Today seemed a bit like living in a post-apocalyptic haze, in a lonely world almost devoid of other life. There was certainly a flurry of activity first thing in the morning as too many boats raced off far too early in a vain attempt to be the first to the nearest lock. Even having given them half an hour’s head start after lock opening time, the last pair were still not quite away by the time we got there. No doubt they had a much longer day planned than the dozen kilometres we would travel in the day.
It’s hard to say whether France was hung over from its big night, or whether its simply readying itself for the weekend which will see both the National (Bastille) Day celebrations and a World Cup outcome on successive nights, but whatever the case there was nary a sign of life in Fumay.
It’s a delightful place, jam packed with the sort of physical charm that only a village built on the side of a hill in the middle of a slate mine can muster, complete with well tended flower boxes and beds and a port of which it can be proud, a certain indicator that life exists somewhere. Today though, even the proprietors of its famous (and permanent) riverside chip wagon failed to make an appearance. As the evening began to close around the hills and us, we took a photo to remind us of all the port-side activity, and we too retreated from view.
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