Sunday in Verdun Sunday 24 June - Verdun

The small consolation we drew from Tim and Marianne’s departure was a place against the quay!  Moving in to our own little spot of pontoon may well have been the highlight of our Sunday in Verdun had it not been for a succession of happy social accidents.

We had, for instance been invited to inspect progress on Andrew’s barge fitout, which turned into a rather lengthy chat over a lemon-ginger tea before becoming a full blown conversation in Peter and Ellen’s wheelhouse.  An interlude with Kurt and Judith spotted sunning themselves in a port-side café on our interminable wander back to our boat meant that when it came, lunch was taken at a time when most sensible people were thinking about dinner.

It seems that it’s not hard to fill in a lazy Sunday in Verdun, although were one ever to be stuck for something to do, one could always dress to match the flowers and find a step or two on which to idle. 

A Mousse in Time Saturday 23 June - Dieue to Verdun

When we arrived in Verdun, the rumour mill warnings of crowded port and paucity of space to moor even the smallest of boats did not disappoint, but we had spotted a deliciously adequate space alongside and equally delicious looking barge.  The normal procedure when coming alongside is not to seek permission, but to engage in a kind of gunslinger stare-down with the occupant of the already moored vessel.    When he or she blinks, one then flashes out with lines and fenders, preferably completing the process before any protest can be voiced, after which all settles in to a happy often even welcoming co-existence.

The occupants of our target in this instance, were clearly unaware of this code.  There they stood as a welcoming committee, ropes at the ready and an invitation to afternoon tea too, even before we’d settled dear old Mr Perkins for his rest. 

Chocolate mouse for afternoon tea, is something of a Belgian tradition according to Marianne, and it’s a splendid one we think, although afternoon tea on one boat soon blurred into dinner on another over conversation that at times was as urgent as if there would be no tomorrow.  

Since they were moving on in the morning that was actually quite close to the truth, and as the sun hung low in one end of the sky, the moon a little higher in the other, we made a pact that somewhere, somehow, sometime in the future our paths would cross, and when it did we would complete those unfinished conversations. 

A small diversion Friday 22 June - Lacroix-sur-Meuse to Dieue-sur-Meuse

We woke with half an intention of partying with the village this evening.  Then we eyed off the size and proximity of the pyre and wondered whether were we to remain where we were, would we end up inadvertently impersonating Joan of Arc albeit borne on a polyester boat rather than a trusty steed.

We elected to run, to find a place where we can’t be late for anything, where deer run free and butterflies abound and where the risk of conflagration was pretty much zero.  Moored in the cool of a little patch of dense forest just a few kilometres from Dieue, bounded by wheatfields and grasslands we spent a delightful few hours roaming in the afternoon.   

Whilst wading knee deep in grasslands and poppies each of us with a different agenda, one could not help but reflect on words recently read, attributed to D.H.Lawrence:-

  

“Women pick flowers”… he is reputed to have said, “while men let them be.”

The longest day. Thursday 21 June St Mihiel to Lacroix-sur-Meuse

The longest day in France is celebrated in (almost) every town and village by a great Music Festival.   Anyone who can play anything takes to the cafes, streets, parks and concert halls and on that night the whole country just vibrates.  

Today was that day, and while we could have chosen to stay in St Mihael for one more night, where some streets had been closed since yesterday to allow tents and stalls and stages to be erected in time, we instead chose to see what was on offer in the much smaller village of Lacroix-sur-Meuse. 

There, things were also abuzz, but the preparations were being made for tomorrow, the population having decided apparently that one can celebrate much more loudly on a Friday.  The buzz was with the sound of chainsaws and tractors preparing firewood in what looked to be an attempt on the record for the world’s largest bonfire.  Curiously perhaps, this giant conflagration was planned in a spot so close to our mooring that it seemed we would have no difficulty at all in toasting marshmallows without leaving our bed.   

This night though after a day of noisy activity, our Music Festival evening passed under an impenetrable cloak of silence of the kind that only a shuttered village in rural France can produce.

Early birds, no worm. Wednesday 20 June - Sampigny to St Mihiel

We figured that since St Mihael was the next major centre “on the list” for those on the great migration north, and since they would take at least several hours longer than we, there was a good chance we’d find a spot.   We were absolutely correct on both counts and a near empty dock on our arrival became something of a log jam by mid afternoon.

Feeling a little on the side of smug about all this, we happily lazed away the heat of the day watching our washing dry, delaying our usual perambulations until the evening’s cool, taking an early tea to fortify ourselves in readiness for our pre-nocturnal outing.  

As we wandered among the dying embers of the setting sun, on the far side of the village we re-discovered a tiny little square that verged on quaint.  There we found a little twilight farmer’s market and our heart rates quickened at the prospect of what we may find.  Had the empty boxes on all the stalls, save for the odd wobbly zucchini or withered rhubarb leaf not given us a clue, the contented stall holders idly chatting over beer and wood fired pizza certainly did.    

“Perhaps you should have been here a little earlier monsieur”.

At a Snail’s Pace Tuesday 19 June - Commercy to Sampigny

It’s holiday time and we are heading in the wrong direction on what our friends call “la route de la choucroute” - (the sauerkraut route) named because scores of German (and Dutch) holiday makers come screaming up the Meuse River, turn left then pedal to the metal until they reach the Rhine, where they roar down that as fast as they can in order to get home in the two or three weeks holiday time they have been allowed for the year.    

Typically because navigators of this ilk are in a hurry, they tend to travel long distances in a day, congregating in the major centres for a single night before racing off to be the first to the lock in the morning.  As a consequence, the quays and pontoons in the major centres are rather cramped affairs at this time of year, while all the smaller lesser known villages are blissfully overlooked.   

Having spent a few days in Commercy in the past, we had no compelling reason to remain double-stacked for more than one night.  Therefore alone in our contra-direction we managed a delightful early start and to arrive where we were going quite possibly before the tangle that we had left was fully unravelled.   There is something to be said for having morning tea at the end of a day’s work.  It’s even better in the shade of a lovely tree with a nice pontoon and an entire park all to ourselves quite near an almost abandoned village.

Oddly, we don’t think of ourselves as tourists, in our minds we live here.  Our boat is our little shell, so we have a sense of something akin to “belonging” where ever we are.   Those others racing past, they are the tourists.  There is no logic in that, but that is the way it is.

A Literal Reminder Monday 18 June - Eauville to Commercy

We’re in one of those parts of the world where even if one wanted to pretend that the wars of the past century did not occur, one could not.  Our last journey in this territory marked the centenary of the beginning of the first World War and a journey for us visiting the scenes of some of its horrors.  

Four years later, the build up to the  commemoration of it’s end is in full swing.  While we have no intention of revisiting many of the historical sites and museums, we are sure that this little literal  memorial in Eauville will not be the last time in the next few weeks that we find a lump welling in our throats.

“And he shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruninghooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more”. (Isaiah 2:4).