Category: 2Cs OverCs

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.

 

Apologies for the delay in posting.  France is not strong on wifi (which they call whiffy).  I have been unable to get enough signal to post for over a week now.  Hope this one goes through.

Thursday 21 April

Angus Longstaff, picks the four of us up in Toulouse for our food and wine odyssey.  Gus and I worked together in the ‘80s on a variety of shows and events in and around Sydney and he was always great fun to work with.  He relocated to France 21 years ago in pursuit of a French girl he had met on a Sydney Festival show and persuaded her to marry him.  He has lived in France ever since and he and Helene have two children and live in the Languedoc region of south west France.  Always a dab hand in the kitchen, when Gus worked first arrived in Paris in 1995 he worked  with chef Jean-Paul Bruneteau in the first ever restaurant in Paris to serve Australian food, Woolloomooloo.  He then moved on to cooking for the elite on private boats and canal barges, and 10 years ago started his own tour company Fine Wine Tours South France. He really looks like a Frenchman now…neck scarf, waistcoat over check shirt, braces on his large cream trousers,  a well-considered look which suits him well but seriously one in need of a hairdresser!

As well as his own company, Gus is a partner in a new venture in the town of Chalabre, south east of Toulouse, managing Chateau Terre Blanche.   So we four are joining him in the Chateau for three nights and he will take us out on a tour each day and cook for us each night.

We drive  for an hour and a half from Toulouse, through beautiful green countryside, to the city of Castelnaudary, the home of the cassoulet.  Predictably, Gus takes us to a restaurant for lunch and we all have the home dish, washed down with a delicious local red wine.  Mission accomplished, and authentic cassoulet ticked off the bucket list.

As we drive for another hour or so we note that the windscreen is cracked on the passenger side and the crack is travelling toward the driver slowly but surely.

We arrive at our final destination for the day. Chalabre is yet another deserted French village, although this one with lots of through traffic.  The Chateau is a three story affair right in town, and we are the first paying customers.  We are happy to be the guinea pigs.

Joining us in the Chateau for our stay is Gus’ delightful almost 13 year old son Nelson,

Annie, his 24 year old god-daughter from Australia

Their lovely dog Paprika

and his Australian business partners in this Chateau venture, Stephen and Gabrielle.

It’s school holidays and Helene is away doing an upholstery course, and daughter Lily is in Paris with her uncle.  Currently there are four guest rooms in the Chateau, all spacious, beautifully furnished in appropriate period style and each with en-suites.  We take two of them and are not sure where the rest of the party are staying.  Perhaps there are stables out the back.

Having failed to find someone to replace the windscreen, Gus cooks us dinner while we all sit in the kitchen loudly talking over each other.  Never short of a word or anecdote, Gus holds court while cooking.  The Chateau has timber floors with not a single carpet or rug anywhere so the acoustics are not kind to the deaf amongst us.  The meal around a makeshift dining table in the high ceilinged, tile walled, tiled floor, uncurtained dining room is a challenge to all and so the voices just get louder rather than clearer.  However we are treated to a delicious menu comprising asparagus risotto, duck breast with a fabulous sauce and crispy potatoes, finishing off with cheese.  I now know how to cook duck and will attempt to do so shortly after returning home.  I did it a couple of years ago for a friends 60^th birthday and it was like eating a slow cooked Michelin tyre, albeit with a rather nice orange sauce which took the bottom out of my favourite Creuset saucepan.  Looking forward to a more successful duck meal, Vix and Gilly, in June at Quamby!

Friday 22 April

 We leave the house at 9.30am, accompanied by Nelson and Annie, and drive for another 1 ½ hours to Narbonne, a gorgeous city 5km from the Mediterranean and from where you can see the Spanish alps.  Narbonne was once a prosperous port and a major city in Roman times.  This is one bustling city, and it is a relief to find that there really are people in rural France.  Although it does seem that every town has a market, and Narbonne is no exception.  Their market is a big one and we had fun perusing the fresh products.

Angus buys the supplies for tonight’s dinner and by 12.10pm is getting tetchy….it’s ten past lunchtime so we walk next door to the restaurant.  We have local oysters, very nice but the four of us discretely agree that they are not as good as Shoalhaven oysters, followed by a delicious dish of cuttlefish with chorizo.  Post lunch we walk off one oyster by strolling around this ancient town, which dates back to 118BC, when France was Gaul.

