Nancy that!

Nancy to Pagny-Sur-Meuse

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33 km

16 locks

9 hours

(For map, please refer to our blog post 'Mad dogs and gimpish men').

Only minutes after giving the two finger salute to the over priced port of Nancy, we were tying to bollards right next to a VNF office for free.

After leaving our mooring outside Intermarche, we moved to outside the VNF office in Nancy. In fact, there are a lot of free moorings available but we have heard of boaters getting their boats graffitted opposite the port

We were just out of range of the big boats going past

I knocked on and asked about water “this is a clerical office we have no water” came the reply from a man holding a hot beverage. Moments later, I was back with a large water butt. “Could I fill this at least?”

After a big sigh, he led me through to the toilets and began to fill the butt there. Then a colleague came in and said “why are you giving him this water to drink when we have fresh filtered water in the next room?” He garbled back something I didn’t understand, then as the man left I said “fresh?”

“It’s for small cups” he replied.

On the way out I noticed a tap on the inside of the roller shutter door but kept my mouth shut. To be honest, I was just grateful for the act of mercy, however small.

We ventured in to the centre of Nancy and were both blown away by the town square, Place Stanislas. It was the most beautiful square we had ever seen or ever likely to see. “The best in France” we were told, but after seeing it, I would say probably the best in Europe.

The entrance to Nancy

Some photographs in and around the Place Stanislas

A statue of Joan of Arc

The park next to the square where the fountain gave off rainbows

As luck would have it, when we returned that evening a spectacular show of sound and vision was planned.

At 10.45pm on the dot this amazing show began. Projectors sprang to life on the rooftops precisely outlining the architecture from the centre building outwards like a digital computer virus.

There were projected trapeze artists dancing from building to building and at one point the town hall seemed to explode and turn to rubble. For the whole half hour, all I could hear myself mutter was “wow”.

The combination of beauty, light and sound was staggering and when it ended the crowed roared with appreciation.

As the square emptied, we began to amble through the adjacent park. No sooner had we entered, with many other like-minded people, than we were herded back behind locked gates. What a silly time to shut the park we thought before realising in order to go around the park you had to walk through streets lined with bars and restaurants all touting for business. Smart move, but shutting the park earlier wouldn’t have made us all feel like bovines being led to pasture.

The Queen giving us a wave as we walk past

As we awoke the following morning, the water tank gave out a Rolf Harris wobble (dare I still mention his name?), followed by a hollow booming sound. This was an indication that the water was very low, so off we chugged up the liquid road continuing on our quest for a tap.

Eventually, a lock keeper took pity on us and, as a one off, allowed us to drive around into the commercial side of a double lock to fill up. He had a t-shirt that said ‘London’ on it, but seeing as he was a nice fella I forgave him for it not reading ‘Manchester’ instead.

Not long after this we arrived at a T-junction on the river. As we turned left, we noticed a jetty filled with plastic cruisers. Everyone was out on the lawn chatting but as we drove close by, nobody waved or raised an eyebrow. In some cases, they even turned away so as not to engage us, just in case we were about to ask them if they could make room for our boat.

We didn’t want to moor there anyway as we much prefer mooring on our own and still had plenty of time on our hands that day. Although the time ticked away rapidly and with only half an hour left before lock closures and the final lock in sight, we made the decision to moor at the lock gate if this were possible.

This boat raced past us out of the lock just missing the big commercial boat coming at us. Some people just can't wait

We saw this in the middle of the river and we are not sure what it is

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a tiny sign barely visible indicating a cutting at the side of the river. I span the boat around and decided to investigate. Even up close you could only just see in faded letters the words ‘Port de Plaisance’. Tracy ran to the bow as I slowly nosed into the gap between the tree line not knowing what to expect. As we entered the cut there was an even smaller sign that indicated no boats with drafts of 1.5 meters or over, we were fine with this so when Tracy gave the thumbs up we entered. And there it stood, a made to measure jetty barely used by the amount of bog weed surrounding it. After a bit of a struggle turning and mooring in what was a tight space against strong winds, we walked up the steps and it soon became apparent that we were on a small peninsular with permanent sun loungers and picnic tables scattered willy-nilly. There were even slabs set in the grass so you could make a small fire or use a barbeque, although these had been frequently ignored leaving the grass looking like a green dalmatian dog. I looked back at the boat from the top of the steps and it was as though we’d moored in a green lagoon.

Our mooring in Liverdun

Look out Piglick, he will have you

The following day was Sunday, so early morning, we made our way up to the small village of Liverdun determined not to miss out on a loaf.

On route, we met a kind gentleman who gave us a small history lesson on the town and its disused jam factory that still stood dominating the landscape. Leading us in the right direction he suddenly stopped, “here you can buy the local Madeleines” he said pointing proudly to a tiny shop, and with that he about turned and left.

We find this charming about France, all the individual villages we have passed through have been proud of their local produce. Even the big supermarkets will set aside a small area for a region’s specific delicacies, unlike supermarkets in Briton who have managed to crush or take over most of our small independent food sources, replacing them with there own unauthentic and less tasty brands.

I’ve often thought and heard people say, “remember such and such, what happened to them?” Culture-dozed, that’s what, but here in France they still remain.

After purchasing a box of these tasty sponge cakes we continued up in to sleepy Liverdun and got the true feel of a typical small French village. Even in this picturesque setting though, we still found an empty bottle of vodka on a bench surrounded by litter swaying gently in the breeze.

A lonely McDo wrapper in the middle of the beautiful village

Other beauty spots we visited that were blighted by rubbish

And another. In the words of Mike Leigh, "Litter makes me quiver".

