Week One -- Briare to Cours les Barres

In May and June of 2007, New Zealanders Jennifer and John hired a canal boat in France and spent four weeks travelling with friends on the canal loop from Briare on the Canal Lateral a la Loire via the Canal du Nivernais, the Yonne River, the Seine River, the Canal du Loing and the Canal de Briare. Below is their log......


Thursday 19 April, 2007

Hong Kong-Paris-Briare

After all the trepidation the flight from Hong Kong at midnight was not so bad, despite a strike by Cathay Pacific's caterers in France. Now we are sitting by an open window in the hotel in Briare, in streaming sunshine, looking out over a neighbouring shuttered house and gravel courtyard, with carefully pruned trees in spring green finery and wisteria in full bloom over the gate. To get here we took the train from the Gare de Lyon, through fields of indescribably yellow rape and stone houses with high arched tiled roofs. We passed sections of canal, including one with several fishermen (surely this means the water must be free of sewage??) and another with a length of towpath, which looked quite inviting bicycle-wise, if unnervingly narrow and close to the water …

We arrived at Briare station to find a taxi sign and no taxis. After a long wait, we set off walking, and eventually managed to hail a taxi to the hotel. Later that afternoon, two ladies in a passing car took pity on us and gave us a lift to the supermarché. The checkout girl kindly rang five taxi companies to get us and our bulging bags back to the hotel, then ruefully told us none had a vehicle available, and added that there were no buses....

Friday 20 April, 2007
Briare

A day of waiting until we can go to the boat. The plan was to hire a car or a bicycle so we could look around. Briare, in addition to having no taxis or buses to speak of, also has no car hire. And the bicycle hire had shut by the time we got to it. When it reopened, they were out of bicycles. They suggested walking the four kilometres to Chatillon to hire one there, but since we had planning on cycling to Chatillon and back, there seemed little point.

In the end much of the morning was spent doing the laundry. We located the laundrette just off the main road, with a pleasant view of the canal lined with old stone houses, one of which was particularly pretty – white, square, with blue shutters and central steps from left and right up to the front door. The little blue side gate had a row of clay gargoyles along the top. I could imagine living in that house.

The laundry had two types of washing machines and one large dryer, with a separate machine into which you inserted coins according to which machine you wanted to use. It took quite a while to work out what went where. We had insufficient coins, so I got some at the nearby shop. We had no washing powder, so I returned to the shop. Then we couldn’t get the washing machine drawer to open to insert the powder. By now the machine was well underway. It was at this point that we noticed all the directions on the use of the machines were actually written in English in very large letters on the wall right in front of us, and that according to this sign, there was no need to put in powder, because there was some there already. The only remaining obstacle was the dryer, which we successfully negotiated after only one stuff-up when John put the money in the wrong hole.

There were numerous boats at the quayside, some flash, some possibly abandoned by their owners with “a vendre” signs and in need of major clean up work. One of the flashest was a handsome blue boat called Aquarelle, flying an Irish flag. John pressed his nose to the windows and reported that it had two spacious bedrooms and a large galley. The steps on the bank beside the boat clearly indicated that the owners were in the vicinity, if not actually on board.

After lunch, we returned, and this time the owner was alongside his vessel, preparing to take his bike into town. Like his boat, he was well turned out. He kindly set aside the next quarter of an hour while John quizzed him on locks (keep a knife by the rope when you go through the lock descending in case you inadvertently tie it off and end up dangling the entire boat from the bollard) and the best sort of boat to buy (be careful of the Dutch ones with only three millimetres of plastic coating over the window frames – prone to terrible condensation in winter; the boat feels very damp). Normally, he said, he’d be cruising the canals now, but his wife had teeth problems, so they were staying in Briare close to her dentist. They had got to know many people – 40 locals came to their St Patrick’s Day party on board. He advised us to talk to as many people on the canals as possible before considering buying one, and thought we were doing the right thing by trying it out with a rental first. He built Aquarelle himself. When he heard we came from New Zealand, he expressed surprise that we’d be thinking of holidaying for any length of time in France. He’d just come back from New Zealand (staying with a New Zealander he’d met on the canals) and loved Milford Sound. But it was unlikely he’d go back – New Zealand was very far away. “There are a lot of your countrymen here” he said.

