (as it were, they are actually stakes) and move on to Colombiers.  This takes us through the tunnel but not before we are delayed by a group of kayaking kids (again, all speaking perfect French) and an extremely large barge which does a U-Turn right in the middle of the canal.

Fortunately, however, the barge then leads us through the tunnel, which I think Garry was quite grateful for.  The tunnel is a real tourist attraction and as we emerge there are indeed lots of people on bikes, who have cycled to the high bank to watch the boats emerge.  Or not perhaps.  We soon come to the realisation that passenger barges take their prey through the tunnel, execute a U-Turn (which is no mean feat, believe me) and go back through the tunnel.  What some people pay for!!!

Our final berth for the day is Colombiers, another little village on a marina but we berth before the bridge in a quieter part of town, just next to the boules ground which will soon become the popular meeting spot for the locals.

It’s such a lovely day that we eat our sandwich lunch on the top deck for the first time.

Not any sandwich of course, but a veritable feast of tomatoes, lettuce, pate, artichokes, cheeses and that beautiful French baguette that our leader buys every morning.  Washed down with a beer (one of the new ones) for Garry and a wine for Di and me while Cherrie sticks to water.  Like every town we have been to, there is an ancient stone bridge here, and we walk over it to explore the town.  We find a supermarket which reopens in a couple of hours and we return to the boat for a quiet couple of hours of reading.  This is the life, watching the boats go buy, calling “bonjour” to all and sundry and generally relaxing.

The weather is so lovely we are going to cook on board tonight and we head to the supermarket where we buy one metre of Toulouse sausage, potatoes, tomatoes, lettuce and cucumber.  Guess what’s for dinner?  And, we’ve got a BBQ on board, so we also buy some cuttlefish and chorizo for tomorrow night. Two bottles of overpriced local wine, at €4 each, and we’re happy boaters.

Friday 29 April

This morning, en route to the staircase, we follow a large barge all the way down the canal, which has narrowed considerably.  Figs line either side of the banks and we are tempted to pull over and harvest some, but good sense intervenes.  Eventually the barge moors and we overtake.  We wave at Karen and Brian who berthed a good deal further downstream than us, and I feel a barely discernible acceleration from our captain. Not much further on we come to the staircase lock, without any warning and it takes us by surprise. But some deft reversing from our Captain and we moor close up to the lock so that we are first in line.  We are right beside a huge building site, the renovation of a completely disembowelled stone house and one which would leave Kevin McCloud lost for words.  It ‘s three hours before the lock opens for the downward journey but we are in time to observe a number of boats coming up.  The lock master seems to be a McHaggis too, maybe he is Henri McHaggis, because he is as grumpy as Jock.  He growls and waves us away – we are not allowed to observe it appears.  But we see enough to know that this will not be a piece of gateau.

The next boat in our queue pulls right up behind us.  Oh joy, it’s Karen and Brian.

We can’t walk anywhere, it’s all fenced off for the building site.  So we stay on board, it’s a glorious sunny day, so we lift the bimbo for the first time. Gosh, those bimbos are hard to get upright but at least it filled in half an hour for us.  We manage to shade the table on deck so read under it for a while.  By midday the building noise still hasn’t abated so we prepare our ploughman’s (or should that be bateauxman’s) lunch and take it upstairs.  It’s too cold under the bimbo so we return it to its former prostrate position which was no trouble at all.   Not. We lunch while Karen and Brian rehearse their choir concert in Brooklyn next Wednesday.  At least we think that’s what they are doing but perhaps Karen’s finger is caught in the hatch.  At 12.30 the builders break for lunch and an enormous table is set up which groans with food and all 20 workmen sit down to eat.  Our senses are aroused by the aroma of barbequing something which makes us want to join them.

It’s 1.30 and the lock master returns from le dejeuner and a commercial vessel appears.  He has right of way so we watch him enter the lock first.  He is so large that no one else can fit.  There are now several vessels behind us, and we are feeling smug that we are next in.  Karen is particularly excited that she and Brian are sharing the lock staircase experience with us and the British mob of 10 behind them will also be in.  They have also been lunching on deck and devouring a big platter and at least three bottles of wine.  Garry fires up the engine, which revs very high with a gush of black diesel smoke and the gears do not engage.  We have broken down.  Two more attempts confirms this.  We wave the other boats past, wave farewell to Karen and Brian and wonder if this is divine intervention.  We ring the boat company base and try to explain what has happened.  They tell us they will send a technician and that we should go nowhere.  We can only go nowhere we say!  Looks like we are stuck by the building site for the night.  The next lock opening is 8.30am.  We cannot get out, even if we wanted to, as we are fenced in, the only site access being the other side of the canal and we can’t get there.  Even the bridge further upstream is fenced off.  Fortunately we have supplies on board, although perhaps not quite enough wine for me.

