Time for a rest it seems.

I can't remember the last time I woke to an alarm, and it is my fervent hope that after today I will have forgotten the last time by the time the next time comes around, but today it had to be.

As we watched the sun rise over the station in Saverne, Cheryl and Ian were already travelling at 300 kilometres per hour, in direction Paris, and not having been out of bed at such an unseemly hour in quite some time, we wondered what we were supposed to do next.

Somewhere in the back of our minds we knew we were due back in Lagarde on Tuesday for the electrical surgery, and by our quick calculations, that gave us ample time to do three week's washing, stock up on supermarket produce, and gently cruise back. We started to tick off the chores one by one. Shortly after lunch we decided that we had done enough, and cast off our moorings to commence slowly heading west.

At least we thought it was slowly. Our engine speed was substantially lower than at our cruising speed of last year, but as the locks rolled by, each one thoughtfully open and waiting for us, it became apparent that thanks to the new efficient transmission, we were covering substantially more distance per hour than we had actually intended. The other thing that was apparent was that there were large numbers of boats heading in the opposite direction, yet we seemed to be alone in our travels.

At the last lock taking us into the harbour in Lutzelbourg though, the truth was revealed. The Plan Incline, the great moving bathtub that takes us over the mountain, is broken, and is destined to remain that way until Tuesday.

There are worse places to spend a Sunday or two we thought.

Almost missed lunch.

"Tarte Flambee for four please" we replied in perfect French to our waitresses enquiry as to whether we'd like the menu in French or German.

"We only do Tarte Flambee at night" she retorted.

"Well we'll have four plates of the day then" we offered.

"We don't do plate of the day on Sunday"

"Well that's terrific, because it was Friday when we actually started to think about placing our order"

"Ahh yes but this Friday we are being Sunday, and we don't do plate of the day on Sunday".

By now facing certain extinction, we relented and ordered a selection of stunning entrees from the menu, and perhaps a dessert or two, and coffee. Even the joy of eating from Sunday's menu could not disguise that it was the conversation which was the highlight of the day, the conversation of four people who had been friends for as many decades, reunited for a time, soon to separate again.

Tomorrow Cheryl and Ian depart after a week which seemed to comprise just one day, a Sunday at that. It will be Saturday then I'm sure, but it won't be long before Sunday rolls around once more.

Of things electrical.

I'm not sure if it was just that Mr Perkins doesn't like it when our attention is focussed elsewhere, or if there is truly something he wants to tell us. Whatever the reason despite running somewhat akin to a very noisy, smelly Swiss watch he managed to take the edge off our pleasure today by feigning overheating for much of the time.

The day itself was an archetypal example of spring, and the journey down the mountain through the forest from Lutzelbourg is a true pleasure. After a morning in the forest with the roof off, as the waterway enters Saverne past the cafes, we bisect the main street, and follow the fence line of the Chateau to our mooring in the little port. It is just one of 'those' experiences which reminds one of how terrific it is to be alive, let alone doing this "for a living".

So why oh why, with just a week to go until we tear out our well and truly fudged electrical system, did it pick today to send readings to the temperature gauge that seem to bear no resemblance at all to what is actually going on. Every component that we could see or feel appeared to be running normally at worst, every vital sign visually perfect, yet the temperature gauge kept telling us it was quite certain that the boat was overheating to the point of imminent meltdown and that we really should be doing something about it.

Something is exactly what we will do. Just as soon as we are back. The temperature gauge will have time to regret this day as it lies in the bottom of the skip among a tangle of familiar red a black wires.

But for now we must endure another night of sitting in silence, watching reflections of the Chateau and contemplating our expedition tomorrow.

A Day in Lutzelbourg

We'd been sitting around long enough we thought, but when we divided the number of bicycles aboard by the number of people we came up with a number that had two people without wheels, so after a brief conference, several of us retired to the patisserie while the other remained aboard boiling the billy for coffee.

The blokes among us thought it might be an opportune time (after smoko) to attend to a few minor mechanical matters but after a bit of deep and meaningful discussion, it was mutually agreed that while it was indeed the opportune time that we would probably get dirty, and hot and there was nothing that really needed any immediate attention and perhaps it would be more productive if we were to take a wander back up along the old abandoned tow path.

Those who were not blokes, were in accord with this course of action, and so it was with packs chocked full of saussison, pickle, baguette and cheese, we did just that.