The hotelier’s daughter was sitting outside when we returned, chatting softly to herself. Initially I thought she might be rehearsing a speech, but no, she was just chatting to thin air. She brought us milk (froid) for our tea, while her mama brought hot water. John sat swinging six Rickshaw teabags (which we had bought in Hong Kong) from his fingers. Our Englishness was underlined by the arrival of an elderly English couple who sat alongside and immediately ordered “thé au lait”.

Saturday 21 April

Châtillon sur Loire à Beaulieu – 6km

Boat pick-up day! Also boat stocking-up day. Walked smartly to boulangerie in order to pick up lunch in advance in form of jambon and fromage baguette. The boulangerie was open, but because it was Saturday, they didn’t have made up baguettes. Walked to supermarket and bought all the staples excluding coffee, as we didn’t know what manner of coffee maker we would have. We left the two boxes of shopping with the same supermarket lady who had rung all the taxi companies in vain. She kindly suppressed a small smile at my French. Back at the hotel the same black guy that we’d seen for the past two days sat across the road on his little red plastic stool fishing in the canal. He wore jeans, a long sleeved jacket, despite the warmth of the day, and a big rasta peaked cap, with large shades. The day before he had been accompanied by three children – two young girls, both neatly dressed, and an older boy, whose job it was to help by carrying the stool every time his father shifted places. Today there was just one of the girls, picking posies of daisies and dandelions from the grass.

The taxi the hotel had ordered turned up on time at midday, and we returned to the supermarket to pick up the shopping and give the friendly shop assistant a present of a cherry tart. We carried on to Châtillon sur Loire where the Connoisseur boatyard is headquartered. They directed us to a local restaurant while they finished getting our boat ready. But this time the Châtillon boulangerie did have made-up baguettes, so John bought one and I already had a quiche from Briare. So instead of a NZ$60 lunch we had only a cup of tea at the restaurant, which in itself set us back NZ$10.

Châtillon has a medieval section up a steep incline from the town square. At the top of the hill is a cemetery overlooking the town and surrounding countryside. The occupant of the first grave we looked at had died at the age of 100, and others were well into their 90s. A few of the houses in Chatillon have their original timbered frontages, but many have replaced their windows with new wooden frames, at odds with their surroundings.

John was keen to get his coffee, having established that we had a French presse (plunger) and the supermarket in Châtillon was due to open at 2 pm. It didn’t. Locals turned up, peered through the window, and left. Two-thirty came, with the same reaction. A diminutive woman in orange, with a pretty gold and pearl necklace, told us it might open at 3. She explained she had been sent by her daughter, who was ill, and said something about being ill herself. I made a response which she took to mean I spoke French, whereupon she launched into an extraordinary tale, without pausing for breath, for some six to seven minutes. We had already gathered from her accent that she was not native-born French, and one of the few facts that we could establish from her excitable torrent of French was that she was Portuguese, and that something ghastly had happened to her husband. At one point, as she seemed to be describing his fall from a window, her eyes filled with tears. There was mention of a gendarme holding a gun to someone’s (her? his?) neck. At the time of this incident, her son was 11, and her daughter 7, so whatever it was, it must have all happened some years ago. She clearly believed we understood all she was saying, and by now it was far too late to let her know that we didn’t. So as her energy started flagging we feebly wished her bon courage and she set off back up the hill.

