We’d been looking forward to spending some time at St Valery, even if it was with a little trepidation that it may well be the point of no return. With the river still swollen from the rains of late, when the lock gently lowered us into the fury, we even began to wonder if we’d be able to stop at the bottom, or simply spat out into the English Channel.
Well may they laugh, they who don’t understand that reaching double figures in our little ship, is a feat that comes along every half decade or so, therefore for us each time we attempted to coax Mr Perkins to full speed astern while lifting bridges were lifted, actual white(ish) knuckles appeared on the hand grasping the control.
All was well of course, the drama mostly imagined, but whether it was those complimentary colour after-images working overtime or not, the joy of our new pastel coloured surroundings quickly restored our senses, calmed further by an afternoon spent simply drinking the view, and of course a restorative lemonade or two.
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