We’ve been told the reason for the litter is the fact that the French have to pay very high taxes and so the expectation is that someone will come along and pick it up. It’s sad to see in such a beautiful country and it is a habit that even if they stopped tax altogether would be hard to shake now established.

In some British overpopulated estates we have seen far bigger litter mountains, but in these beautiful settings around France, even the smallest amount of litter stands out like a rat’s arse protruding from a wedding cake.

We left Liverdun both wishing we could have stayed longer, and before we knew it found ourselves back full circle moored below the marina at Toul.

Our mooring in Toul

It was three days before we broke communicational silence with our Australian neighbour and only moments in to his racist rantings before I wished I hadn’t.

In just a few minutes, he managed to insult my country by suggesting that the English were thick for allowing immigrants in. A bit rich when you think Australia was once colonised by immigrants. Then he attacked my intelligence by stating I couldn’t speak French “what Brit can?” he announced, not knowing the first thing about me and the fact that I can speak French be it a small amount that’s growing daily. I took exceptional offence to this, he finally ended his tirade by implying the British are talentless and unemployable, with the words “The only thing that Brits can do well is speak English”.

What an arsehole! In revenge, I got up during the night at regular intervals to shout the dogs back on board, screaming at the top of my voice right next to his bedroom. They were still tucked up in bed of course looking at me with confused and bewildered faces. I arose to make coffee around 6.30am and noticing his curtains still drawn couldn’t resist hooting one blast of our mega loud horn as a final cherry for his cake.

As soon as the lock was switched on, he was gone (get one up ya). Just for the record, the next Australians we met on our journey were very lovely and more than made up for Mr Racist’s comments. This underlines what I often find myself saying, “There are two types of people in this world, good and bad. No matter what colour or country they are from”. Forget continents and vast seas and my land, your land for a moment, from deep space Earth’s one unit as small as pimple on a gnat’s bum cheek and that is where we all live.   

                  

Finally leaving Toul ourselves, we found a space about 4km before Pagny-sur-Meuse.

It's always terrifying entering a lock when kids are diving in, like this one

Norman and Thomas, a couple of lovely German lads on a small sailing boat came over as I was tying up and invited me to join them later for a beer. So I did and as we were all sat chatting, Norman mentioned that due to the limited facilities on board Thomas’ boat, he felt desperate for a shower. “This is what you want” I said proudly wielding my home made solar shower. “Get your sweaty pits under this Norman”. 

When Norman had finished I turned to Thomas and pointed out that there was still enough water left for a second shower. “No thanks” he said “I’ve not long had a bath.” “Bath?” As the word came out of my mouth the two of them cast their gaze upon the canal (Noooo).

Not sure what Norman is doing there, I'm just glad I have got my back turned to him

Some of the more affluent boaters have laughed at my solar shower, but it saves running the engine when moored for up for a time and helps the water stretch that little bit further.

Back in the UK we once met a couple with a unique if not unsavory method of saving water. They’d invited us both for a meal as a way of thanking us for towing their boat. “Have you finished” we were asked as the plates were handed down for the dog to lick between courses. “That’s disgusting” I said horrified. “Why? Dog salvia’s sterile don’t you know?” they replied,

“So is urine, but you wouldn’t piss on your pots” I choked, wincing at the slavering hound.

Needless to say we skipped desert.

Not the most sanitary meal we have ever eaten

Unsure as to whether or not there would be room on the pontoon at Pagny the following morning, I decided to cycle the 4km for a loaf in case there wasn’t. Just as I was approaching the village, the largest snake I have ever seen in the wild slithered across my path. It was at least 2ft long and about an inch thick with a white triangle on its head.

Fearing the worst I raised both legs as high as I could as though cycling through a large puddle, then as my wheel just missed its tail it reared up and hissed at me. It may have been an adder, although this all happened so fast I can’t be totally sure.

Once in Pagny, I discovered there was lots of room on the mooring for us and we were soon tying up there. This was great news as water was available on the jetty, although it appeared the village had provided this facility very reluctantly. The tap was a funny shape without the usual screw fitting and on top of this, it was a push button operation.

We have tried to buy the proper fitting for this type of tap but, after travelling the length and breadth of France, have yet to find a shop that sells them. I thought my luck was in a couple of weeks previous when we met up with Ann and David (after celebrating their wedding anniversary with them). David had the fittings but was complaining one had become rusty. I whipped out my WD40 spray and cleaned it up. David said “you may as well keep it, I’ve got three of them, and have never used any of them”. Unfortunately, I didn’t put it in my pocket quick enough as Ann popped her head around and shouted to him “Don’t be giving Martin that, you don’t know when you might need it”.

As Plato said ‘necessity is the mother of invention’, and so out of desperation I managed to devise an ingenious little device out of a bike inner tube, a jubilee clip, a hose connector and piece of string and it works a treat.

Here's the hose connection in action

After filling up, I nipped to the local store with the dogs for a bottle of red wine. Just as I was paying for my goods, all hell broke lose outside the store. Looking out of the window I could see my ‘friend’ from Toul, it was the nasty Australian stood with his wife goading the dogs. I rushed out to find he had enraged the dogs so much they had dragged the metal caging I had tied them to into the middle of the road.

“Your little dog (Pig-Lick as we now call him) tried to savage me” his wife barked. “With a mouth the size of a Gerbil’s, I very much doubt that. He might have given you nasty love bite though” I added. They didn’t go in the store and walked back to their boat ahead of me. I’m still not sure why they followed me from the pontoon.

The next day we set off for the Canal de la Meuse to fight to the death for mooring spaces with all the Dutch and Germans (forget the World Cup, this is where all the action is and by the way, the Dutch seem to be winning).