Pedal to the Metal Fontenoy-le Chateau to PK 103

A "PK" is a notional kilometre mark, like the milestones of old marking distances along the inland waterways. No matter how hard we try to tell ourselves we are relaxed, we can't get away from the shadow of a looming deadline.   We have another two hundred and fifty PK's to pass and what must be something like a hundred or more locks or so to pass as well if we are to be in Toul in a little over a week.

While that is a conservative deadline in theory, we have decided to to make some miles for a couple of days to position ourselves better should we suffer unexpected delay.

That meant that after our lunchtime picnic stop in the middle of nowhere in particular, which Ron and Robyn quite sensibly decided would make a delightful overnight spot for themselves as well, we struck out alone once more to "put some water under the keel."

We are climbing at the moment, all day with locks sometimes just a few hundred metres apart and a constant audience of cyclists and hikers on the tow paths as the summer holidays reach their peak.  With each lock comes a rise of just a few metres, but we never fail to find enjoyment at the nature of the journey, entering each chasm with no idea of what we will find above, and invariably as we rise a new vista presents itself, appearing in our windows so that it is as if we are watching a constantly changing slide show.

It is as though each time we have a new window in a different place in the world as the change in scenery magically appears from above a dull grey wall; a child or two, a grandparent, a bicycle, a boat turned into a flower box, snow white, a vintage car, a pair of drunks in fisticuffs, we have learned to expect the unexpected.

Tonight we will be just a few locks short of the top of our ascent and when we get there, we are going to miss going up.

Memory Test Fontenoy-le Chateau

The window display in the second-hand shop in Fontenoy-le-Chateau contained such an eclectic collection of objects that it reminded us of one of those memory tests that used to entertain us at birthday parties when we were young.

Seemingly unrelated things combine to tell a little of the story of a town which was once in the centre of such diverse activities as wire and nail manufacturing district, and embroidery not to mention that of course the world's largest man lived here in a time when the world's largest man was the size of the average patron of a fast food outlet today.

The real memory test for us though was one of language, and came at lunch time aboard the barge "Liberte" with Marie-Therese and Xavier.  When we first met several years ago Xavier had explained that they had spent a whole winter in a British enclave one year with the intention of learning English, but due to the somewhat inward-looking nature of the folk in the port all he had succeeded in learning in English was "Hello", although he did admit that after a bottle of wine he finds himself perfectly pronouncing "I love you" as well.

Between Ron, Robyn and ourselves, we could scrape up enough phrases in French to proclaim something to the effect that "I am cheese" and "my dog is vindictive and malicious", although in the intervening years since our first meeting, Marie-Therese seems to fared a little better in progressing her foreign language skills.

With her occasional interjection of a key word or two into the conversation, the debate ebbed and flowed seemingly in direct proportion to the consumption of the proffered aperitif and the scene was set perfectly or a few hours of discussion that was entertaining if not informative to all concerned.

Seasonal Change Selles to Fontenoy le Chateau

We may still be experiencing summer weather during the day, but there are very real signs that a change of season is just around the corner.

To begin, the chill in the morning air is a dead giveaway, and the fog that remains with us till almost nine is another clue.  Another hint that some other kind of weather is on the way is the number of people in the villages who are readying themselves for a long season indoors.  I suspect the reward for many summer afternoons spent splitting firewood is a similar number of winter afternoons spent in front of a fire.

If that wasn't enough to convince us we are starting to run into boats that are making their way to their wintering grounds.  Our first reaction to that is that it seems to be terribly early but then we realise that we are indeed doing the same thing; heading towards home.

For reasons which are hard to explain, we are constantly occupied, whether by cycling to nearby villages to run small errands or by what seems to be an endless stream of friends who happen to be passing at the same time.   It's difficult to find the time to do even routine things, like update this blog.

To those among you who have written concerned that all is not well, never fear it certainly is and the notes are safely stored outside like next month's firewood, ready to be brought indoors and put to good use once the weather changes!

Bois Barbey to Selles-Tourpont

After another mind-numbingly similar day to so many we have had of late; a perfect dawn with just a hint of mist, an early start, effortless cruising through scenic wonderland in perfect weather and so forth, we arrived in Selles with barely time to wander around many of its fountains before lunch in full view of the turning bridge.

The turning bridge, or Tourpont at Selles is a thing which lends it's name to anything within line of sight of it, so it goes without further explanation that our lunch venue was the Tourpont Hotel although when making the booking there seemed to be a lot of explanation necessary to ensure that we did not want to be seated by twelve exactly and that half-past the hour would be much better thanks very much.

