There was the part where we knew that to get a berth in the harbour in town, we needed to be in Saverne early so we resolved to depart when the locks opened at seven. This was our cue to sleep till well after then and perhaps another hour to boot and to not really feeling like moving much in the misty rain until we could see that if we delayed departing any further we'd probably end up repeating the process again tomorrow.
This part was followed by the bit where we spent a perfectly lazy three hours to move the ten kilometres through the forest in the almost rain, baking a batch of packet macaroons on the way, and consuming them with coffee and wondering once again why we haven't been doing this for years.
Finally we arrived, and grabbed what we thought was the second to last berth in the harbour in the midst of a squall, trying to look oh so casual and seamanlike but failing entirely to both appear to be so, and to actually fit into the space that sat so invitingly. Fortunately we were able to recover somewhat, and casually manhandled ourselves into the berth beside, which it turns out was indeed the last, as though that were after all, our intention.
As if by magic, the weather suddenly lost its indifference, and we were able to stroll and shop and roll the roof back and watch for an hour or so, drink and boathook in hand, as a circus procession of boats, each considerably larger than we, attempted to drive at speeds various into the same undersized berth which sat so tantalisingly beside our own, each failing equally and each wishing the berth beside was vacant so they could pretend that is where they were going all along.
But it wasn't.
And it won't be tomorrow either.
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