Our European Adventure: Chagny Bandy

Montchanin to the end of the Canal du Centre

52 km

35 locks

13 hours

After leaving Montchanin, it was a leisurely cruise downstream and by 11.30am we were moored in the tiny village of Saint Julien sur Dheune.

Fortunately, Tracy nipped off the boat at one of the locks on our way to St Julien, otherwise we would have been bread-less as well as penniless.

Wonder what this alternator used to charge, must have been a big engine.

Our moorings in St Julien

Getting hold of some cash was now a priority. We approached a group of council workers weeding the flowerbeds outside the Mairie and asked where the centre ville was or if there were any shops.

Silence and blank looks all around until one lad jumped up and ran into the office and brought the lady mayor out with him. With outstretched arms and a huge smile on her face she greeted us in perfect English “welcome to Saint Julien sur Dheune”. “Thank you” we replied and after a kiss on each cheek, Tracy asked where the shops were.

There were no shops and worse still, it was 4km to the nearest village with a shop. “I can highly recommend the auberge though” she added by way of recompense for the lack of shops.

We set off on foot for Ecuisses via a number of misleading sign posts which took us off the beaten track and out to nowhere. Eventually, we got there and walking through the village we found one small closed grocery shop. It was cash we needed, so we headed for La Poste (the post office) hoping there would be a cash machine.

This was also closed for lunch and after pressing our noses against the window we could clearly see that there was no cash machine to be had.

The post office happened to be next to a school and the smell of school dinners was wafting through the air and unbelievably smelt like a 5* gourmet restaurant. We were both footsore and starving hungry.

“Smells delicious” I shouted across to a teacher having a fag break on the slim chance he would invite us in to share the leftovers. He didn’t. He did point us in the direction of an auberge about ½ km away. “Be quick” he advised looking at his watch. It was 12.50pm, I know we look out of shape but how long did he think it would take us to walk 500m?

We strolled down to the auberge which looked like what we would call a ‘greasy spoon’ back home, in we went. “Sorry you are too late for lunch” the waitress announced. It was only 1.10pm.

The walk back was long and wearisome but Tracy knocked together a salad fit for a rabbit when we got home.

The next day, Martin and Di turned up on their barge (we had previously met Martin when we were in Roanne) and they suggested we popped over for a drink later that evening. As neither of us had any wine on board, I suggested we walk over to the auberge opposite the mooring instead.

At 7.30pm we found ourselves picking Martin’s brains about the River SaÔne ahead. Our previous river experiences had harboured the seeds of anxiety that now began to germinate again as we drew closer to the river’s mouth.

They reassured us that the SaÔne was at its lowest for months and would be a doddle to cruise. Feeling a little bit more reassured we let Martin and Di choose the wine for the evening as Tracy and I haven’t educated our palates to any great extent and nor would we want too, if it tastes good drink it, is our philosophy. Unfortunately, the wine Martin and Di chose didn’t but it went down all the same.

We had already established with the auberge owner that she accepted bank cards and so had no qualms about drinking and being merry.

Three carafes of house red later we asked for the bill and our portion was €20. Handing my card over and punching the numbers in I was met with a ‘computer says no’ situation. After getting reassurance from Tracy that our account actually contained money, I tried a second time and again, the machine refused to co-operate. In desperation, I emptied my wallet on to the bar and counted out €17.76.

Fortunately, Martin stepped in and paid the bill, I gave him a tenner in notes and promised that I would give him the other tenner when we met again. It was only when I got back to the boat that I realised I was only left with €2, all the coins had been picked clean from the booty on the bar at the auberge. As Martin was an ex-copper and the owner of the auberge was getting paid by card, it would take Sherlock Holmes to deduce who had filched my €5 (have a drink on me, whoever you are).

Now, St Julien was a very peaceful hamlet except that at 6.58am each day, including Saturday and Sunday, the church bells would sound like they were being battered by the local farmers with sledgehammers. The noise was loud, tuneless and relentless then just as we were about to jump overboard strapped to the anchor, it would stop.

We have no idea why the bells tolled at this time and in this way, maybe they were trying to knock them down for a new set? It was a similar story in Digoin where at noon every day (including Saturday and Sunday) a loud factory hooter would sound letting everyone know it was dinner time. Like Pavlov’s dog, every time Tracy and I hear a hooter now we start to salivate.

A factory hooter

On Monday, we were up and off to St Léger sur Dheune. Our guide indicated there was a marina and so it would be a good place for us to top up with water.