The bridge itself is a big iron thing full of rivets that was built sometime in the nineteenth century to allow carts and horses and other vehicles to cross the canal.  It's low clearance would have been problematic for the horse and women-drawn barges actually travelling along the canal had it not been for it's ingenious design which pivots it entirely out of the way of river borne things, including boats with crews intent on lunch.

Like it's twin a few kilometres further up stream it balances perfectly on a small set of wheels and the balance is so finely tuned that a smallish young lady who is charged with its operation can pivot it in silence with neither a squeak from its moving parts nor hers, by simply pushing on one end.   A person prone to exaggeration would say that it moves at the touch of her fingers, but since I am not one of those, let me simply say that it actually takes a little body weight as well.

After our lunch at the aforementioned Turning Bridge Hotel, body weight was not in short supply either and since we've read somewhere that a nice afternoon nap is far better for one's health after a meal than strenuous exercise, we retired to the boat for a healthy afternoon.

Signs Conflandey to Bois Barbey

We are moored in Bois Barbey this evening, which is not a place technically, but a piece of woodland in the middle of which is a little clearing and a long dock with bollards surrounded by calm and trees and filled with fish and birds and ducks, which for some reason one never thinks of as being birds.  There is also a flat bit enclosed in barbed wire with a pond in the middle visible only to those who take some effort to do so, where some would have it that a factory once stood.  They would tell you that the site is contaminated, and therefore one must assume that the pond is completely toxic, and since there are no signs indicating any of that, they are forced to presume that in the event of the pond overflowing it will undoubtedly find its ever diluted way into the river thereby ensuring that we will have no need for antifouling on the underside of our hull ever again.

As we passed through Corre earlier this afternoon, there was a sign at the edge of the port, I know this because it is clearly visible in my photographic expose of the FBI informant last year, and perhaps we wold have been advised to have read it before setting out to buy some chemicals of a different nature.

But we didn't and as a result after walking the requisite kilometre or so in the almost-rain to the supermarket at the edge of the civilised world, we found it to be absolutely and positively closed for lunch,  A big cheery sign did offer that it would be open in the morning of the fifteenth of August should we be requiring anything then, and we made a mental note.

Eventually though, the cheery staff returned from lunch, we bought our toothpaste, wine and enough turkey to roast for tea, and set off happily into the afternoon until we found our clearing in the wood with its pond of ponderables.

On Litter Scey-sur-Saone to Conflandey

Having already seen the sights of Port-sur-Saone twice this year, there seemed little point in stopping once again to appreciate the absence of things to appreciate, although we could have watched the workmen dismantling the stands used for the grand international fete of music and dance which naturally had wound up the day before yesterday, we moved a little further up the river.

This time with serious luncheon intent we moored in the forest opposite a chateau,  at a private quay belonging to the restaurant "Moulin Rouge", (no not that one).  Ron had assured us despite our misgivings, that the restaurant was not closed when we passed last, just sleeping for winter.   If restaurants do sleep for winter, this one was sleeping very soundly indeed, and appears set to go on sleeping for the foreseeable future and beyond, but the signs on the dock welcomed us none the less, provided that we respected the property, stuck to the paths and lit no fires,  and kept our litter to ourselves.  So there we stayed.

This part of the world was once the centre of wire and nail manufacture, there is a village not far from here called exactly that "Manufacture" in fact, and the area is littered by the skeletons of buildings which once held factories of sufficient size to finance the chateaus that their owners seemed to litter the countryside with alacrity.    I suspect there are as many chateaus (Private property our dog is malicious and vindictive) adjoining defunct factories in this neck of the woods as there are "Moulins Rouge" or churches of "Notre Dame", but all are equally as fascinating to peek into even in their ruined states.

We were sitting discussing just that on our private dock, over a quiet ham baguette when a gentleman with a large hungry looking dog appeared welcoming us to the place, but seeking assurance that Ron and Robin would not leave behind the yellow plastic bag they'd tied to mark a bollard trip hazard.  Suitably assured he bad us farewell and went off in search of other things.

Unless one has a factory or barn in ruins to leave lying around, or perhaps a large dog on a small footpath, littering is simply not acceptable.

A nice ride. Scey-sur-Saone

A year ago we were in Port-sur-Saone and lamented that the lack of bicycles aboard prevented us from travelling as far away our legs would allow, there being not much within the town that we hadn't seen after the first fifteen minutes of discovery.

Is there any irony therefore in the fact that this year on a Monday to boot, and being moored no fewer than twelve kilometres away, we used our bicycles not to escape, but to revisit the very same spot?  We did this perhaps filled with some sense of optimism that things may have changed in the interim, but mostly I think filled with a desire to simply roll along on our bicycles beside the river, through the cornfields under a clear blue sky.

That and the need to find a post office.

Or perhaps we were simply drawn, like flies to honey or garden gnomes to a beaded curtain depicting a tropical paradise.