We drive down to the sea and walk across the dirt coloured sand to the Mediterranean but we don’t dip our toes in.  Not inviting enough today.  Gus takes us to a vineyard/winery to buy wine for dinner.  We do a bit of a tasting and it will come as no shock to you to learn that I am the only impolite one who actually professes not to like any of the whites or rosés we taste.  The others unobtrusively slip away, to look at the offending vines.  I insist we try the reds, in the hope that we can buy something to thank the vigneron for the tasting, and halleluiah I like the shiraz/mourvedre blend.  I buy two bottles and exit with my head held high.

The cracked windscreen is holding its own and seems to have slowed its progress, although not stopped altogether.

We return to the Chateau. We really don’t need dinner tonight, after our large lunch, but Gus is not to be dissuaded.    Stephen and Gabrielle make brief appearances, on their way out to dinner.  It seems there is a restaurant in town, which I guess confirms that it is not deserted after all.  And to dispel another furphy, apparently our fellow inhabitants are not in stables.  Indeed Stephen and Gabrielle are in one of the bedrooms upstairs with us, whilst Gus, Nelson and Annie are in the unrenovated part of the Chateau.  It does on for days past the renovated façade, resembling Hogwarts back there.

An entrée of razor clams,  which Cherrie and I have not seen before but of course tour gourmet travelling companions are familiar with, prove delicious.  It’s a long, thin crustacean like a cigarette in a shell.  Only healthier and tastier.

 

Followed by swordfish with peas and a tomato sauce.  All washed down with good wine, it was a lovely dinner which we all managed to finish despite its lack of necessity!

Saturday 23 April

 Breakfast gets a little lighter each day, as our waists expand at an alarming rate.  Today it’s a tub of yoghurt each and a slice of bread.  Until Gus appears with the maple syrup infused croissant type pastry.  We four waddle out the door at 9am and pile back into Gus’ car, all 7 of us (Nelson and Annie are joining us again today) and head off to the town of Revel, another 90 minute drive, to visit the markets which are held in a majestic timbered medieval market hall.

As we have done over the past week, we drive through beautiful French countryside and marvel at the ancient villages.

 

 

After the markets we plan to visit the famous fortified medieval town of Carcassonne.

An hour or so into the trip we are overtaken by a perfectly preserved old, white sports car which attracts our attention because it is so beautiful.  What attracts the attention of our driver though is the sound of a small stone hitting the windscreen, albeit it without apparent damage.  In a moment of sheer inspiration, or at least from his point of view, Gus pursues the small car. It becomes apparent to us that Gus considers that here is the perfect excuse for the cracked windscreen.  Like a scene from a movie, in which we are reluctant extras, the circa 2015 Renault van pursues the James Bond lookalike car, sounding the horn and flashing the lights.  Finally the smaller car pulls over, Gus pulls up behind and the two drivers exit their vehicles and embark on a verbal stoush.  One accuses the other of his car throwing up a stone and cracking the windscreen, the other appears to be quite bemused, then angered by the accusation, voices rise, arms gesticulate, whilst we muse on the beauty of the white car, what it is and where the other driver got his beautiful pullover.  Finally Gus gets back into his driver’s seat and he and sports car proceed in convoy to the nearest Gendarmerie.  Whilst Gus and the man in the nice sweater disappear inside, Garry and I climb out to identify the make of the beautiful car.  It’s a Renault and tonight’s internet search identifies it as a circa 1960 Renault Caravelle.  After 10 minutes or so the two men reappear from the nick, Gus reaches into the glove box and withdraws not a handgun but the vehicle papers and the two of them proceed to complete the forms.  Obviously some sort of settlement has occurred indoors.  Then we see James Bond rip the forms up and storm back to his car.  The Caravelle speeds off with the appropriate sound effects and Gus returns, grinning.  The Gendarmes had confirmed that if both parties sign a paper identifying themselves and confirming that the incident had occurred then the insurance company will pay.  The process of completing the forms revealed that Gus was already insured for a broken windscreen and so the original pulling over and accusation, the diversion to the Gendarmerie and the subsequent paperwork had all been a waste of time, time which James clearly didn’t have.  We four breathe a sigh of relief, and are grateful that we were not required for an interview with relation to the incident.  Had that been the case we would have declared our lack of French and indicated that we only speak Wattamolla.  Tara Brown features prominently in our fears, but Gus has well and truly lost some brownie points with us.  Not a fine example from our guide, especially with his son in the car.

