Paranoia Fouchecourt to Corre

If Corre didn't have  a canal running slap bang through the middle of it and a road running across it in the other direction, I get the impression it would be at the end of the line somehow.  There is something approximating absolutely nothing to see and for that matter almost the same number of places to be seen in as well.

It would be the perfect place to lay low for a while, till the heat was off.

Off what I probably can't say, although I suspect there could be a problem brewing with one of our batteries because there's a bit of heat emanating from under the bed and there's a distinct whiff of something deadly in the air to go with it.  If it can hold out till tomorrow I might become enthused enough to check it out when Grahame and Aileen are here.  There's nothing like having an audience when trying to look intelligently at the ends of wires when one of the members of it was once an electrician.

For what's left of today though, I'll probably just lie around reading one of the several thousand pieces of pulp fiction that seem to litter every crevice in the boat since the people manning the book swap in St-Jean-de-Losne implored one of us to take as many as we could carry.   I don't read that sort of stuff too often, even thought it seems to work wonders for my steely nerves, my ability to walk unnoticed through a crowd, to spot the bad guys just from the glint of sunlight on their hunting scope from a thousand yards,

And I can tell at an instant when I'm being followed too.

I just can't quite figure what I've done that would remotely interest the FBI.

For want of a bike.... Port-sur-Sâone to Fouchecourt

Port-sur-Sâone is a funny place.

It's a bit like a real live version of that old joke about the best part of Melbourne being the road to Sydney.

As we walked around it there were all sorts of hints of mildly interesting things, curious graffiti, wall art, African art, flags and posters from all nations posted purposefully in odd corners of the town, signs everywhere that may or may not have promised things of interest in its vicinity, but every sign pointed to a village not far away.

Too far to walk perhaps, but not far by most other measures none the less.  Once again we were thwarted by the fact that our brand new bicycles are in Belgium and therefore a hop skip and a jump too far away to be of practical assistance.

Every cafe in town was supposed to be closed, today being Monday and they did not disappoint, except for the one which normally opened on Mondays, and it was closed "exceptionally".    We were thankful we weren't actually looking forward to eating in one of them, and wondered if we had had our bikes, would we have used them to track down one of the promises from an adjoining village, or was it simply a ruse to make us think the place was interesting.

We couldn't stand the strain of thinking about it all day, so wrote "explore this village later" on our chart, and slipped ever so quietly away, so as not to wake the restaurant proprietors from their mid day slumber.

Not terribly far beyond the village that "Attila the Hun set out from by boat in 452 after the defeat of the village Favernay" we found near solitude in the village of Fouchecourt, noted only for its harbour which will hold fifteen boats, and according to the harbour master who is also the proprietor of the attached restaurant named unsurprisingly "the Little Port",  that is exactly the number of houses in the village and he assured us there is nothing else to see for for many kilometres.

"Do you have bicycles?"   he asked.

Darkest Africa Port-Soing to Port-sur-Sâone

We were quite happy staying in the middle of nowhere, not that the residents of Port Soing would consider it to be that I expect.  After all they were kind enough to provide a landing for us and a power point and some water as well, just near the park a few kilometres away from the main channel on the river diversion.

We spent yesterday afternoon reading under a tree, at our own private picnic table, and the couple who shared the landing did the same under a tree of their own at their private picnic table, and we could see no reason at all, except perhaps that it was raining quite a lot, why we shouldn't spend today doing the same thing.  

Saturday is changeover day in boat charter world, and it would seem that Soing is exactly one day's gentle crusing from the base and to boot it is the sort of place that hirers find attractive as well, so by lunchtime, the landing which was designed to accommodate five boats was doing exactly that, and it would not be long before there would be others circling, looking longingly at exactly our spot as the sky began to promise a clearer afternoon.

Exactly after lunch proceedings had been dispensed with, we decided that perhaps if we were to move on for a bit we could make some space and assuage the disappontment of the next charterer to arrive.   After all, they'd have bicycles aboard and would be able to properly explore the pathways and villages that connected to the park.

It's all to do with one of those immutable laws of life I suspect, the one about not knowing what one has until it's gone, but our bikes would sometimes sit for weeks under their covers.  At those times, everything would be in easy walking distance week after week, and we'd only take them off the boat if we felt like venturing quite far afield, yet on this particular stretch of water, everything is further afield.

So when we arrived in Port-sur-Sâone it came as no surprise to find the pleasure boat harbour was a few kilometres from the town.   It was also hardly surprising therefore that we would decide to moor against the quay in the very heart of town.