At 3.45pm, two hours after we reported our problem and half an hour after the lock closed for the day, our technician turns up.  He has had to park a kilometre away, and cut the building fence to access us.  He speaks French as he enters the boat and we all throw up our hands in horror and ask if he speaks English.  He immediately converts to perfect English.  Phew!  When I ask where he hails from he responds “Oh, I’ve been around the world and back again”.  A mystery man.  Pretty soon he realises that our problem is greater than he anticipated and he needs to go back to his van.  We offer him one of our bikes, an offer which he gratefully accepts. Eventually he returns and works for over an hour and a half and identifies that the engine computer has burnt out.  He works some magic and repairs it enough so that he is fairly confident that we can at least get through the locks tomorrow morning, and hopefully to base, where we return the boat.

We were planning to dock at base tomorrow night anyway for an early check out Sunday morning and trains to Bergerac.  We ascertain that our saviour, who we now know to be Bob, is a Londoner but has not lived there since the Thatcher days, such was his disdain for her.  He warns us that his makeshift repair has resulted in us having only one speed – slow, and that we are unable to change that.  Garry has to either put the boat in neutral or reverse to slow or stop it.

Bob assures us that we can call base tomorrow if we are in trouble again and sets off on  his 1km walk back to his car.  We settle in for the night by the building site.  We have no bread but we do have long life milk and tea and coffee and my friends tell me that we have enough wine.  Moderation Dunstan will have to practice some uncharacteristic restraint it appears.  We had planned to eat on board tonight anyway, so that’s fortunate.

We have an early night.  There is nowhere to walk to and we have been here for 10 hours with nothing to look at but a closed lock and a building site.

Saturday 30 April

The Captain has us up early in preparation for our overdue departure.  By 7.20am we are breakfasted and ready for departure.  The locks don’t open until 8.30am.  But the sink obligingly blocks and so we spend 30 minutes in plumbing mode.  We efficiently disconnect the drain pipe and clean out of it all sorts of unattractive muck. We clean around the cupboards where said muck has settled after vomiting the contents of the pipe.  But we can’t reconnect the pipe.  So the sink now has a basin within it for washing up.  There are now two door handles which have come off and one blocked toilet.  And the blinds on the bedroom (oops, Staterooms as they are described) windows don’t close.  Perhaps it’s best that we vacate this boat tomorrow morning.

It’s a cold and windy day.  The hibernation of the puffer jackets has been very short lived.  The rain has just started and Vera’s hat comes out.

We move tentatively into the first staircase lock.  Another boat joins us.  The rain and wind isn’t helping, but lock by lock we descend 25 metres.  It takes nearly an hour to get down and at the bottom we make a 90◦ turn and proceed forward.  We have waved the other boat in front because our speed is so limited but shortly later we reach another lock and join them.  An alarming two other boats follow us in and we descend two quite significant levels, in this double lock.  We have become quite the locksmiths by now.

It is bucketing down now and as we exit the lock, the engine in our faulty boat chooses this very moment to relive its fault, and we do a sort of doughnut, well a baguette really, in the canal with the other three boats watching on.  Our Captain, oh Captain manages to right things and as he redeems his pride we wave the boats into the lead.  Despite the impediments, we are making good progress and so long as we get to base by 4.30pm, in order to dock and complete the check-out procedures, we will be fine.

We berth at a little town which promises a Saturday market and in our soaked clothes we head to the town square.  Only two market stalls left, the others have packed up because of the weather.  But we manage to secure enough supplies for an on-board dinner tonight.  I even manage to snaffle a couple of bottles of wine into the bag.

We eat lunch at the restaurant close to where we have berthed and consume a truly ordinary one course meal.  But the sun is now out so the wet weather gets hung out to dry.

One more lock before base and we arrive at 3.30pm.  Despite being buffeted by the wind, Garry negotiates a perfect reverse park with a crowd of folk looking on, just to add to the pressure.  Having refixed the broken basket to Garry’s bike in anticipation of our check out, I then immediately catch my tie rope on it and it disengages and flies into the canal.  The crowd applauds. Bob, our saviour from yesterday, who is also the Base Manager checks us out and is undeterred by the sunken basket, the two broken door handles, the non-flushing toilet, the non-functioning bedroom blinds and the now unplumbed sink and gives us a credit for the fuel used today, as compensation for our mechanical problems.

There is a vacant berth next to ours and we suspect that Karen and Brian will pull in.  Indeed they do, but not quite next to us.  That space is reserved for the New Zealanders with whom we have exchanged pleasantries during the week.  Garry leads the group chat outside our boat and expertly avoids any suggestion of socialising beyond, while Di and I lurk inside preparing dinner.  Cherrie showers.

We observe fellow boaties returning to base, deftly or otherwise negotiating their craft into the tight berths in this port (aka marina) and stare at them, as others did at us a week ago.

We four play Yatzee before and after dinner, make much mirth and no doubt a little too much noise.

It has been a marvellous and congenial week with good friends, many laughs, some hysteria and even relaxing.  Garry has excelled himself with his boating skills, under sometimes trying circumstances.  I am impressed.

More fun awaiting us at Les Couges, our next stop in a villa belonging to a dear friend.