At last we arrive at the Ravel markets, an hour or so behind schedule, and we buy up supplies to take on board our boat tomorrow, which we will steer down the Canal du Midi for the next week.  The markets are wonderful, as are all the fresh food markets we have visited, and we marvel at the cheeses, the pork products, the range of beautiful fresh vegetables and fruit and the enormous paella pans offering a range of dishes as well as the standard paella.

 

Gus feels we have not eaten enough yet and so buys us a pastry each, which we consume with a cup of coffee at an outdoor table.  James Bond walks by but fortunately does not see us.

Gus drives us up to the top of the Black Mountain where we see the source of the Canal du Midi and the beautiful spring water.  Such pretty views all around.  The drive continues down the other side of the mountain until we reach the restaurant Gus has chosen for lunch at nearly 1.30pm.  It is owned by a Michelin starred chef and the food is absolutely wonderful.  Bread with truffle butter, foie gras to die for (sorry ducks, poor choice of word), pork with Paris mash and a broad bean and capsicum ratatouille, finished off with fresh strawberries with a pineapple sorbet.  Fabulous stuff.

It is after 3pm when we leave the restaurant and Gus wants to take us for some wine tastings.  The first winery is closed, as is the second but that does not deter Gus.  He walks around until he finds his friend Graham on the ride on mower and persuades him to open up for his guests who want to buy wine.  Graham is a charming Englishman who might otherwise be known as Haveachat, and who is keen that we try all 6 of his wines. We oblige, or at least I do.  I am a polite type.  I quite like his rosé and one of his reds and obligingly purchase four bottles.  To take on the boat.

By 5pm it is evident that we are not going to see Carcassonne.  At this hour the best Gus can do is drive us past the intriguing walled town, which of course he does.  A quick stop at the supermarket on the way home to stock up on staples for the boat has us arriving back at the Chateau at 7pm and we are all exhausted.  We four sit in the library, a curious name for a room with no books, whilst Gus exercises his dinner plans.  We don’t talk, we are too busy concentrating on staying awake.  We drink only water.  Garry is apoplectic with exhaustion.  These two, after all, hit the ground running on Wednesday in Toulouse and haven’t stopped since.  Nelson is watching TV, Annie is sleeping, Gabrielle and Stephen have changed for dinner and are talking to Gus in the kitchen and we four continue to sit on the sofas.  At 9.15pm Stephen announces that dinner is served so we move to the heavily tiled dining room, which we have learned will become the gym once renovations are complete, and sit ourselves around the ‘table’ which is a timber top sitting on the four biggest trestles you will ever see, ensuring that no human leg has the opportunity to slip under the top.  After another five minutes of no food action, with just the four us at the ‘table’, Cherrie ponders if we might emulate Gus’ business and set up Wattamolla Food and Wine Tours on our return.  We have some fun with this, pondering the various long routes we could drive our guests each day, with lunch at one of the local restaurants and a wine tasting which results in no sales.  Mollymook one day, Canberra the next, Bowral via Wollongong etc etc.  Our mirth revives us somewhat, as entrée is served.

Gus’ food is wonderful again.  Quail on a bed of lentils, pork fillet mignon with mustard sauce and potato roti and, just to ensure our waistlines stay inflated, more fine cheeses.

And so to bed, after 11pm, with instructions to Gus that we intend to sleep in and consume no breakfast.  Gus will drive us to the boat tomorrow, which we board at 3pm.

Tuesday 19 and Wednesday 20 April 2016

Our resident photographer has submitted these shots of Monts, during our Tuesday morning stroll before taking our taxi to the train station

 

Our trains from Tours to Toulouse are uneventful.  We successfully change trains at Bordeaux and arrive in Toulouse on schedule at 4.50pm.  A taxi to the hotel, another booking.com triumph, we drop our bags and walk around for a couple of hours exploring this delightful city.  They call Toulouse the ‘Pink City’ because of the colour of the natural stonework.  It’s local terracotta and very pretty.  All the streets are cobblestone.

 

We eat at a bistro in the main square and the waiter offers us an English menu.  I ask for a French one, as I want to confirm my lack of skill.  However I do identify the salade avocat et crevette as a prawn and avocado salad and feel very smug (although not as smug as Colin).  I am immensely amused to see the English translation as “The Salad with Shrimps and Lawyers”, so of course immediately order it in celebration of you, LHB.  Not that you guys and gals are prawns of any sort, or even shellfish.

