Legends from our own lunchtimes

Wednesday, August 07, 2013

Conflandey to Bois Barbey

We are moored in Bois Barbey this evening, which is not a place technically, but a piece of woodland in the middle of which is a little clearing and a long dock with bollards surrounded by calm and trees and filled with fish and birds and ducks, which for some reason one never thinks of as being birds.  There is also a flat bit enclosed in barbed wire with a pond in the middle visible only to those who take some effort to do so, where some would have it that a factory once stood.  They would tell you that the site is contaminated, and therefore one must assume that the pond is completely toxic, and since there are no signs indicating any of that, they are forced to presume that in the event of the pond overflowing it will undoubtedly find its ever diluted way into the river thereby ensuring that we will have no need for antifouling on the underside of our hull ever again.

As we passed through Corre earlier this afternoon, there was a sign at the edge of the port, I know this because it is clearly visible in my photographic expose of the FBI informant last year, and perhaps we wold have been advised to have read it before setting out to buy some chemicals of a different nature.

But we didn't and as a result after walking the requisite kilometre or so in the almost-rain to the supermarket at the edge of the civilised world, we found it to be absolutely and positively closed for lunch,  A big cheery sign did offer that it would be open in the morning of the fifteenth of August should we be requiring anything then, and we made a mental note.

Eventually though, the cheery staff returned from lunch, we bought our toothpaste, wine and enough turkey to roast for tea, and set off happily into the afternoon until we found our clearing in the wood with its pond of ponderables.


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