It’s not the destination they say, it’s the journey and that expression rings particularly true when one arrives in Port Cerises. It’s not that there’s anything particularly horrible about the place but It’s a bit of a contrast to the crystal clear waters and classic post-card loveliness of Moret. Of course it’s in an outer suburb of Paris, so one would expect a certain crustiness with just a few hours steaming from the heart of one of the world’s great cities.
As to the journey; seventy kilometres is a long way to travel in one day on a small boat, and even though we correctly guessed that there would be less commercial traffic on a Saturday, there was certainly enough to add some interest to the voyage, mostly empty behemoths, racing upstream to where ever their cargo lay in wait for the new week.
The commercials though huge, are helmed by experts so there is little to fear as long as one keeps an steady eye out, unlike the recreational craft who seem to run by the “every man for himself” code of conduct. We could do without the wake boarders buzzing us really just a slip away from disaster, puzzled when they get to us only to discover we don’t have any bow wave to jump, unlike their boats pumping waves far larger than the behemoths produce, but it will be a while before we forget the sailing fleet.
Somewhere along the way we came across dozens of young teens in small dinghies madly racing as is their wont, carefully shepherded by a couple of racing boats, just as a fully laden ship descended from the opposite direction. That was interesting enough without the insane surf kayakers racing across the river directly in our path, in a mad rush to get to the bow wave of the ship where they rode it, not inches from death!
Then the rowers arrived.
But we are here, quiet, calm, contented, hanging dearly to memoires of Moret, and looking forward to the lights of Paris.