What was a little bit surprising perhaps, was when we got there we came to be under the distinct impression that we had been transported to a large continent somewhere to the soulth.

Check mate Savoyeux to Port-Soing

With the Chateau looming over the town of Ray-sur-Saone, we thought it definitely worth the detour for a few kilometres over water about as deep as damp blotting paper to the little mooring in the village.

Even as we approached the mooring we chuckled and began to discuss what reason for the chateau could give for being closed to thwart our attempts at inspection.

It's not Monday or Tuesday or Friday afternoon, nor a holiday, and it's not the weekend, well actually it is the weekend but it's in the middle of the summer holidays when most old things are open for inspection on weekends anyway and besides, it's not a public holiday that we are aware of, although admittedly we did discuss the thought that by the time we secured the boat and wandered to the information sign near the little quay, it was getting dangerously close to lunch time.

Being cautious sorts of folk, or perhaps having climbed cliffs to find things closed once too often, we were delighted to discover from the information quite clearly set out on the sign,  that on Saturdays and for that matter on every other day of the week the admission charge to the chateau was six Euro.   While there weren't any actual opening hours stated, we felt certain that the admission charge was a reasonable inference that providing we presented ourselves outside of mealtimes, we may actually gain admittance.

So we climbed another mountain, and when we arrived at exactly quarter to lunchtime, the faded sign on the gate said:

"There are no visits inside the chateau.
You are welcome to enjoy the gardens.
Please do not look in the windows."

We  did enjoy the gardens, and despite the overwhelming desire to walk up to the nearest widow and peer in we did not.

All the way down the hill we talked about  what we would do with the twelve Euros we had just saved, and then we received the call.

Dave and Ria had picked up our new bikes from the place in Belgium we'd found on the internet.

I suspect we'll owe them that much at least!

Sharks! Gray to Savoyeux

Not sure of what to expect of the town or whether we could overcome our first impression, we set out to walk its streets.

Any town, which is prepared in celebration of summer, to decorate the main traffic roundabout in its centre is alright by us.  When that place creates a sandy beach  with umbrellas, change huts and circling corporate sharks, it leaps to the top of the list of places we need to spend more time in.

When the tourist office is staffed by people desperate to have one attend every function in the town for the next decade, and even stations an honour guard at the lock to ensure that one has had a good time and to invite one back for longer next time, then really one has to consider one day moving in for good!

But we have a steely resolve in the face of such temptation, so noted in our book "needs more time", apologised to anyone within earshot and quietly slipped away once more onto the green of the river.

Green and Gray Auxonne to Gray

Determined still to press on for a few days, to get the "highway" part of the journey behind us, we travelled all day through a tunnel of forest still in its heavy green summer clothes.

Except for the sliver of sky that followed the course of the river, there was no background but the cliffs of green which lined the river, dense forest of the kind described as impenetrable, impossible to photograph in a way that would do justice to the experience, the sort that when sorting through the photos, one would have been obliged to remark something along the lines of:

"But it was better than this, you had to be there".

After a long day of nought but green, green water reflecting the green canopy, green lights at every lock, arriving in Gray was a bit of a shock.   It was so… grey really, appearing devoid of colour of any kind at first glance.   It was almost as though it was a mirage, or like the dot one sees after a flashbulb goes off in one's eyes - a sort of illusion.

We felt quite disconcerted by this.   Was it, we wondered, the city itself, or was it ourselves reacting to the contrast between this truly urban environment and the places from which we had just emerged?

Tomorrow we will set out to find out.

Beating the storm St-Jean-de-Losne to Auxonne

The old adage about "sailor's delight" describing sunsets at night proved to hold true, when once again after a glowing farewell last night, the day dawned with a cloudless blue sky, a mirror-finish on the water and the sort of day that could fairly be described as "beach weather".

We could have stayed another day, or even another year had the weather come with some sort of guarantee of permanence, but there were thunderstorms in the offing for the afternoon, and besides we thought we should really begin our meanderings in the general direction of  home, lest we should run out of year.

With no fear of being swamped by the inclement sea conditions, we struck out bravely for Auxonne, the garrison village where Napoleon spent eight or nine years studying, or was it in command during his formative years I can't recall with any certainty.    Not wishing to swamp my mind or this journal with useful information, I shall refrain from discovering more until next year, when we hope to revisit this part of our journey in a more relaxed manner.

Perhaps it should be noted that we were safely in port by the time the thunderstorm didn't arrive.