NasiumNaix-aux-Froges

Through green forests and golden wheat fields we cycled, through the bright morning chill, hedgehog and deer scuttling out of our way as though on cue, while our path remained fringed by what must surely be the last of this year's poppies. It was a truly glorious morning, the sort that always makes us wonder why we don't do this more often.

It was Julian's fault we think. It was he after all who led us on a wild goose chase across thousands of kilometres of English countryside looking for what the map said was a Roman wall. When we got there it turned out to be a bunch of fair-sized stones piled on top of one another in a line. Just like all the other lines of stones separating one sheep from another across the country.

Then there was the Roman road we saw in Carcasson a few years ago, which could have been mistaken by a layman for a Roman wall which had fallen over.

Undeterred, or simply forgetful, we struck out this morning at a time when sensible people were still lying in bed, staring at the ceiling contemplating what they were going to have on their breakfast croissant, to find an entire town.

Nasium it was called, home to 15,000 people just a few thousand years ago, and the place where to this day Roman Legions march through the fields on the third Sunday of each month, apparently.

"The fields"; a penny dropped.

No one had actually said anything about "the streets", and while it had occurred that the entire town may not have made it through two millennia in one piece, perhaps deep down we were hoping to see more than the brand new roadside obelisk guarded by an aged and somewhat obese golden retriever.

Just how much more, we still don't know, but we took a photo of the word "NASIVM" engraved in the stone, and cycled off.   Another Roman site explored.

Moving in Concert Naix-aux-Forges

That little buzzer in our brains went off this morning, and suddenly and illogically it was time to push on another few kilometres.

We are due to meet Jan and Ian in Toul a week from tomorrow.

 Coincidentally Al and Sunny have a similar deadline, and we have happily slotted into a pattern of crusing in company for the past week or so and consensus seems to be part of our habit now. While some would choose to travel that distance in a couple of days, visions of breaking wives flashed before the eyes of Al and I, and we thought that ten kilometres or so would be enough to round out our day nicely thanks very much, which would just enough to find us in Naix-aux-Forges in time to check out some cows, as is his want, and to photograph some buildings, as is mine.

It would have been nice to report that we moved silently out of the port in tandem as if moving to some invisible signal, perhaps a quiet nod from one to the other acknowledging that it was time to move, two boats moving in unison as if attached by a thread, but the only thing that was invisible was everything really, as Mr Perkins yawned and belched into life.

Al understood though, and at least one of us slipped quietly and unnoticed into the first lock followed by the other, disguised as a cloud of white smoke making a dull chugging noise.

To be fair, Mr P does settle quite quickly and seems to enjoy his outings these days, and the ports from which we depart must remain insect free for days after his fog lifts.

DistanceLigny-en-Barrois

The Kiwi bloke from the campercar saw our flag and wandered over.

"How far have you come today?" he asked.

I replied that we had actually decided we needed a break from travelling and it was time to do some washing and other chores. Besides, we quite like it here so we'd not actually come from anywhere today, nor probably would we go anywhere tomorrow.

"So how far did you come yesterday then?" he persisted, offering that he and his wife had driven pretty much directly from Pompeii, and probably hadn't stopped for a week.

"Almost four kilometres." I explained.

He blinked and checked that he'd heard correctly. Well we didn't start till latish, and we didn't feel like going any further once we got here. I explained that our schedule was starting to close in on us though and within a fortnight we needed to be in Nancy.

 I think that may have been the point at which he became incredulous.

"We were there this afternoon" he said, and that one line probably sums up why we choose to travel by boat!

ReminderLigny-en-Barrois

We were only explaining for the two zillionth time the other day, that yes we do have things that bite in Australia, and no we do not need to be particularly brave to live where we live even though there are barely sufficient children who survive all the perils which present themselves to us in our vast untamed continent, to keep the place running while the likes of ourselves are occupied elsewhere, brave snake/spider/shark/crocodile evading soles that we are.

In the process of doing so I remarked quite truthfully that I had seen more snakes in France in the past three years than I have in the past half century at home.

It was barely surprising then, as I was peering into the stillness of the morning while sipping on my "wake up" coffee, to see a snake swimming among the lily pads.

In the early chill I recalled an acquaintance once telling me that he didn't enjoy a party he attended with a "gangster" theme, because it reminded him too much of work, and I must confess as I stared vacantly into the reflections that I may well have inadvertently made associations between the creature as it swam and a client or two from a former life, but that thought passed as the snake made its way up the opposite bank and the water and my thoughts returned to their perfect stillness once again.

Eventually the faintest zephyr of a breeze arose and erased all the reflections of the morning, and we bravely summoned the energy for the four kilometres that was to be our journey for the day.

On any SundayTronville-en-Barrois

With Shelley on her way back to London, we resisted the seductive powers of the old town and the magnetic allure of the festival at the top of the hill, and we too quietly slipped away from Bar le Duc into a perfect Sunday afternoon.

We had agreed with those pesky Canadians, that we'd meet them at the first place there was space, which turned out to be a town called Tronville.  Between there and our departure point was nothing but a few hours of clear sky and water lily lined canal, and rolling fields of wheat and corn. Occasionally the tranquility of it all was interrupted by a cyclists cheery wave, or a friendly "bonjour" or twelve from a family strolling along the tow path called in a volume great enough to be heard above Mr Perkins' dulcet throb.

It wasn't particularly hard to pretend that we were quite enjoying ourselves. We even made a brave show of it all when, were faced with quietly watching the sun subside over the lily pond in which we were forced to moor for the evening.

Renaissance Festival Bar-le-Duc

The Renaissance Festival has begun, and it would have been remiss of us not to have spent at least one day wandering among the stalls, eating crepe chocolate crepe until we looked like one, while watching the amazing array of performers as we walk the streets.

The atmosphere in the daytime at least is gentle and relaxed, the streets busy enough but not crowded, the visual feast sublime.

We spent an hour watching the indescribable: Children riding a carousel of cows fabricated from parts scrounged from the set of Mad Max, and powered by fathers pumping on the udder of another quite separate bovine, while mothers took turns to grind the organ accompaniment, the organ itself clearly built as a project by inmates of an asylum.

All the while a farmer silently watched and blew feathers over the riders in his charge.

Pure magic.

So this is what the Renaissance was like.

Having a daughter clogging up a tiny corner of our abode is all rather pleasant. She eats little, doesn't make much noise and thus far at least has barely complained. Perhaps she has repressed her memory of the last time aboard, when it was raining quite a lot, and it was easier to stay dry by donning a raincoat and standing outside than remaining aboard the good ship Joyeux, the extent of whose perforations had not yet been discovered.

Those times have long passed though, as for the time being has the rain, which gave us a perfect day for drying clothes just washed, walking in the sunshine and checking on progress on preparations for the Festival.

It's been a long time since we've seen a genuine thunderbox and here there are dozens scattered around the old town, newly erected complete with what presumably is a sufficient supply of sawdust to last the weekend.

Gentlemen may rest assured that there is no need to soil the millennia old walls of the church either should they be caught short, as behind the partition so clearly marked, have been placed at their disposal two half drums complete with sawdust lining to ensure that no nasty drumming or even splashing sounds will be audible.

I wonder if, to completely authenticate this journey down memory lane, the containers will be disposed of in a nearby waterway.