We woke before the alarm, so early that I actually I had time to scrub the ice off the boat and dry it before heading off to Luneville in the old Citroen. As we rolled in to the Gare, we received a text from Ian. The train had had a puncture or some equally debilitating mishap, and had been delayed by five minutes.

That NEVER happens in France, but it had, and we had time to smell the flowers.

Then another text came which said duration of the delay was indeterminate, so we had time to get some petrol and go to the hardware shop and have a coffee.

The next message had an ETA but also the news that Ian's luggage had been stolen, so we had more coffee and made lists of things we would need to find for him and where we could find them. Our carefully planning for the day had once again gone awry, would we ever learn?

There wasn't much room in the little Citroen anyway, so we were actually quite grateful for the absence of baggage, the nice young lady Police person even worked into her lunch two hours to produce an impressive report with a very official rubber stamp on it, and everyone we spoke to was horrified that this had happened in their country.

We were all quite relaxed really, although the prospect of spending a week with a naked Ian was probably something that was worth avoiding, so after yet another diversion to replenish the parts of his wardrobe that we deemed necessary, we eventually trundled back to Lagarde, vowing never to plan again.

Tomorrow we have no plans.

None.

So we'll probably stay in bed until the ice has gone, and smell even more flowers and make something up after that.

Sleepless

Having nodded off late the previous evening it was only natural that we should wake early, before the ice had melted on the roof.

Apparently it's hard to sleep with the knowledge that the transmission on one's boat now works as it should after a year of pondering and reading and questioning those who didn't know.

Neither of us have any idea why this is so, but a long and entertaining evening with Bill reminding ourselves endlessly about how clever we are, turned into a long and not quite so entertaining night of staring at the ceiling and counting of the quarter-hours on the church bells.

Neither of us could explain it, it wasn't insomnia of the tossing and turning and wishing we could sleep kind, we were quite relaxed about it all, content to lay in the knowledge that we were both equally awake.

Perhaps it was all the owners who had been working on their boats in our proximity had left and we'd run dear old Mr P for an hour to create enough hot water for our first "proper" shower, or perhaps it was the vicarious thrill we got from slipping him into gear from time to time just to feel the strain against the mooring line, or perhaps we knew we had a plan.

Tomorrow we'd pick up Ian and Cher and we'd be away.

That's it, we'd be away!

Twelve millimetres

If it hadn't been so chilly this morning I may have sprung out of bed with a lively step, trying hard to remain confident that everything would turn out well today, but as it was I used the cold as an excuse to hide my apprehension until the temperature hit a sensible double figures.

We have a rule that the thermal underwear goes on when the temperature is in single figures, and it seemed silly to dress, then undress to dress again, so recumbent I remained until almost nine.

The sunshine brought with it a host of ideas on how to fill in the missing twelve millimetres in our transmission linkage, which my by now well digested theory had convinced me was the cause of our woes, and to be fair it also brought Bill.

After a few hours of tinkering, Bill had Mr Perkins ready to eat out of the palm of his hand, I had the transmission linkages tuned to within a whisker of perfection, and if the borrowed battery charger had been working we may well have been underway.

But we weren't.

So we wired in the new charger, had lunch, then afternoon tea, and marvelled at our cleverness and how for thirty years this poor boat had been running at less than half its potential, because no one had bothered to install a basic part correctly. Twelve millimetres of adjustment was all it took to put paid to a previous diagnosis that required a 5,000€ transmission replacement.

Elated after finally testing our handiwork, I decided to check on Mr P's well being before retiring for the night. He had been crying tears of green.

One last coolant leak to fix on the morrow and we will be away.

At least, that's the plan.

It was quite cool on the outside of the doona this morning when finally we woke, so cool that the computer refused to charge. On investigation, it's little sensor thingy was telling me that the processor was shivering at 2° and could I please come back later when it was a little warmer as it would like to lay under the doona a little longer itself.

I'm not sure what is going on with us and electrical circuits at the moment, but co-operation seems reluctant to say the least.

