Escaut round again

Montagne du Nord to Peronne

95 km

18 locks

30 hours

As it was now August, we fancied a trip to the seaside. After consulting our map we set a course for Canal de la Somme and the small seaside town of Saint Valerie sur Somme. But first we had to navigate through the commercial canals before reaching our goal.

We thought we’d come up with a plan to avoid a large section of these big buggers by pointing the boat in the direction of the Scarpe Inferior. Our guide told us this was a quiet backwater with locks too small for commercial traffic. Great, we thought as we turned the corner and started chugging along on it.

The vegetation on the canal was overgrown to the point of being out of control and we even had to manoeuver the boat in such a way to avoid the water reeds, which were in danger of strangling our prop. The banks of the canal were lined with fishermen, more than we had ever seen before and each one looked more startled than the last as we cruised past. Even my usual greeting of “bon peche,” didn’t change the open mouthed, horrified look on their faces. At this point I remember saying to Tracy “Something doesn’t feel right here” and this feeling was reinforced by the time we reached the first lock. It was closed with no indication of how to get moving through it.

The Scarpe Inferior - all but abandoned

Tracy got to the bow so she could climb the ladders to see if there was any life above the lock. I was just positioning the boat when a VNF chap walked out of nowhere and over to us. “Where are you going” he asked. “To Douai” we said hopefully. “That is not possible, passage is limited to the port just 5km away. We have a broken lock after that” came his reply “How long before it is fixed I asked”. He gave a non-committal shrug and nodded when Tracy suggested “forever”.

After turning the boat around, we greeted the same stunned looking fishermen for the second time and after a short while re-emerged back out at our previous mooring at Montagne du Nord. We were now heading back to the dreaded Escaut. We had travelled this same route last year (see our blog ‘Tournai and leg it’) and it had been memorable for the amount of stress we had both suffered. Looking at the map, I pointed to a mooring at Fresnes. “That is where we had our ropes snapped, if there’s no-one else on the pontoon and we can get fully on it this time, we should be alright” I said not very reassuringly.

As we made our way past Montagne du Nord, I felt something go on the prop. A quick blast in reverse is normally enough to clear any reed or other debris and this seemed to work so we continued onwards.

Back to the joys of the Escaut and the commercial boats

A quick change of flag now we are back in France

Tracy took over on the helm and began to steer us up the Escaut. After about 30 minutes she hollered, “Martin, I think we’ve slowed down.” Our snail’s pace had become more like a slug wading through glue.

We were now in the middle of a large commercial ship canal with nowhere to stop in front, behind or either side. I would have to get into the weed hatch on the hoof. It was Sod’s Law, as just at that moment a flotilla of small cruisers came into view ahead and I began hoping no big ships would follow once they had passed by.

Tracy stood on sentry duty whilst I stopped the engine, rolled up my sleeves and stuck my arms elbow deep into the canal to reach the propeller. Not only was the prop strangled almost to death by reeds from the Scarpe, but we had also caught the first plastic bag of our journey.

During this operation, we didn’t see a single boat and were incredibly lucky as there wouldn’t have been a lot we could have done apart from bob, nervously.

With the lock in sight, we were both slightly anxious about getting through it and on to the pontoon before anyone else could beat us to it. We noticed, from a distance, that the lock light was on green so we raced like a sailboat in a still breeze towards it. Looking behind, a commercial boat and cruiser came in to view and began to bear down on us rapidly. The commercial didn’t pose a threat and we moved over so it could overtake and get into the lock first. Unfortunately, as the cruiser drew nearer, we just couldn’t compete on speed and our hearts sank as it positioned itself before us in the lock.

Luckily, VNF answered our prayers. As the lock doors opened for us to go, they shouted to us and the cruiser “Do you have a vignette for the French canals”? Tracy pointed to the licence in our window but joy of joys the cruiser didn’t and they were asked to accompany VNF to the office. We were all waves and smiles as we moved out of the lock and could see the empty pontoon in front of us.