By now it was nearly 3. The shop still didn’t open. Two locals arrived by car, one on foot, and another on a bicycle, but all left disappointed. Back at the marina, the boat people who had told us where the supermarket was took pity on John and delved into a cupboard which held a large store of coffee packets …

And so at last we are on the boat. We had an hour or so of instruction from a lean young Frenchman who confessed he’d never sailed on the Yonne River, but told us reassuringly that two 80-year Americans had recently made it without incident. During a short trial run, the Aquarelle sailed by. The Irishman returned a few minutes later, and called out that they were going back to Briare, and to contact him if we wanted any more information. All the people on board were wearing Irish life jackets, which pleased John no end. It is the law in Ireland. “We put them on in the same way we clean our teeth every morning,” said his wife – no doubt very conscious of her teeth at the moment.

So now we are moored for our first night at Beaulieu sur Loire, a short distance (five bridges) down the canal. No locks as yet, but John luckily remembered to snatch the sun umbrella out of its base before going under the first bridge. Just after we started, a heron rose from the canal bank into the air – followed by four or five others a short distance later. The bird life around here is very audible.

Sunday 22 April

Beaulieu à Ménétréol-sous-Sancerre – 27km 4 locks (Total: 33km 4 locks)

Awoke at 6.00am to chill morning, mist rising off the river. The man with the key was not there for the water supply, so we left without it. Mopped the seats to remove the dew and headed for our first lock. The lockkeeper was ready for us. “C’est notre premier fois,” I shouted. The whole thing involved a lot of hanging about and manual labour, and I nearly fell in when trying to fend the boat off. It was a relief to get it over and done with, particularly for John who had been dreading this moment and rehearsing it in his mind for months. We did five more and by the time we got to the last one we were able to depart without grinding the boat on the side. The first lockkeeper sold us a 7€ bottle of Pouilly Fumé, and the second tried but failed to sell us some eggs.

The actual cruising was lovely – by midday it was hot. The canal ran inbetween fields of yellow rape and patches of woodland full of birds. A Belleville-sur-Loire the landscape was dominated by the giant cooling towers for the nuclear power station. A small duck and her much smaller duckling swam in front of the boat and it was with great relief that we saw them emerge on the other side. We tied up for lunch while waiting for the lockkeeper to drive ahead after his. He tooted at us from the road when he passed by.

At 2.30pm we stopped for the day at Ménétréol-sous-Sancerre, where you can access water, electricity, and a shower by crossing the road and knocking at the door of the local post office rep. To make sure you get the right door, a picture is supplied of a small house with yellow shutters. It is owned by a lady with an elderly spaniel straining to get out the door, and an elderly and frail father peering anxiously from the rear. The lady kindly called us a taxi to go to Sancerre.

By this time the day was searingly hot. Being aware of the limitations of the taxi supply, we asked the driver to return in two hours, but he just shrugged and suggested we walked – it was much quicker going down hill he said – maybe ten minutes.

Wine has been made in these parts since its earliest days – it is mentioned in writings in 582. In the old days, it produced mainly pinot noire, exported by the Loire. But the vine disease Phylloxera at the end of the 19th century caused major devastation. Today Sancerre is known for its sauvignon as well as its pinot noir. It was recognised in 1936 with the AOC (Apellation d’origine Controlée) for white wines, and in 1959 for its reds and rosés.

Sancerre for both of us proved a bit of a disappointment – too touristy, even given its history and commanding view of the Loire countryside. Before the two hours was up we walked through the heat of the afternoon back down the hill, cutting across through the vineyards of Sancerre, back to Ménétréol. And it was Menetreol itself that proved the real delight.

Ménétréol was built in the 12th century around a small monastery belonging to the monks who farmed the vineyards that were already in existence. The village had more than 1000 inhabitants in the 19th century before the vines were hit by the ravages of Phylloxera at the end of the 19th century. The old church St Hilaire dates from the 12th and 14th centuries, and the surrounding houses from the 16th and 17th centuries. The village today still back onto vineyards, with the addition of the huge viaduct, which spans the valley. The nice thing about Ménétréol is that it is a working village, with scant regard for the tourist boats that tie up to its small quay.

