by Jackie Parry
The walls, as stated, were black. There was the sound of dripping water, the groaning of some internal machinations and the occasional screech of a buzzer to summon the spectators, to witness yet another witch hunt trial; a trial by immersion. That, of course, was only my imagination, and the reality was much worse. First, we needed to slow the boat down, maintain steerage, and find something (besides each other) to tie on to.
The bollards were neatly hidden within the wall, identified as a darker vertical cavity running up the walls and spaced about fifty metres apart. These bollards floated within the cavity and rose with us. For the first three locks, we tied the stern on to one bollard and the bow to the next further along; we were also slow learners. Noel would try and steer the boat (as the boat slowed, steerage ability lessened), control the throttle, pay out, and add more line by tying knots and fumbling. Noel, of course, felt like a complete tosser, not in control at anytime and generally not enjoying the entire proceedings. Then I would simply loop a line onto the second bollard, and we would centre the boat between the two bollards.
Finally, we settled on tying the boat to the one bollard with lines running fore and aft and even an additional line amidships, so I could work all the lines while Noel concentrated on steering. We utilised a plank over two fenders amidships to save the fenders as well as keeping the boat steadier in the swirling current. Being a canoe stern, we also had a big, fat fender sitting on a tyre on Mariah’s quarter as well and yet another big, fat fender fine on the bow. All lines ran back to their own cleats for ease of release.
Most days, we travelled a little further north; the French wave at us from the grassy banks, offering us wine if we could stop. When we did stop and met people in cafes and bars, they were friendly, but knew little English, which was good for me as it was like having a French lesson every time we stepped ashore. My French was improving, so I loved having a go. I certainly kept most of the nation thoroughly amused and didn’t mind one bit that I was making a complete twit of myself.
Unfortunately, I had to learn the words for “thieves,” “stolen,” and “angry,” along with just about every swear word you can imagine.
At a quiet jetty in a town called Roquemaure, we went shopping for a few hours, only to return and find the boat ransacked. We had been robbed. I marched straight off to the Gendarmerie. They couldn’t do much until we had gone through and worked out what was gone: a GPS, camera, portable CD players and cassettes, Christmas presents, jewellery and jewellery box, and personal items that could never be replaced – about two thousand pounds worth of gear had been lifted. After the initial shock, anger, and helplessness all we could do was spend an hour giving a statement to the police (armed with French/English dictionary). So we packed up and moved on. Fortunately, they hadn’t damaged the boat in any way and, of course, we were unharmed. So with that in mind, we decided to square our shoulders and just get over it as quickly as possible.
We tried hard not to let it affect the whole trip through France, and it didn’t. We met some lovely people after that day, and our faith in humanity was restored. We were close to Lyon now, a place I visited a few years ago and had loved. We hoped to find email here to communicate with family, who must have assumed we had been snatched by aliens by now. So far, the tiny, quaint towns we had stopped in were marvellous for respite, but not keeping in touch with the world as we knew it.
All in all, it was wonderful, no weather to worry about, no waves, no big winds. It was peaceful and resting. Though, I do think we were becoming a bit travel weary. We looked forward to stopping in England for a while.
We reached the Canal Du Centre, where the water levels were a lot lower and the river was about ten metres wide. It was just like puttering along a creek, and most days were spent in the middle of fields. The cows and horses nonchalantly watched us putter by while chewing the rich, green grass. We ran aground a couple of times, but fortunately, only on mud.
When the big barges came past, it was necessary for us to move to the edge to allow them to pass, which meant we then became stuck. Often we managed to rock, reverse, or ram our way through the mud. On occasions, a friendly lock-keeper would let some water out from an upstream lock, which gave us a bit of a lift.
But, best of all was when we spied a bakery and a vineyard and an accommodating tree; we’d loop a rope around the tree and toddle off for supplies.
It was now August, and we found that the whole population of Southern France went on holiday in August. This made us explore hidden parts of the towns and seek small shops where the locals purchased supplies. The experience provided new tastes, smells, and a rather relaxed state of being.