Our mooring in Fresnes

When we were last in Fresnes, an English sailboat owner had taken up much of the jetty and refused to move up to allow us on properly and thus was the cause of us getting our ropes snapped. He also stated that there wasn’t a shop to be had anywhere in the vicinity. This time round we took a short walk, and soon established that Fresnes was in fact a fairly large town with lots of shops and a large supermarket only a stone’s throw away (the nasty, lying sod).

The park in Fresnes

The next day was a Sunday and an ideal time to finish this canal as there are very few commercials moving. The one thing we both commented on were the number of likely looking mooring spots and were surprised that we hadn’t seen these when we took this route last year. I think it’s just a case of us maturing as European boaters.

We finally made it to Bassin Rond, which was still the beautiful oasis we remembered from our last trip. In the morning we were awoken to the continuous beeping of a horn. The bread van had stopped outside our boat and wanted to know if we needed anything. As we are always in need of a loaf, we were grateful and had the bonus of fresh croissants with our morning coffee.

Around Bassin Rond

The next day was uncharted territory for us as we turned on to the Canal de Nord. This canal is the main route to Paris and we braced ourselves for an influx of commercial boats. We were completely surprised by how quiet the canal actually was and only saw a handful of big boats on the move.

The guillotine locks on the Canal du Nord

Fuel was becoming a priority, as we had not been near a garage for some time. Spotting one a few yards from the canal, we made an attempt to get moored up as best we could next to the road. As we did, a commercial came hurtling past us and we braced for impact from the wash but, as we were nicely tucked in, there wasn’t too much bashing about. I got my bike and gerrycan and cycled like a Tour de France champion to the garage making half a dozen round trips. Then after a quick bite to eat we were off again.

The pontoon at Marquion was just in front of the lock. A commercial boat exited and another overtook us to enter (as they have the priority, all pleasure boats have to wait for the commercials before the lock keeper will allow them in). Now, just behind the commercial was a Belgium-flag waving cruiser who, if showing normal common courtesy, should form an orderly queue behind us. But no they couldn’t wait for us and decided as the huge commercial was heading straight at them to try an overtaking procedure. Our hearts were literally in our mouths as we watched them over take and then try to get back into the right hand lane to avoid being smashed into oblivion by the oncoming ship. The commercial boat didn’t make any attempt to move out of the way and their only concession was for Mrs ‘big bugger’ to stand on the bow end waving and shrieking at the Belgiums.

Tracy placed her hand over her eyes and could only look through a slight scissor action she kept making with her fingers as we were convinced they were toast. Somehow they just managed to get clear. There was relief all round although it was a silly and pointless manoeuver as we had no intentions of going into the lock anyway. Ambling past them, we moored up as they were hovering waiting for the lock keeper to reflect the green light on to their red faces in order for them to enter.

Dangerous manoevers

The next day was a day of locks galore and a tunnel that stretched for nearly 5km. As is always the case with us, our timings were skewiff and we managed to reach the tunnel just as the green light turned red and had to sit and wait for a cruiser coming in the opposite direction to exit before being allowed entry.

This meant we were in our usual race against time to find a suitable mooring before lock closure and with lock number nine within our sights the lock keeper turned the lights off ten minutes early, got in her car and zoomed past us waving (and probably thinking, so long suckers).

As it happened, this worked out fantastically well and we had a lovely rural mooring all to ourselves.

Up with the lock opening, we managed the final four locks and cruised past the turn for the Canal de la Somme as we decided to spend a day or two in Peronne first as it was only a couple of miles further along and boasted a First World War museum that we were intrigued to see.

Arriving in Peronne, we headed at first for the port situated down a short arm only to find it completely full. Just outside of this was a high wall on the main channel where an English chap had moored his peniche but finding him very stand offish and unfriendly and the wall too high anyway, we about turned and moored at a factory we had past only a short way back. This turned out to be a fantastic decision as the port was charging €16 a night and they even wanted €6 for the high wall next to Mr Unfriendly.