One would imagine that logic and common sense would have prevailed, that our spider senses would have commenced their tingling long before the seven kilometres to our destination had been reached, but alas they did not, and so it was that we, by my rather crude calculations, after a delightful lunch in a forest gladey bit by an abandoned lock, faced a journey of exactly the same distance home.

Last time we were here I recalled, the journey homeward was rapid and easy, it was all downhill after all. Last time we weren't even puffed when we pulled into the crystal artisans gallery, and even felt efreshed as we wandered among the wares, but last time we were on the bikes.

But the return was not too taxing and we are back refreshed, and ready to once more take on the Haut Barr in a day or two.

© Sunshine Coast Daily Photo - Australia

A Good Lie Down

The strains of travel start to show by the third day on the move.

We have covered more than forty kilometres since our journey began after all, and we are becoming weary.

Actually I think it's the late nights and the food and the constant conversation and the warm afternoon sun, but what ever it is, we were weary enough for almost all of us to do something about it this afternoon. We may stay in Lutzelbourg a day or two we think, we mustn't rush these things. One of our favourite Patisseries is just an amble up the road so it wouldn't do to leave without having at least two morning teas, or three if we can squeeze them in, and there's the walk up to the chateau to fit in sometime after coffee.

It feels like a Sunday afternoon.

Come to think of it, every afternoon feels like a Sunday afternoon.

We are indeed cruising again.

Of Lakes and Fromage Blanc

A thousand years or so ago, some enterprising monks spent a very long time in what I can only imagine were not very nice conditions, digging a lake near the impossible to pronounce Gondrexange. It was a mere 660 hectares in area and was to serve as a fish farm.

As we walked around the stone paved edges of the lake last evening it was difficult to comprehend the effort that had gone into the venture nor how may pairs of feet had trod the very same path over so many centuries.

Today we found ourselves, baguette in hand, wandering the streets of the even more unpronounceable Xouxange. As we walked past the tiny building that served as the Town Hall, we stopped to read the notices.

They confirmed our suspicions, having not had an update in more than two years, and as we were pondering at how difficult it might be for a mayor in a place such as this to transition to retirement, the window above us opened.

A grey haired gentleman of almost our own age, enquired as to our origins, and motioned us to the front door. Despite it being well past lunchtime, he had forsaken his Mayorly duties to usher us into his chambers, for what could only be described as a personal audience.

He unlocked a glass fronted book case, and began to show us journals, each a record of the town's administrative decisions dating from the 1800's. The name of the town originated around AD 1600 when some marauding Swedes took it upon themselves to render it devoid of population. He failed to explain just how it magically repopulated, but he did show the ever more incredulous we, book after book of records meticulously preserved through alternating German and French occupations over the centuries. It seems that change was so inevitable that the records were kept in duplicate languages "just in case".

This evening our heads are full of ancient records, of improbable encounters, of Swedes and monks and invasion and language and dislocation, and our stomachs are full of Tarte au fromage blanc.

It's great to be back in Alsace.

All Conquering

If we'd talked just a little bit longer it would have already been tonight and we'd still be in Lagarde, but as it happened there was a lull in conversation just long enough for us to cast off and head east.

As we approached the first lock there was our farewell committee wishing us onward, ensuring that our absence would be a long one, or at least a week as promised. Jacques chanted madly: "Rechicourt, Rechicourt," willing us to overcome our demons of last year, if for no other reason than with us gone his blokes can get on with proper work. Maggie and Frida waved encouragingly. From the bridge above the lock, Chris and Helen waved and shouted directions, even as far as two locks away in Port St Marie, Patrice interrupted his lunch to wave encouragement.

It was as if they thought they'd never see us again, as though we were heading off on the adventure of our life, crossing a pirate-infested ocean perhaps. All we were doing really was to see if the new fridge would run on the batteries, but we welcomed their encouragement, and waved and shouted back, all the while trying to look a bit seamanlike as we sailed off into the sunset.

Mr Perkins, bless him, seemed to be enjoying it all as well, revelling in his newly found ability to overcome the drive train, and as he gently ticked over he could have gained the impression that we'd slipped him in an entirely different craft. Gone was the skittish steering, the transmission slip, the straining to maintain speed at critical times. Now we have a boat that just gently does as it asks.

Once again we conquered Rechicourt, now a mere shadow of the threat that it once was, and tonight we lie at the top of the mountain awaiting the dawn of another perfect day.