An Englishman, Irishman and an angryman went into a shop…

Paris to Ris-Orangis

22km

2 locks

8 hours

Leaving Paris, we were now travelling upstream and progress against the current was very slow. Where the current was strongest, through bridges, we didn’t feel like we were moving at all.

A couple of interesting pictures from our journey out of Paris

The Josephine Baker pool which floats on the Seine

A massive Chinese restaurant

The morning started bright and very cold, but wrapped up in fleeces, hats and gloves we enjoyed the sunshine. By mid-morning black clouds were beginning to form and it wasn’t long before the rain was lashing down both vertically and horizontally through the open door of the wheelhouse soaking us both through.

The capitainerie at Port L’Arsenal had confirmed that the lock at Coudray was indeed closed for repair until 27 October, so we decided to head south and find somewhere to moor on the Seine and wait it out.

Moorings were not to be found. By Villeneuve-St-George lock, we were both wet and freezing cold. Lock staging was provided for pleasure boats needing to wait and had a time limit of one hour. Unwilling to go any further and with most pleasure boats wintered up, we decided to take our chances and move off if the lock keeper asked us to.

After tying up, I got the stove lit and within no time at all the three of us were snuggled up on the sofa, toasty warm.

The view from our lockside mooring

The next day, we decided to walk into the small village as we need a few supplies and the laundry was starting to present a health and safety hazard.  There was a problem. The staging up to the lock was fenced in and other than a locked gate there was no access to the outside world. We shouted up to the lock keeper high up in the tower and leaning out of the window she beckoned us up.  As communication is still very limited, we managed with the aid of Google translate on the lock keeper’s PC. 

Our plan to stay on the mooring until Coudray lock was reopened was scuppered as the first thing she tapped into the computer was “You have one hour, then you go”. She also provided us with a key which is used on all the canal and river networks in France (similar to the BW key we have back at home). This is something we should have applied for before we left the UK, but taking pity on us and after consultation with her colleague, she let us have hers. We treated them both to a couple of cakes from the patisserie as a thank you for their kindness.

As the day was bright we were in good spirits and set off again after lunch. To our dismay, no sooner had we untied than the heavens opened again, luckily, it was just vertical rain so we did manage to stay dry.

The further upstream we pottered the more desperate we were to find somewhere to moor.  “What about there” I would say “No, too high. Odgers won’t be able to jump off” Tracy would reply. “Ooh that looks good” Tracy would shout. “No, it says private on it” I would mutter.  This went on for about three hours.

Eventually, I spotted a likely looking spot and we both danced about like loonies when the boat glided beautifully into place. There was an Aldi supermarket a short yomp across a field and a town ten minutes away across the bridge.

Our mooring in Ris-Orangis

Boats travelling past us would create a huge wash which caused a wave to crash over the back deck and fill the engine room

Needing to top up my phone credit, I wandered into a local shop. “Parlez-vous Anglais?” I asked the shopkeeper and with that all hell broke loose. “Are you English?” one young lad asked. Then a chap with a mono-brow who was loafing by the counter leapt in front of me gesticulating aggressively, spitting out words I didn’t understand apart from “American, English” and “we hate”!

Quicker than you could say ‘rocket propelled grenade’ and moments before the braying mob thought to lynch me and drag my naked body through the streets behind a Toyota pickup, I shouted in my best, proud to be Irish voice. “JE SUIS IRLANDAIS”.

Stunned silence. I shifted my gaze and stared without blinking at the shopkeeper whilst holding my nerve. Did they believe me or was an RPG about to appear from under the counter and blast me back to Bradford-on-Avon?

“You are from Belfast?” asked Mono-brow. 

Knowing what he was implying I replied in my best Irish accent

“Absolutely not. I am from the south, it’s a separate country, so it is

(noooo just stick to the facts, Martin).

He didn’t look convinced.

“Remind me, what is the capital city of Ireland?” he went on.

I opened my mouth to reply but my mind had gone completely blank. Stalling for time, I remembered a holiday Tracy and I had taken a few years ago.

“I’m from a lovely little fishing village called Youghall, so I am

(not again).

In the beautiful County of Wexford

(shit, I meant Cork, hope they don’t know Irish geography).

It wasn’t working. A flash of inspiration.

“Our capital city, where all your lovely Guinness comes from.

(Help! These lads are hardly likely to drink it, are they?).

Sweating profusely now and desperately looking for my exit strategy, I rummaged through the wastelands of my brain.

“If you fellas

(Think!)

Ever fancy a trip

(Think Martin think)

You will get

(Seriously you are going to die – think)

A very warm welcome from me in

(Think you eejit)

DUBLIN!” 

The shop went berserk. One chap shouted “Welcome to France” and Mono-brow leaned over and man hugged me.

Relieved that my plan had worked, I left the shop with my phone credit. It was more than likely that I would bump into these characters again during my stay and it was good fortune that I had once kissed the Blarney stone which had obviously bestowed upon me the gift of the gab, just for that moment.

Shaking with adrenalin, I was quick to get back to the boat. “Whatever is the matter” Tracy said “I’ll tell you later, just hide that red ensign”.

Me kissing the Blarney Stone. Despite Tracy saying all I would get is a cold sore, I think it did give me the gift of the gab that day.

Moorings
I would strongly advise arranging moorings along this stretch as other than private marinas, there are no official places to moor between Paris and Ris-Orangis.