The next day, we headed into the town of Peronne, which was about 3km away. This distance made the extortionate charge by the port a complete rip off. We have been in the centre of many popular towns and cities where moorings are provided for free (some with free water and electricity) they are generally just glad to encourage tourists with money in their pockets.

Our mooring in Peronne...

...Next to the factory

We headed straight to the museum and found a notice on the door, it was closed. Fortunately, for some reason, they were having a mini-exhibit entitled ‘the Music of the War’ and so we poked our noses in and had a shuftie round.

Peronne First World War museum 

There was a room that we could only presume the title of this exhibition was based on. It had speakers on every wall giving out a faint hum of what a battlefield would actually sound like. My goodness, turn it up! If I’d wanted a back track for easy listening I’d have purchased an album by Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen. If recreating the sounds from a war zone, surely the most important factor to this would be the overwhelming and deafening noise? Not turned so low that even a blind piano tuner would struggle to hear it. What next, a Parker Knoll recliner and a pair of hush puppies to represent the trenches?  How ridiculous. It’s a war zone it’s not meant to be relaxing. (A stretcher for this soldier please seargent, he’s fallen asleep).

We debated on the walk back to the boat whether to return in the morning to see the rest of this exhibition or continue on our journey. Judging from what we had seen and barely heard, by the time we’d made the long journey back to the boat we decided the sea-side was calling and so the following day, off we went.

Peronne town centre

I have included a war poem at the end of the blog which I wrote and had published a couple of years back in memory of my hero granddad Harry Haden. He was a wonderful man, I’m told, who sadly I never met.

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Moorings in Fresnes

Cost: Free

Facilities: None

Location: Fresnes town centre is approximately 10 minutes away

Moorings in Bassin Rond

Cost: Free

Facilities: None

Location: Bread van stops in the morning but there is also a boulangerie 15 minutes away

Moorings in Marquion

Cost: Free

Facilities: Water available for free

Location: Small town with a limited selection of shops. There is also a large supermarket about 15 minutes away

Moorings in Peronne

Cost: There is a charge for the port, we moored outside a factory for free

Facilities: Electricity and water available at the port for a charge. No facilities at the factory

Location: Peronne is approximately 3km away and is a large town with all the usual shops

The Flag

On a deep dark distant battlefield, we fought for our last stand

As the enemy drew nearer, to part us from our land

We held back heavy ordnance, throughout that hellish night

The bombs that landed round us, our only source of light

I saw our soldiers falling, as we marched for higher ground

I scrambled over blood and guts, screams now, the only sound

The smoke was getting thinner as I trudged amongst the dead

“Push boy, let’s get higher”, to me one soldier said

I shouted in agreement to that of which I’d heard

But his head had left his shoulders, he hadn’t heard a word

I marched on even higher and saw a young boy gag

With his last breath he said to me, “Here soldier take our flag”

I took the flag with both my hands and soldiered on with pride

To stake that flag upon the top, for all the men who’d died

Though bullets flew around me, none did penetrate

With flag in hands for our last stand, I did not hesitate

I went on even further, and heard an enemy’s cries

He was clinging to a photograph, tears ran from bloody eyes

“I can’t see a thing”, he said “my children or my wife”

I didn’t have the heart to kill, and take this young boy’s life

At this point only feet away, from summit and my goal

I made the choice to tear the flag asunder from its pole

I made a bandage with our flag, and wrapped it round his head

Then I heard a rifle crack and this poor boy fell dead

Quickly I surrendered and turned to face my foe

The tension was unbearable, like an over tightened bow

Aware now of his error and crying out with grief

He sunk his knees into the mud and I took off like a thief

The battle shrieks began to fade to echoes in my ears

And thinking of the friends I’d lost my eyes were filled with tears

Now a distant memory, are the horrors of that fight

But the images still haunt me when I close my eyes at night

On a deep dark distant battlefield

Where soldiers once lay dead

Now for every soldier slain

A poppy grows, blood red