There is a house for sale by the old church that is the stuff of fairy tales – a big square stone house with its own turret and a carved shield over its low front door. The only immediately obvious drawback is its proximity to the church, because at 7.00pm (today is a Sunday) the church bell rang very abruptly and loudly, with a hard-pulled bell. Further up the road, someone was playing some sort of Breton pipe, quite hauntingly, pausing and restarting. As I write now, we sit at the table on our deck in the softest evening light imaginable, the village rooftops sharply outlined before us, as we finish off the lockkeeper’s excellent Pouilly Fumé.

Monday 23 April

Ménétréol-sous-Sancerre à Marseilles lès Aubigny – 32km 9 locks (Total: 65km 13 locks)

Mist curling over the canal, and the disk of the sun rising through the trees on the opposite bank. The tow path is a popular spot for walking dogs, who crouch to empty their bowels on the bank while their middle aged owners wait. Buttery croissants for breakfast – the boulangerie’s Alsatian struck a mournful face round the door while the lady cut my two slices of ham, shushing him away. Took one last look at the house for sale, before returning to boat and taking a shower at the local facilities, plus refilling the water. Tidied cabin in readiness for Adele’s arrival. The local lockkeeper came by and checked what time we and the boat moored behind us were planning to leave, so we could go through the lock together. They are Swiss Germans on the other boat – a husband and wife and two teenage children. They set off first and we follow.

While we await the lockkeeper, the wife briskly swabs the boat down with her mop. A towel is suspended down the side, so that if you get off and on again you must stand with your back to the boat and press your soiled feet up against the towel. We pass through two locks together without incident, then come to rest at Herry while the lockkeeper has his lunch. “Bon appetit!” he wishes us as he ducks back into his snug lockkeeper’s cottage. The Swiss Germans rapidly set up their lunch table, then set to work scrubbing the boat with the aid of a mop and a bucket on a rope. The father cleans the windows.

We stride off into Herry just to make sure all the shops are shut. In fact we fail to find any shops at all, but then notice a tiny epicerie that sells wine and soap, our two major requirements. And it is open. Promptly at 1.00pm, the nice lockkeeper arrives in his VNF van, opens his second lock for us and waves us off. We now head for La Charité-sur-Loire where we originally intended to meet Adele, as the Paris train stops here. But it seems a bad idea to wait until late tomorrow, since it is still early afternoon. Also the town is not actually on the canal – it is a 2.5km walk away. So we decide to take the walk and then carry on.

It is by now the hottest part of the day, and no-one volunteers to pick us up as we stride at a headlong speed set by John into town. La Charité is so-called because the monks attached to its abbey were wealthy and distributed gifts to the poor. In the early days, the basilica of Sainte Croix Notre Dame must have been absolutely enormous, as it apparently could accommodate more than 5000 people. But it was burnt and pillaged by Sarrasins, Protestants and Catholics, and even besieged by Joan of Arc after it fell into the hands of the English, so there isn’t much of its former glory left. The town is reached over two bridges – a new one, and the old one across the Loire – in fact one of the two oldest bridges across the Loire, since it was built between 1520 and 1535. Not surprisingly the old bridge is now far too narrow to accommodate all the traffic heading into and out of La Charité, especially the large trucks – it is quite a hair raising experience being a pedestrian, as the pavement is very narrow and the sides of the trucks race past you mere centimetres away. A large banner across the street at the other side of the bridge reads “Camions: Danger. Deuxieme pont: securité” and you could see what they meant.

But even clinging to the side of the bridge, La Charité looked quite beautiful from that vantage point, with piled up tiled roofs and the church rising proudly up in the midst of them. Inside, the church was cool and simple in its construction, with bright stained glass windows through which the sun shone, splashing long streaks of bright colour onto the stone flags of the floor. In the streets outside, there were several expensive second hand bookstores, for which La Charité is known, but they were all shut. John was keen to get back to the boat, and press on, but no taxis were in evidence. The kind lady in the pharmacy where John bought his sun lotion (NZ$30!) rang a taxi, but there weren’t any. We prepared to walk back through the heat, but a customer who had overheard the conversation generously offered us a lift.

