Canal de Bourgogne: A rattling good time in St J-d-L, French engineering, friends and neighbours, out and about, memorable musée, Bastille Day bonhomie, minor mishaps

St Jean-de-Losne seemed far more attractive this time round than it did on our driving holiday in October last year, when we stopped in for a quick look-see and a coffee. That was a good thing, as we were going to be spending a full week here, moored to the Blanquart service quay just after the lock that takes you from the Sâone River to the start (or end) of the Canal de Bourgogne.

Why are we here – and why for so long? Well, apart from our Karanja being due for her first engine service, and ditto for the generator, she was emitting a worrying rattle when in gear and in tick-over mode.

Roy and His Rattles

I should explain that Roy is forever plagued by rattles in his vehicles. Most of the numerous cars he has bought during our nearly 25 years together, to my recollection,  have at some stage made some or other sort of unacceptable sound, very often audible only to Himself. (“Listen, Verne! – can you hear that?” No, sorry. “Can you hear it now?” Sorry, but no.)

For the first six months of its life, his brand-new Jaguar XJL spent less time on the roads than it did in the workshop, where teams of Singaporean mechanics tried but inexplicably failed to either hear the allegedly unbearable noise, establish its origins, or make it go away.

This rattle of Karanja was more like a clatter – “like a bucketful of spanners”, in Roy’s words. Anyone could hear it. Even I could hear it.

Fortunately, Piper engineer Fred (and colleague Vinnie) were on site to sort things out. It took a week to: (a) establish that the drive plate of the Beta engine was fine; (b) discover that one of the engine-mounting bolts had sheared off; and (c) to fix the problem.

There’s much more that could be said about mechanics, French mechanics, the non- or dis-appearance of spare parts and so on, but if you’re anything like me, you’re glazing over already, and perhaps looking for a picture of Roy. So, here it is.

Friends and Neighbours

On the Sunday we arrived, there was a bit of a commotion as we found that the boat that had been ahead of us in the lock that gets you into the Canal de Bourgogne had taken the vacant space that Roy had spotted earlier on the service quay and, typically, decided was reserved for us.

Weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth ensued from another couple, Swiss, who’d been marooned for the past week on their triple-moored boat while awaiting the spares that would bring their kaput engine back to life. Now they, too, seemed to want the quayside mooring. (Go figure, or, to use my new French phrase, “Vas comprendre“.

Stephen and Henriette (Canard d’Oz) very kindly helped us to moor, however; and on our last evening, they came over for a drink, which predictably morphed into more than several. He grew up on a Tasmanian hops farm, she’s from Canada, and now they live in the Perth suburb of Langley – we’re looking forward to getting together again when we’re all back in Perth.

Out and About

On our first night, we had dinner (Italian platter, oeufs meurettes and whitebait) at Sauconna; one of several bars and eateries along the main quay, and recommended to us by Simon and Andrea Piper.

Another evening, after well-deserved beers on board with Fred and Vinnie, we headed to the Quai National for dinner at the Bar de la Navigation. I had moules  franc comtoise, and how could mussels be anything but great simmered in a light stock, liberally covered with lardons and melted cheese – and served with frites?

Musée de la Batellerie

La Musée de la Batellerie  is at no. 4 Rue de la Liberté. Located in La Maison des Mariniers (circa 1450), opposite the mairie (town hall), it tells the history of barges and their bargees in this area.

Human power came first: the photo below shows a woman on a towpath, wearing a leather harness to haul the family peniche, or barge, while her husband has the tough job of steering. They covered about 20km per day, travelling at a speed of 3km/h.

Mules and horses replaced manpower at the beginning of the 20th century – but someone still had to walk with the animal or animals.

It was a joy to chat to Claudine, who works at the museum and cheerfully put up with my slow French. She lives on Moni-Jean, a big old Freycinet barge (38.5m long, 5.2m wide) on the quay over the river from the Quai National.

Liberté, Égalité et Fraternité

There are worse places than St Jean-de-Losne to be stuck in for a public holiday weekend. Friday the 14th was Bastille Day, the country’s national day. It commemorates the French Revolutionary storming of the Bastille in 1789.

We returned to the Bar de la Navigation on the Quai National for a decidedly mediocre dinner (rabbit, boeuf bourgignon), but didn’t really mind, as we had the best waterside table, where Fred and Vinnie joined us for drinks.

After the fireworks came the much-awaited bal populaire – the phrase sounds suitably revolutionary, but in fact it refers to a small-town traditional music and dancing event. This one featured “Les Globe-Gratteurs” a fantastically energetic and very slick four-guy ensemble.

 

Provisioning

It was a mere 900m (straight down the towpath, turn right) to Intermarché, which I visited several times with my granny trolley – not least to stock up on the local bubbly (crémant de Bourgogne) and snacks for the apéro* hour.

(*For the uninitiated, l’apéro (slang for l’aperitif) is the French institution of pre-dinner drinks and snacks. It can be anything from a half-hour of wine and olives to a three-hour session of multiple drinks and a veritable buffet that takes the place of dinner – “un apéro dinatoire”. They take it very seriously indeed – entire supermarket aisles are devoted to the tradition, stocking mini-cheeses, dips, rillettes, pâtés, assorted olives, cornichons, tartlets, biscuits, chips (pron. “tscheeps”) and so on.)

But there’s only so much the granny trolley can hold. Thanks to the nearby Casino supermarket, which advertises free delivery (for orders of €60 or more), our hold is now fully stocked with beer, wine and Badoit.

In the Wars

We’ve both been in the wars in various ways since leaving England’s pleasant shores. I’ve been bitten by numerous insects and spiders,  and bruised my ribs one very hot day by trying to hoik myself from a marina onto a pontoon.

Roy’s been suffering from what he suspects is a torn cartilage in the knee that hasn’t been operated on yet. (You may have noticed the knee-brace he’s been sporting in some of my photographs.)

And then, to add insult to injury, a nine-year-old boy on a bicycle drove straight into the back of Roy’s legs as we were strolling along the quayside. He – the cyclist, not Roy – had had his head down, à la Tour de France, for the greatest possible speed.  We’d seen groups of these kids passing once or twice a day, accompanied by an adult – perhaps a teacher?

Smoothly rolling into the fall à la Daniel Craig in that opening parkour scene in Casino Royale, my felled oke (also SA slang for man, or guy) hit the ground bellowing profanities – but not before doing some considerable damage to his assailant’s precious bike.

No lasting harm done to either human, thank goodness. Teacher gave boy a thwack around the head, and the whole group apologised – “sorry, sorry, sorry”. There, that’s covered today’s English lesson.