Our friends, Di and Garry McDonald, are in the air right now from Sydney, due to join us in Toulouse at 8.30am tomorrow.  Di will look beautiful, no matter how jetlagged they are (we hate that), and so we retire to our hotel for a relatively early night in pursuit of the beauty miracle.

Predictably the miracle by-passed us, but we show characteristic fortitude and don our rain hats in deference to the drizzle, as we head out, leaving a note at reception for the McDonalds to call us on arrival.  We are so smart that either of us could be mistaken for Brenda Blethwyn as DC Vera Stanhope.  Fortunately it’s just light rain.  After breakfast we stroll to the food markets, which Rick Stein says are the best in the world.  Indeed they are fabulous,  with the expected fresh food but the biggest Limousin beef ribs I have ever seen in my life.  This photo does not show the scale but trust me, these chops were at least 400mm high.

 We get a phone message from Garry and Di reporting that they are stuck in Munich because of a strike by the security staff and will not arrive in Toulouse until this afternoon.  Cherrie and I continue our pursuit of loveliness and walk briskly across the cobblestones in the hope that the kilojoules will rebel and fall away.  Again we are forsaken.

Cherrie is particulary taken with the shutters

We walk down to the River Garonne and the Pont Neuf

and marvel how the vehicles negotiate these narrow streets, mindful that we will be doing this in our rental car all too soon.  The stuff of nightmares really.  We eat a light lunch of fish (which perhaps the English menu translated as Poison) at one of the myriad of cafes on the top floor of the markets, and continue our stroll.

The McDonalds arrive at about 3pm, looking rested and happy despite having left home more than 30 hours previously.  I just want to punch them.  But I show uncharacteristic restraint, and the four of us walk through and around the pink city.    Garry has identified a restaurant for dinner through Trip Advisor but shortly after  5pm we are ready for a drink and sit ourselves at an outside bar table in the Place de Capitol

 in the expectation of service.  False expectation.  We move to the next bar, but again no service.  Not too dispirited, because it is incredibly windy and so not terribly comfortable in the square and so we head off in the direction of the restaurant in pursuit of an alternative aperitif place.  We finally find a small place which looks nice and we take a seat.  Once we get the wine list we are amused to discover that we are in an Italian bar and restaurant with not a French choice of either drinks or food.  But we are in need of alcohol and so order.  The wine is horrible but we knock it back regardless.  We head off to dinner with Garry navigating on his phone with the help of Google Maps.  We walk for a while,  being careful to avoid the cars which share the pavements with us, and then back track a bit.  Garry is tapped politely on the shoulder by a passing cyclist, by way of suggesting we get off the road.  We continue to walk until we learn a handy navigational trick.  It’s best if the phone is held the right way up.  We find the restaurant, in the Place Capitole.  The Maitre’ d explains that the restaurant is booked out but we could dine in the basic room downstairs if we wish.  We wished, we didn’t mind eating in the storeroom so long as the food was good.  The restaurant does not accept guests until 7pm so we sit at an outdoor table (the wind has died down) and start on our dinner wines…a beautiful Chablis and a superb Bordeaux red.  Shortly after 7pm we are escorted to the downstairs room which is, in fact, a perfectly nice dining room with white linen on the tables and a perfectly pleasant atmosphere.  No English translation here, so no lawyers on the menu.  We talk, we laugh, we eat, we drink and we see our friends start to fade by about 9pm.  An early night, before commencing our wine and food tour tomorrow.

Like we need more food and wine.

Monday 18 April

Our delightful host Anna, in the village of Monts near Tours, serves us breakfast of croissant, even a large chocolate one on offer which we avoid, jam, orange juice, tea and coffee. Apres breakfast we sit in the garden with Anna whose English really is excellent and we learn that she retired at the end of March from a lifetime in the travel industry.  This house has been in her family for 3 generations and she moved back here from Paris when her grandmother died.