We gratefully accepted, then found we had to wait half an hour while the pharmacist filled his prescriptions painfully slowly. Just when John was at exploding point, the guy emerged and we climbed into his 4-wheel drive. He had lived in Lille, he said, but liked small town life in La Charité better. He was opening a shop – he didn’t say what it sold. He dropped us right by the side of the boat and within five minutes we were off again, heading for Marseilles-lès-Aubigny.

Three locks separated by stretches of canal, then two immediately after each other. There was no-one manning the first, so I walked on ahead and found the wife mowing her lawn, with three dogs barking furiously. Her husband had driven to the next lock, she said, so we must wait. Eventually he returned – a portly white haired chap with a strong smelling cigar clamped between his teeth. He did not return any greeting, or offer to take the rope, so we managed as best we could. Once through, we saw his VNF car rocket past the next lock. So we entered it and sat waiting, till we were eventually joined by a second boat and the lockkeeper returned. His mood had not improved. To show willing, John leapt manfully onto the lock side and narrowly avoided putting his back out by winding the back gate shut and the front one open. The lockkeeper made no gesture of thanks as we departed. “Surly old fart,” John said.

We have now settled for the night at Marseilles-lès-Aubigny, and a good choice it is – wide waterway with a row of houses on each side, a wide grass verge, and trees. It is all very quiet, apart from the church bell tolling the hours. A mother duck swims with a least 12 little ducklings. Tonight it is sausages for dinner. John is cooking after practising his bowlines. He has secured the boat with one, tied the only way he knows how – around his waist, then dropped to the ground so he can step out and loop it over the bollard … Adele has rung on her new phone – her old one worked in Hong Kong but not in France. She arrives tomorrow, maybe at Nevers, and will take a taxi according to her instructions: 400 metres past the town hall, and just beyond the large blue barge Alphonse Marie.

Tuesday 24 April

Marseilles lès Aubigny à Cours les Barres – 5km (70km 13 locks total)

Light breeze this morning ruffles the water. Crawled out of bed, dressed in yesterday’s and day before's clothes, and set off in search of boulangerie.

Marseilles is located between the canal and the Loire, at the confluence of the Loire lateral and the old Canal de Berry, which was taken out of service in 1954. It is an old barge town, which reached the height of its activity in the late 19th century, when dozens of little barges from Bourges and Montlucon tied up here. The village shops were all turned towards the canal, and this is where the tiny boulangerie is to be found, beside a small but useful grocery. The proprietor of the boulangerie is not what you might expect in such a small country town – she is of a certain age, with long blonded ringlets, smudged lipstick, and a low cut bodice which she hoists up to contain her breasts. She looks as if she has had a very hard night, and struggles to work out the cost of two croissants, two brioches and a baguette, totting up the figures on a piece of paper and rechecking it on her fingers. The bread is still warm to the touch.

The lockkeeper is stationed at his post when I return across the lock gate to the boat. The section of the Canal de Berry which crossed the village has been filled in now, and all that remains is an old lifting bridge. In its heyday it carried more than 250,000 tonnes of lime, cement, coal and porcelain to the Paris region. Now the site is marked by moorings for pleasure boats, neighbouring the ablution block. The showers work after you insert a small brass disk which can be purchased from the town hall which is, of course, closed. Luckily the grocery shop stores them too, plus several other items we need. But not all, so the lady directs us to a neighbouring village four kilometres away which has a supermarket.

This is the first test of my newly-learned cycling skills in traffic. I am confident enough now that I can take some pleasure in the journey past the rape fields and the village outskirts. On our return we check out the Auberge Le Poids de Fer, housed in the riverside building where Cistercian monks collected tolls for each load of iron ore. The restaurant is run by a Mr Delayance, who cultivates the appearance of a windswept film star – dark good looks, shaggy hair, two day stubble, and an open necked shirt loosely laced up the front to expose curling chest hair. The small menu is displayed in front of the old stone house. It is a lovely building in a pretty setting.

