Exploring the battlefields Veneray to les Laumes-Alesia (and back)

As best we could tell, the battle of Alésia did not take place three or four kilometres from our mooring, so when the day dawned clear and hot we decided to strike out on foot to the village of Alésia itself, still sitting at the top of the hill where bits of it have sat for almost two thousand years, overlooking just about everything including the plain where the battle did not take place.

The Gallo-Roman remains of the original settlement are exposed to view on the outskirts of the "modern" village, and on the plains below the new "interpretation" centre sits as a portal into the past, waiting for Sunday when the troops will arrive to re-enact the battles of old.

By the time we had walked past both, I was grateful that I'd brought my new fangled hiking poles, although when our short-cut home went slightly awry, and we ended up hiking through the actual Alésian hospital, the others in my company could not decide whether or not I was endangered by the looks of the hospital staff as I strode with my sticks, boldly where no hiker apparently had been before.

The staff on the other hand, did not act in haste, and allowed us to leave by the fire exit, perhaps understanding that it would lock automatically behind us.  

We gave some consideration for a time, to starting a new internet meme about "people hiking with poles through public buildings" but in the absence of any photographic evidence and after a good deal of late night discussion, sensibly decided not to tell a soul.

Move along, there's nothing to see here. Montbard to Veneray-les-Laumes

Our guide book says of Venery-les-Laumes: 

"Although there were indeed major battles between the Romans and the Gaulles in the Laumes plain, it is now almost certain that the decisive battle of Alesia did not take place here."

I can't recall another time when I've been so keen to get to somewhere where almost certainly nothing happened.

We set our sights on spending this night at that very village some ten kilometres away. The journey could hardly be described as onerous, even with our little ship laden with produce that simply had to be eaten, fresh from this morning's market, but once again with friends aboard, we were unlikely to retire while the night was young and the usual result of that is of course that neither were we likely to be found leaving the port while the morning was young.

Therefore made plans to depart when the afternoon was young, which is exactly what came to pass.

We arrived in Veneray far too late to undertake any strenuous activity, so immediately set about ensuring that it would not be recorded as the place where the afternoon snooze did not occur as well.

Tomorrow, refreshed, we shall set about discovering remains of things that did not happen.

Imagine if.. Montbard

Summer is no longer a figment of our imagination.   

Blue skies by day, violent thunderstorms by night, temperatures well into the thirties and ice in every drink was the order of the day.

Neale and Trace stumbled off the train into the midday laziness, in time to join us for both our early afternoon snooze and our late afternoon one, and in between our first proper exploration of the town in all its historical Buffon-esque glory, although there was no explanation that we could find for the plaited golden locks hanging from the tower on the ramparts.  

It was the sort of thing we thought best left well alone, so rather than stepping up our enquiries we found a shady tree, and sat in its cool for the duration of the evening, not once giving another thought to the state of being of the owner of those tresses.   

For just a few hours, the world had disappeared from our consciousness, taking all its problems with it.

Hard at work Montbard

Arriving a day early is not something to which we have become accustomed, neither for that matter is brilliant sunshine and temperatures touching the high twenties or perhaps thirty with absolutely no humidity.

Instead of bounding out and about and exploring all the town has to offer, we, and the crews of the other two boats in the harbour did the only sensible thing we could.  We cleaned, and varnished and we washed until there was nothing left to be washed or varnished and cleaned, and we wondered if the summer was going to last more than this one day.

For the first time this year we sat in the evening cool with the roof open, reading about all the things we had not yet seen, becoming something of an authority on the Buffon family.

Tomorrow perhaps we shall build on all this book learning, or perhaps we shall just sit under a shady tree, or wander among the wildflowers along the canal, one of us happily photographing the wretched things with the other just as happily murdering them with a flash of her kitchen scissors, bundling them into something she calls a "posy"as she goes.

A new race against time Cry-sur-Armançon to Montbard

A new deadline was slowly appearing, something that we thought may need a plan, as we are due to pick up friends in Montbard on Thursday, and we are almost twelve kilometres away.

A few weeks ago that wouldn't have been a challenge, we would have laughed manically and dug the silver spurs into Mr P, roaring off towards the horizon, and we would have been in town by quarter-to-lunchtime.   Now, however we are cruising properly,  and we are in Buffon territory and it's raining in a misty sort of way, or misty in a rainy sort of way, we aren't sure which.

,

Buffon, was arguably the greatest naturalist who ever lived, (of the study of animals and plants kind not the walking round unclad variety.)  He was also quite wealthy and owned the town from which he took his name, although even that didn't go as smoothly as one would have preferred it seems.    He may not actually have told his father that he had assumed the affectation "de Buffon" while traipsing around with the English gentry, and was a bit surprised to find that his dad had sold the town in his absence.

He did the only reasonable thing under the circumstances, and bought it back, and left a whole bunch of stuff for us to discover three hundred years later including a botanic gardens and a water powered forge complex.  

We thought his forges might well be worth a visit, so arrived a polite time before lunch and rather than placing any stress on the system, decided not to venture into the bleak until after that sacred hour.

When we eventually stirred ourselves, wandering to the gates of what is a world heritage listed monument, we were greeted by one of our very favourite notices.

"Open all days"  with a line below proclaiming what should have been obvious, given the day we were there; 

"Except Tuesdays".

So we pressed on into the afternoon, all the way to the town of Buffon's birth, Montbard.

A day early.

Hanging round Ravierres to Cry-sur-Armançon

It was probably that we were mindful that those pesky Canadians had forced us to travel at breakneck speed for a few days, or it may have been the rigours of long distance train travel,  that hour spent being whisked through the countryside at two hundred kilometres per hour can tax one, but whatever the reason we unanimously decided that a slow start would be quite appropriate.

When we eventually stirred, we remembered that some friends had recommended a little lunch cafe in the next town along the canal and despite it being already inarguably some considerable time  past the hour normally described as "lunch", we decided to make a move.

Four kilometres by boat seemed to us to be a not overly taxing day, even with a couple of locks thrown in, so without fear of "overdoing" it we set off on a long and unremarkable amble through the village, failing entirely to find the ruins of the chateau, the crypts from Roman times and probably half a dozen other historical artefacts of world heritage significance.   We did cross the bridge that has been providing service to the likes of ourselves for one and a half millennium, and we did find the restaurant too.

It was closed till lunchtime of course.

Smiley Faces Dijon back to Ravieres

Not much had changed on Sunny and Al's boat since our farewell last year although it was just a little colder than we remember.

We are an odd couple of couples. As two of us slept snug in our winter pyjamas under doona and blanket in temperatures just a few degrees cooler than our family was experiencing in the depths of winter at home, the pair in the forecabin, the Canadians, slept comparatively naked in what they considered to be verging on not at all comfortable heat. 

Eventually the sun almost shone, and we meandered uptown dressed for the weather, we in jeans, jumpers and wooly socks, they in shorts and tee shirts, each wondering how the other was surviving.

When we are together time travels far too quickly, and after eating close to too many Mussels accompanied by just enough chips and a selection of desserts, we were forced once more to wend our separate ways. 

As we wended ours in the twilight, on foot from the station in Nuit, back to our lonely little boat in Ravieres, cheek muscles aching, we quietly began planning our next encounter.