Further north, our ability to adapt was tested further by different locks. They ranged between two-and-a-half metres high to about five metres high. The bigger locks had floating bollards and were the same as before. The two-and-a-half metre locks were a bit more interesting. Noel, controlling the boat magnificently, manoeuvred us right alongside the wall as I stood with a fore and aft line looped onto each shoulder, ready to grab hold of and jump onto the wet, slimy ladder. I found that usually there was no top to the ladder, and my tearing fingernails had to claw at the concrete wharf to haul myself up. To add to the fun, there were thick cobwebs with resident spiders near the top that I had to ignore – I was scared of spiders. Once I had traversed the thorny bush and stinging nettles at the end of the ascent, I could tie up the lines onto bollards, some metres above Noel and Mariah. I would pass the stern line back to Noel so he could control it, while I handled the bow line. Pulling a blue cord, which was always well hidden, operated the locks.
On occasion, a lock-keeper was there to help and sometimes they were a bit keen. I was glad when they weren’t there as a race would ensue. With an evil twinkle in their eyes, they’d pull the blue cord just a few seconds before we were ready, creating superhuman efforts to make the boat secure while not panicking. When the water was let into the lock (by pulling the blue cord), the water swirled and caused the boat to whirl against the lines. At times, the water gushed in so quickly, it would create a bow wave, up and over the boat! The lines had to be tight, and you had to maintain that tautness as the boat rose. Our sailing gloves wore through, and my upper torso would have had the best body builders worried!
We were having fun, though, and at times the canal was much higher than the surrounding plateau. To be on a sailing boat and to look down at a magnificent view falling away from you was strange.
It was the middle of August, and we were on downhill locks now. These were pleasantly gentle, with the water gently flowing out instead of in. Starting high up, it was so much easier to jump on to the wharf and tie up, each of us with a line each, paying it out gradually as we descended. A couple of the locks were manual, and there was not always a lock-keeper to help. The closing of the doors, opening the holes for the water to escape, then opening the doors the other side was done via a large wheel that resembled a steering wheel. The locks were decorated with flowers, and we could purchase local fruit and vegetables from the lock-keepers.
We were once again a finely tuned team and relaxed in whatever the locks threw at us, until we nearly lost the boat – twice. The first incident I awarded solely to Noel. We were traversing an aqueduct, a large, narrow bridge some fifty metres above tumultuous water and rocks; they were narrow and perfectly safe. I had jumped off onto the path that ran alongside to run ahead to take a picture. Noel was taking a picture from the boat and forgot that one of us was meant to steer. He also forgot that he was the only person on the boat. Mariah hit the wall of the aqueduct. I had visions of the headlines, “First flying boat.” Fortunately, one of Mariah’s owners had put the fenders in a good spot (excuse me while I rub my halo) and the fender was the only casualty, (which we actually managed to rescue later).
The second incident occurred at another aqueduct, with helmsman firmly in place. We had the green light to go. Right at the other immediate end were two locks and what looked to be a drop in to
tal of about nine metres. Two cruisers were ahead of us and the locks didn’t look that big. The lock master had different ideas and crammed all three of us in together.
Mariah had to squeeze her bow alongside the cruiser in front (skippered by a Brit called Simon). I had nothing to tie the bow onto, so I stood on Simon’s boat and hoped he had some control, as I didn’t have much. The stern was tied onto a ladder, making us diagonal. When the water was let out in front of us, the over flow kicked up quite a stink behind us. Normally we didn’t notice, but it created a waterfall, which this time, our stern was beneath. We were thinking we might just make it, when the lock-keeper bellowed, ‘Avantez!, Avantez,’ and explained by furious signing that there was a huge concrete ledge right below our stern. Noel powered on our engine, which in turned rammed us into Simon’s boat, which in turn rammed the first boat. These boats retaliated and pushed back. Vying for space, Mariah’s wind vane cleared this ledge by just half an inch. All in all, we had just one-inch gap on port, where I was fending off (with, I might add, a huge bloody great spider alongside me), and half an inch gap at her stern. Mariah’s starboard toe rail scraped down the wall, despite the half a dozen now squished fenders. Luckily, the wall was completely covered in slime, so there was no harm done.