The village of St Leger

The marina was completely chock-a-block as it also housed a boat hire company and, with the season not yet starting, all the hire boats were moored up. We managed to breast up with an elderly French couple but we could immediately see that, with us having the two dogs, it was not a permanent solution.

Lunch was our priority and after chatting to an English couple, David and Gill, we headed off to a restaurant they recommended. “I believe it is chicken curry today” David told us tantalizingly. We found the restaurant and had a choice of entrees both of which we found baffling to understand what they actually were. When they landed, we discovered Tracy had a herring and potato cold salad in a creamy sauce which she thought was eel and so didn’t eat. I had a paté that was so strong, Tracy said it was probably made from scraped cow head which put me off. We ended up packaging both our entrees in a napkin and feeding them to the dogs when we got back.

Starving, as we had not eaten our starter, we were really looking forward to our curry. Again, we were disappointed when it turned up. It looked and tasted like someone had prepared a chicken supreme, sneezed over the turmeric bottle, panicked and relabeled it a curry.

Pudding, however, was a triumph. Tracy had a raspberry tart and I had the crème brulee that was one of the nicest crème brulees I have ever had.

We discussed the mooring situation over lunch and as we were planning to just stay overnight and then move on, we decided to moor on the lock moorings.

On the way back we popped into the capitain’s office and paid €3 for water and told the lady that we had decided not to stay.

We manoevered the boat on to the outside of a huge peniche as we had been advised and with some jiggery pokery we got the water filling. To maximize our water, Tracy thought this was a good time to jump in the shower and machete the hair from her legs (what with the short-wearing weather approaching, we didn’t want her ending up at the zoo).

Meanwhile, I stood on the dock trying to watch the hose pipe, when, from out of nowhere, a bad advertisement for anger management in the shape of a large, red faced, hairy Neanderthal approached me.

He walked right up to my nose and started a tirade. “You come here, you don’t speak to no-one, you steal our water, you no pay!” He then gave me the Bras d'honneur, the French gesture for ‘up yours’.

This oikish thug was our capitain. I told him to go and check with his office. Off he huffed. Returning minutes later, I expected some kind of apology, but no he just chose to ignore me.

We were relieved to get moored up at the lock.

After a stroll around the town we returned to the lock mooring to find a boat had gone past and pushed us up the sloping bank. Luckily, we noticed the VNF van parked next to the lock keeper’s cottage. Taking a chance, I knocked on the door, it was just after 5.30pm but he could not have been more happy to help us move down the lock. We waved goodbye and handed over a bottle of red as a thank you.

Luckily, the lock keeper was home when we knocked on his cottage to let us through the lock

Below the lock at St Leger

The next day it was straight to Chagny. David hitched a ride with us to the launderette and it was a pleasure to spend time with such a well travelled and interesting chap. He was a retired architect and had previously lived on a sailing boat all over the world including the Caribbean.

The cruise through the Burgundy countryside was beautiful with all the vineyards on the distant hills.

Since November, we have only seen half a dozen boats on the move, this was one of them.

We reached Chagny and Martin and Di were waiting there for us. We paid them the €10 we owed and waved them goodbye as they sped off for the SaÔne.

Our mooring in Chagny

The streets of Chagny

There was even one shop which sold hundreds of different types of tinned sardines

So I had to buy a couple. Not sure they were worth the €5.90 price tag though!

We were also in a hurry to get the SaÔne out of the way so the next day after doing the laundry and food shopping we moved the boat to the lock mooring so we could get an early start.

The water at Chagny lock was carpeted with catkins and Piglet, thinking it was a continuation of the tow-path, took a running leap at something. The look of surprise on his little face when he re-emerged from the water was a picture (silly sod).

Our lock mooring with the carpet of catkins

Oddjob patiently waiting for Piglet to climb out of the canal after his swim

Some of the local flora

Although Martin had reassured us about the river, anxiety had started to grip us once more. So the next day we decided to have a really long cruise and head for Gergy on the SaÔne. We dug out the life jackets, charged and dusted off the radio and repositioned the anchor and life belt so they were within easy reach in case of emergency.

As we passed the town of Fragnes on the canal we looked longingly at the two story canal-side restaurant brimming with people enjoying good food and fine wine in the bright warm sunshine.

Like two dogs sat by a dinner table with paws in the air, we cruised passed and made our way to the big lock that would take us down and on to the river.