Today is the day before which our solar panels back at DickyWorld are supposed to be connected to the grid.  Whether or not they are depends I suspect on a home-grown equivalent of Bill turning up on the day, to attach the inverter, which seems quite coincidental really because here we now have a box of inverter, charger and some other thing with an orange plastic top which we'll attempt to hack in temporarily till the real job gets here if indeed Bill turns out to be half as reliable as the nice people from Energex.

In the meantime, there are a few fiddly jobs to take care of, perhaps a bit more cleaning round the engine bay to be done. The gains are now in smaller increments, and hopefully it will be easier to find any leaks in the fuels system which may or may not be the cause of our current lack of animation and perhaps to clean up some of the wiring ready for surgery.

In any case, we need to be ready in a fortnight, when we are due tear out all the wiring and start again, to bring the poor old thing kicking and screaming into the 21st century, fitting that "black box" that Michel recommended all that time ago.

Now that sounds like fun.

Almost as much fun as it would be tearing around on the old AutoUnion motorised cycle we happened upon in the car park this morning.

Watching Herbs Grow

If one were to be perturbed by plans going awry, I suspect one would be perturbed a good deal of the time on our little ship.

Plan "B", we thought, the one that had us leaving anyway and stacking the freezer full of frozen water and keeping things cool the old fashioned way, would be foolproof. That was to recap, until of course Mr Perkins decided he liked doing nothing just as much as we do.

We thought perhaps it was time to call on the long suffering Michel, but for once he is busy suffering on all manner of other craft and will be doing so for a week or two into the future it seems. Bill on the other hand, if he remembers, is due back on Thursday and although he does not yet know it, there is a special place in his heart reserved just for the cantankerous Mr P.

While we were watching the grass grow or actually, the roesemary, mint, oregano and sage through our aft cabin window, the rain began, the breeze picked up, and the temperature plummeted, and we congratulated ourselves on the wisdom of our decision to remain another day or three.

Today was to be the day before we left for Saverne.

All that was necessary was delivery of an inverter and a charger and the use of a few minutes of expertise and we'd be set. Oh we have our contingency of course, we'll go and only use the fridge when we can plug into shore power. We figure we can do that in jumps of six or so hours, so things should stay coolish on the way, and the drinks cold when we actually need them.

Perhaps it goes without saying that the delivery did not occur, that it may tomorrow, and that if it does we shall have the parts early for the week after next when we start to assemble them.

We thought we had them outfoxed, that we were set to go despite them all, but for reasons which don't seem at all obvious, having spent a reasonable part of the day cleaning every one of his nooks and the odd one or two of his crannies to boot, I thought I'd give Mr Perkins a tickle to see if he felt like playing tomorrow.

Apparently he does not.

Bill, who is Scottish by birth but French by nature and by dint of the percentage of his life spent here, agreed to pop over and work some magic before he left for parts south this evening. Perhaps it was the Scot in him that caused his forgetfulness.

So here we lie, in the middle of our little harbour, our orange curtains a definite cry for help, unsure once more of where the morrow will take us, or even if it will.

Sunday Perambulations (the use of the word "perambulations" is "for Julian)

Sunday in Lagarde is like every other day really, except that it's deathly quiet apart from the quarter hourly reminder from the church steeple.

If it's possible to imagine a deserted street as even more deserted, then it's possible to imagine Sunday morning. By lunchtime, which on a normal day is a fairly long time, but on a Sunday tends to go on until early Monday, if one dares to be conspicuous one can take a stroll through the village, just to listen to the stillness.

It's a special stillness though, for if one pays attention there is sound permeating the place, a gentle sound of family and friendship, of meals not begun and others midway through. Now that I think about it, it is very much like walking through the suburbs at home about mid day on Christmas day, perhaps that's part of the reason we identify so strongly with the feeling.

Every day is Christmas Day in Lagarde!

And once one ventures a few hundred metres beyond the town, it all becomes quite, well.... pretty really.  Does anyone have any idea why my sinuses are playing up?