Simon, on the cruiser in the middle, was repeatedly shouted at by us to move forward. He was standing on his boat’s port, holding onto his line for dear life (as I was pushing his boat this way and that). But at times, when he couldn’t take our pleas for help any longer, he’d haul himself up by his two lines, so he was hanging by his arms. He’d walk his body across parts of his boat, so he was then hanging horizontally. His toe could then push his accelerator forward!
As we came out of this lock, we blew huge sighs of relief, only to realise we had to do it all again on the next two locks! Needless to say, later that day the three of us headed for the nearest bar.
We’d almost finished the Loire and were heading towards the Briare Canal, which is about fifty-four kilometres long with at least twenty-four locks. The Canal Lateral a la Loire is slightly wider, which was good as we met a few peniches (big barges). We did become well acquainted with the mud at the bottom at times though. But, it was all pretty easy, going down in the locks and they were becoming fewer, leaving us to enjoy the beautiful scenery.
Eventually, we found ourselves in Paris. Not near, or pointing at it in the distance, right in the heart of the most romantic city in the world. Arsenal Marina was a huge basin that housed a multitude of esoteric boats. Surprisingly, the marina was reasonable and we tucked ourselves into a good spot and jumped, literally into Paris. Becoming tourists, we ventured to the Arc de Triomphe, the top of the Eiffel Tower, every corner of the Louvre (our feet nearly expired), and plenty of yummy restaurants, cafes, and parks. I love the French and France, but even though Paris holds fantastic sights and sounds, some of the snotty waiters, shop staff, and local folk had their noses so high, they must suffer with neck strain later in life.
It was in the centre of Paris that I was run over. Our ever-faithful bicycles were used to the maximum around the city. It was rush hour, and the reputation the Parisians have of being the worst drivers in the world was justified. Admittedly, we were on the pavement, studiously avoiding the square-hatted policemen who had told me off earlier that day for riding on the path.
We were sitting at the lights, and when pedestrians were shown the green light, off I sped. A lady in a small car hurtled around the corner through the red light, we collided. Actually, I pushed myself off the car, only knowing too well that I could be sucked under. All eight lanes of traffic came to a halt; Paris came to a standstill. The lady in the car was distraught; I was shocked.
Without really knowing what happened, a tall, handsome man picked me up and almost carried me to the pavement, while crooning, ‘Madam, you are ok, non? You are not hurt, non? Madam, you fell like a ballerina, like poetry. I am so sorry. You come all this way to our country to visit and this is what we do to you? I am so sorry, madam. What can we do to make it better?’
My knees were weak, not from the accident but from the smooth, poetic voice that caressed my ears. As I stared up into the handsome, dark face of my saviour, letting him lead me to wherever he wanted to go I felt a sharp pain in my ribs.
The magic of the moment was shattered with a, ‘She’ll be right, mate,’ from the unmistakable Aussie twang from my husband as he elbowed his way between my saviour and me.
Reluctantly, the man let me go. As I thanked him, my heart sank as he disappeared. I think I loved him for a short time, if not him, then certainly the romance of the situation. In true Aussie form, Noel handed me my bike and said, ‘Come on, let’s go!’ And off we went. I was somewhat shaky on my bike.
After a few minutes, the last twenty minutes of events caught up with me and once I realised that I had actually just been knocked down by a car, I demanded we stop and have a wee dram to straighten my nerves. Never one for turning down a drink, Noel stopped at a café and had a cool beer. I was still a little shaky, but Noel and I had a good laugh at the event.
‘I had to hand it to him,’ said Noel, ‘he was smooth.’ Noel had watched with amazement as I was led off. He wasn’t sure what he was most amazed by: the skill of the Frenchman or his wife so easily led away with devotion in her eyes!
‘I wasn’t sure whether I should have punched him or shaken his hand!’ Noel said.