The only shopping we have failed to find is John’s peanut butter – buerre de cacahuète – but at the supermarket the proprietor explains that the French do not favour peanut butter – it makes you fat.

While waiting for Adele, I sit out at our plastic table with the sun umbrella, on the grass verge, feeling, as John said, very middle aged. John cycled off to look at Raimondo’s boatyard, which converts old commercial barges into pleasure boats. You can see the flash of the welding from the canal. Just as we were about to embark on a luncheon baguette, a taxi drew up, and out stepped Adele, having caught a train to Nevers. She had looked up Marseilles on the internet, and found the Alphonse Marie – the barge next to us, which serves as a gite and restaurant and hosts party groups from Paris. But maybe that is a seasonal thing, as the only resident while we were there was an elderly man pottering around the upper deck.

We set off a short distance along the canal to Cours-les-Barres – just three bridges away. An English couple are moored there in a Penichet classic, the boat John hankers after. They kindly let us look over it – huge showers compared with ours, large galley, spacious sleeping quarters and wood panelling, but in fact the living area lay-out of ours is more comfortable and open to the breeze.

While we chat, a loose-limbed bloke in black trousers at half mast and a dark shirt ambles down to the canal bank, sits on the grass, and stares at the boats and their occupants. We walked off to the village, and when we returned he was still there. The Englishman is quite disconcerted by him – he comes to tell us the eclusier (lockkeeper) has been by to discuss tomorrow’s requirements, then he remarks on the Frenchman. “It is quite unpleasant,” he says fretfully. Adele postulates that the guy has just had a row with his wife and is taking time out. But I am not so sure. He walks past the boat in a distracted fashion, and his trousers are still at half mast, tightly belted in, with his underpants on full display. He is too old to affect this for reasons of fashion. We sit out on the canal bank for dinner and while I am cooking the Frenchman returns and asks for money for cigarettes.

As we finish dinner, the English couple return and sit with us into the evening, watching the stars come out. The conversation turns to navigation – he was a navigator in the British merchant navy, although both Peter and his wife Bobby were born and met each other at the age of five in Dar Es Salaam. We talk of the exhibition currently showing at New Zealand's Auckland Museum, Te Vaka Moana, and how the early explorers in the Pacific used all their senses to navigate. Peter disagrees – he says this is all nonsense – all navigators get to know the sea and wind patterns and astronomy, and navigate according to that. They are off to the Camargue after their canal trip – John puts them off a little with his talk of nuclear power stations, tame gypsies with horses for hire and total absence of flamingos.

Peter shows Adele how to find true North by the Northern Star before returning to his boat. He is wearing a New Zealand Icebreaker jacket, purchased on holiday in New Zealand. Both he and Bobby are shocked to hear that Icebreaker now manufactures in China. They say in the UK they avoid buying goods manufactured overseas.

“Are those frogs?” Adele enquired, cocking an ear to the canal as we packed up. “Yes, but you are not allowed to call them that now”, said John.

Wednesday 25 April

Cours les Barres à Nevers via Le Guetin – 21km 5 locks (Total: 91km 18 locks)

Fluffy little cirrus clouds dot the sky above the Mairie. Peter and Bobby set off toward Briare – we exchange addresses, and Peter invites us to sail with them in Cornwall. We set off through peaceful wooded countryside, with herons, ducks, and our first otter – blunt head and mouth – for company. The first lock for Adele is a baby one – for the first time I get on shore in advance and help the lockkeeper open and close the gates. Adele finds it all an anti-climax.

The next lock makes her change her mind – indeed, all our minds. It is Le Guetin, our first with a traffic light, and it is deep. I leap off onto the bank ahead into a patch of stinging nettles and calf-high buttercups and walk up across a road onto the lock side – the gates are open, although it is hard to tell from the water approach. The lock must be some 25 feet deep (it is actually 9.5 metres) – the boat looks a very long way down as John inches it in. For the first time, it is necessary for the lockkeeper to pass down a hook on a rope to pick up our rope. A small crowd gathers to watch behind security railings as the gates shut behind the boat and water comes surging out of the gates in front, spraying Adele and filling the air with a somewhat swampy aroma. It is a very grand sight to behold.