It is a beautiful sunny day, the first sun we have felt since we left home.  Colin collects us at 9.30am for tours of our final two gardens, Chatonniere and Villandry, in that order. Colin is excited today about both these gardens.  This is the first time that Colin has visited Chatonniere since his friend Abdullah, who was head gardener for many years, left six months ago and returned to his home in Morocco.  Abdullah has invited Colin to stay with him, and who knows, one day Colin might.  It is only a 30 minute drive to Chatonniere, and we note the surprisingly few crowds on our approach, on this beautiful morning.  Even the car park is empty.  And the gates are locked.  Yes, folks, le jardin et ferme.  A gardener emerges from behind the wall and explains that the gardens have been very neglected since the head gardener left and that the owner has closed them to the public.  Colin does a bit of sweet talking and the kind volunteer, who we learned had been a policeman and was now a keen member of the local garden society, shows us very quickly inside the gates on threat of instant expulsion should we speak too loudly for fear of the Madame of the Chateau hearing.  Indeed, we can see what a magnificent garden this had been, and how very quickly a neglected garden can degrade.  Thank heavens, Cherrie and I both think, that we have Jennifer at Quamby taking such good care of it.  Another gardener approaches us, the head volunteer we gather, Colin explains that Abdullah was his friend.  After a bit of tooing and froing it turns out that Abdullah is actually Akhmed.  A good friend indeed!!

We return to the car and Colin flips through his gardens brochure to see where else he can take us, and settles on the Chateau du Rivau.  It’s only a short 30 minute drive and we are happy because all the countryside we have driven through these past days is so pretty.  Sweet little, and very old, farm houses, lots of canola, cattle, sheep and grain crops, and the pretty yellow flowers of cowslip by the road side.  The small villages we drive through are lovely.  However in order to get to Le Rivau in 30 minutes we take the motorway, which is not attractive but probably good experience for when we collect our own rental car. En route, as usual, Colin continues to talk about himself. By now we know all about his childhood, his education (he went to school in the same town in Cornwall where my great-grandfather was born but this is, of course, of no interest to Colin), his courtship and eventual marriage and his entire career in painstaking detail.  We learn that Colin is not just an expert in gardens (and he is an expert, no doubt) his expertise has recently extended to wine.  The great majority of his income is now derived from his conducting of wine tours.  As you might expect, he has developed close and personal friendships with the best of the local vignerons (we wonder if he remembers their names correctly) and he knows for a fact that the grape is the important thing, not the making.  Uncharacteristically, I remain stum.

Rivau is a play garden, in that it has lots of child friendly ‘sculptures’ which are painted stryofoam, fairy walkways etc but it also comprises rambling woods and an interesting variety of grasses.  A nice garden but nothing special and so no photos of this one.  However, it was such a lovely day that we enjoyed the wander.

Another nice lunch in a small town, we consume two courses because we know that Anna has arranged for us to have a light dinner, a salade, in the local bar near her home tonight, as nothing else will be open in the town.  We have noticed that all the villages we drive through, or stop for lunch at seem deserted.  Certainly we know that everything, except the eateries, close for lunch between 12 and 2, but the streets seem to be always deserted.  Where have the French gone we wonder?

Our final garden is Villandry.  Magnificent.  So formal, so clever, so very lookable. Words cannot equal the photos and so we are not even trying.  Judge for yourself.

Over the past three days we have seen seven and a half gardens (the half is the closed one), most in the grounds of glorious Chateaux, but we have not entered a single Chateau.  Ours was a garden tour and we don’t regret it for a moment.  Of all the jardins we have had the privilege of seeing, my personal garden designer’s three favourites are Prieure Notre Dame D’Orsan, Villandry and the apprentice’s garden at Cheverny.  I concur.

At 7.30pm we head down the delightful paved road in Anna’s delightful paved village of Monts, to the Sports Bar for our salade.  Isobel, the proprietor, has less English than we have French and believe me that is very little English indeed. However, that does not stop her from serving us with a five course meal!  No matter how much we say ‘non non, stop now, enough is enough, full up to dolly’s wax, un per un per’ we consume a curious entrée of hot cabbage, onion, bacon and cheese, followed by roast pork and white bean casserole, green salad, bread and cheese, all topped off with an enormous bowl of incredibly rich chocolate mousse and fruit custard.  I draw the line at the dessert, incapable of even caring about any offence I may cause.  She charges us €30 all up.  That is incredibly cheap.  We waddle the long route home, again through a deserted town and collapse into bed, threatening to never eat again.

Predictably, we manage a croissant for breakfast and then take a longer walk through the still deserted town before settling into a taxi at 10.30am for our  train trip,with two transfers, to Toulousse. Tomorrow we meet up with our friends Garry and Di McDonald who land from Australia in the morning.  More adventures to follow!

Bonsoir,for now