Alas, it was soon time to leave. We arranged for the small lock of the Paris marina to open for us in the morning. Under a bridge, but in a lock, we waited patiently for the water to rise enough to release us into the busy channels that snake around the heart of the city. I was a bit of a worrier and constantly checked important functions on the boat. One of which was the salt (raw) water outlet. When we were in port, the salt-water seacock is turned off. I always made sure it was on when we left, but I couldn’t help but check it every few minutes in the first hour of us moving. As we waited in the gloom of the bridge, I stuck my head over the side. No water spurted out. After a few more moments, I shut down the engine.
‘What are you doing? The gates are opening. We have to leave,’ said Noel, thinking I had sabotaged the boat in order to stay and find my rescuer.
We checked the problem. The return line on the heat exchanger had slipped off, and the water that should have been pumping out of the boat was pumping into our home!
The engine was okay to run. Noel completed a quick, temporary fix whilst we were tied up in the lock, and then we puttered into the canals. A foot of dirty water swilled around our home. As I was preparing myself for the cleanup, a police boat came alongside us, just a few metres away. They seemed to receive a radio call and suddenly on came the blue lights. The powerful boat was pushed into full throttle; they turned 180 degrees and sped off. Unfortunately, this had caused the stern of their boat to dig in so much a mini tidal wave headed our way. With no mast, we had nothing to stop us rocking and the boat flung herself side to side. Each side of the boat went under water, right up to the gunwales. The water within Mariah sloshed everywhere, the mast nearly came off the boat, and a lovely pot plant in the cockpit fell into the boat, tipping all the dirt out creating a quagmire. Noel had to do everything he could to stop me radioing up the police to give them a piece of my mind.
As I settled into the task of cleaning up, Noel was steering, following our charts. I could hear little comments, ‘Wow, that’s incredible, beautiful.’
I rolled my eyes.
‘You have to come see this Jack,’ Noel called down.
Reluctantly I peeled myself away from the boggy-muddy marsh inside our boat and stuck my head out; the Eiffel Tower, the Notre-Dame, and the Arc de Triomphe all stood near the banks, as if seeing us off; an incredible sight. I watched the beautiful buildings ease by.
‘Lovely,’ I said, as if I’d swallowed a lemon and grumpily got down to mucking-out the boat.
We were north of Paris, and it seemed to rain constantly. We rigged up mo
re tarps, donned wet weather gear, and battled each day with our goal of England becoming keener.
We reached Dunkirk on a grey, rainy day. Tying easily into a marina, we looked back from where we’d come and sighed. I knew I’d miss France. We promised to return one day. That afternoon, we walked ashore and decided on some chips for lunch and a cup of tea. Standing in a small, steamy cafe, we ordered lunch and perused the French newspapers. We saw pictures of planes near tall buildings, explosions, death. Through broken French and English, we learned of 9/11. It had happened a few days before. With no newspapers or TV on board (and the radio hadn’t been listened to for sometime), we knew nothing of this horrific event. The entire town was sad; the entire world felt sad, brittle. I cried a little. Disbelief hung over our lunch. I rang home.
‘I haven’t turned the TV off for three days,’ said my mum.
The grey clouds seemed to darken further.
16
Noel fulfils a life-long dream
What struck me most as England appeared on the horizon and slowly glided towards us was its magical scents. The grass, dust, rubbish, trees and flowers flowed across the salty water and invaded my senses. I smelt the perfume of home. Tears pricked my eyes, and I foolishly grinned all across the entire English Channel.
At Ramsgate, we eased into the narrow entrance with the firm, but polite, British accent from the Harbour Master guiding us through.
In the secure haven of a near empty marina at dusk, we carefully secured Mariah. Noel handled the bow lines, and I was fiddling about at her stern. We stopped in unison, looked at each other, and at the same time realised we were both on shore. We were on terra firma. We were standing on England. We both did a ridiculous little jig and hugged, relishing our achievements. Actually, we were still on the water, standing on a floating pontoon, but we were in British water, British docks, and smelling British air.