From that lock the boat moves straight into a second, slightly less deep lock, and on release from that, travels along a narrow causeway above the Loire. This is known as the Pont Canal de Guetin. From this point there is a paved cycle track to Nevers which Adele takes for the exercise. At the entrance to the Nevers embranchement, there is another novelty – a large scaffold-like device, from which a blue rope is suspended over the canal. There is a diagram of sorts beside it. John remarks that it looks like a hand holding a piece of pipe, with a bag of crisps alongside, the sum of which equals five. We moor up, as it is not yet 1 pm when the lockkeeper will return after lunch. But as we inspect the lock, we realise it is self operated, and watch as a boat on the other side reverses to a similar scaffold arrangement and tugs on the rope. Sure enough, the light changes from red to green, and the gates open to admit the boat – a sharp looking craft with high seating for steering.

The owner and his wife chat as we help them secure their vessel. They are from Denmark, and are planning to sail to the Mediterranean after leaving the boat at Nevers for the winter. You pull on the rope for five seconds, he says, and to operate the lock you lift the blue bar halfway along the lock wall. On no account touch the red bar. This is for emergencies only – he did it once, and had to wait for two hours while someone came to release him.

Armed with our instructions, we successfully negotiate the lock and enter the embranchement that leads us to the marina at Nevers, where we can get mooring, a shower, a washing machine, a swimming pool and the opportunity to walk across the bridge to the faience china museum I have been wanting to visit. Within minutes of our arrival, we establish that the showers aren’t working, the swimming pool is closed for cleaning, and the museum is also closed “for the next few years” for renovation. There is no boulangerie in the immediate vicinity, and the other attraction that drew Adele to Nevers, the La Marine Restaurant famed for its Loire whitebait, doesn’t have any. Despite these setbacks, we spend a pleasant, if hot, afternoon striding into Nevers past the large and inviting looking, but very closed, swimming pool, awaiting its summer clean.

There is a camping ground overlooking the river – one couple have laid out matting on the grass beside their camper van and set out their folding chairs. It is very hot crossing the bridge and making our way through the old part of Nevers to the Saint Cyr-Sainte Julitte Cathedral which is described in the Office de Tourisme booklet as offering a “combination of architectural history”, having been built between the 6th and 20th centuries. The main tower is like an over-decorated wedding cake, with carved effigies protruding from every surface. Inside the cathedral it is blessedly cool and much plainer, apart from the modern stained glass windows in rather misplaced lollypop colours that were commissioned after the original windows were destroyed by bombing in WWII. They have been the subject of some controversy, and I am with the critics.

In the Palais Ducal there is a strange exhibition featuring an aquarium holding Loire fish, some fine examples of faience, some tins of the local nougatine de Nevers sweet (a favourite of the Empress Eugenie) and Roi Négus (a soft caramel sweet created in 1902 to commemorate the visit of the King of Ethiopia), some picture books donated by an assortment of sister cities, some Roman remains and some sports items celebrating Nevers’ sporting achievements …

Nearby are some faience shops with modern items, which are expensive and poor substitutes for the antique items. Having exhausted John’s patience, we sit in the shade with an ice-cream, before tackling the supermarket and lugging the shopping back (there being no taxis) to the boat. John then asks to use the marina washing machine, which causes more consternation on the part of the captain, since the machine initially fails to work. Followed by a failure on the part of the dryer.

We eat on the dockside at the marina. The English couple next to us have a 26 metre barge – they bought it in Holland and converted it at a cost of €150,000. He is an engineer who works on oceanic research ships. It took them two years to do the conversion, but they say they are very comfortable now. The barge has twin rudders and “can turn on a Euro”. The wife stays, while the husband goes off to work every second month.