Our European Adventure: Dirty secrets down the Lens

Junction of the Canal de la Somme to Houlle

148 km

17 locks

We did not keep a record of the hours for this journey

So with Tracy perched on the bow acting as look out, we nosed out of the Canal de la Somme and on to the busy super highway that is the Canal du Nord.

We reached Ruyaulcourt tunnel and, true to form, the tunnel keeper informed us it would be tomorrow before we could make passage. After a long walk and our tea, I rigged up the satellite but found we were on the wrong side of the canal for reception. I pushed the boat over to the other side and raising the aerial with the ridiculously long piece of 2 by 1 I’d used previously, it worked. “Voila! We have ignition Houston,” I said proudly before flicking through the channels for the rest of the evening in the hope of finding something to watch.

Taken by accident, but I really like the result. Can you spot the two ducks?

This HUGE moth was shouting "come and have a go if you think you're hard enough".

The next morning we waited for about an hour for the red light to turn green before eventually radioing the tunnel keeper to see if we could go.

Straight away the light turned green and with no time to think, we were off. Millimeters from the tunnel mouth the light turned red again, I had forgotten to take down my beanstalk satellite dish and it was about to be reshaped in to a crumpled mess on entry. With fast legs and a ‘quick as you like’ shimmy down the boat I managed to dismantle the dish just in the nick of time. A close one! But with a sigh of relief we were on our way once more.

The five kilometer Ruyaulcourt tunnel widens in the middle for a kilometer and as we were wondering why this was, we noticed a red light at the far end. “We better moor up and wait for the green” I said. This was easier said than done as mooring rings were spaced with the huge commercial boats in mind. I tied up using the centre rope and took a peek down the binoculars to see what was happening. A commercial was on its way to meet us.

Towards the red lights in the tunnel

Move over Speedy Gonzales

I don’t know what type of cargo the captain was carrying but he steered his ship like a whole fleet of pirates were approaching his stern, pedal to the metal so to speak. Anxiously, we watched him approach. With it being a narrow tunnel, we were agog at the tsunami that he was pushing in front of him. “I really don’t like the look of this” I said as we heard a loud crack. Yet another one of our ropes had snapped.

It was a relief to see daylight and, once we had the final six locks of the day behind us, it was a joy to see the mooring at Marquion.

Our mooring in Marquion

After we’d spent the morning shopping and I’d cycled for diesel numerous times down a narrow busy road, we started the engine and moved off.

Every shopper had a chance on the wheel of fortune

I only went in for a week's shop - I came out a loser!

The Canal du Nord becomes the Canal de la Sensée after the lock at Arleux. This, again, is a busy commercial waterway. It still provided a pleasant cruise as there were no high sides and it ran largely through the French countryside.

When water is available, where there is a will there is a way

The sloping sides of the canal went on for miles. They did provide these poles for humans to get out but nothing for any animals and there were loads of floating mammals in the water

Some of sights on the canal

Mooring on this canal is not advisable though and by mid-afternoon we were on the look out for somewhere suitable to spend the night. Eventually, as evening drew near and without any better options, we pulled into the mouth of the Scarpe Supérieure and moored a short way up by the lock. Although we soon realised that we weren’t far enough away from the entrance of the Canal du Nord as every time a boat passed by it would send a wave down that would ricochet off the lock doors and bash us up and down the wall we were tied to.

Our mooring near the lock

The next day we awoke to thick fog and could barely see the end of our fingers. The dogs leapt off the boat and began snarling at a group of shapes in the mist, fishermen were huddled near the front of the boat. What pleasure could you possibly get from sitting in a damp, cold field with no visibility dangling a maggot?

Once the fog had lifted, we set off again shortly joining the Liaison Dunkerque-Escaut. Looking at our map the Canal de Lens looked a good place to aim for to overnight. Turning on to the canal we spotted the mooring next to a large park. With it still being fairly early, we decided to have a cruise to the end as the whole canal was only 8km long. A few kilometers in and I commented to Tracy that the canal didn’t look right. It was very dark and ‘soapy’.

The 'soapiness' of the water puzzled us at first

We didn’t come across one fisherman on our journey, which for a backwater in France was unheard of.

Putting concerns to the back of my mind we soldiered onwards. The scenary was pleasant enough but the canal began to get blacker and blacker. Vegetation growing at the side started to look deformed and discolored and with no animals in sight the alarm bells that had started to ring in my head were now clanging like a claxon. Cursed with being a ‘starter/finisher’ type of person, wild horses couldn’t have made me turn back, “if it wasn’t safe to cruise down, they’d be a sign to warn you” I said to reassure myself.

Determined to reach the end of this relatively short canal. We passed under a bridge and, with an enormous factory to our left, could see a brick wall a couple of hundred yards in front of us with a basin to turn around in. This was the end of the line.

The end of the canal. No towpath either side.

The factory we suspect was responsible for the used oil mats and metal filings lurking just below the surface

Making it through the bridge, the prop suddenly clogged and no amount of revs in reverse could clear it. “I am going to have to get in the weed hatch,” I said to Tracy, wincing at the thought of putting my arms in the toxic looking water.

Initially, I mistook the debris on the prop for very dark algae, but the water left an oily film up my arms. I replaced the weed hatch cover and used Swarfega to get the oil off my arms. Now at this point, I really should have reversed back but not having much room to maneuver, I didn’t and moving forward a couple of feet toward the basin (as this looked the safest option to turn) again the prop clogged. I re-opened the weed hatch and dug down. This time, I pulled out yards of oily rags mixed with metal filings and then realised what I thought was black algae was in fact hundreds of oil drip mats that lay just below the surface.

After an hour of being washed through on spin cycle, I still managed to pull this off the prop once we moored up. (plastic spoon included)

Resealing the hatch, I once again Swarfega’d myself up and tried again. Within a second we were unable to move even a short distance. “This is not good,” I said to Tracy. Diving yet again into the weed hatch to pull out even more cotton like oil mats and metal filings. “I am going to have to try to turn around here and get back,” I said. It would have been easier to strap a jet pack on to the boat and zoom off than attempt this maneuver.

The minute the prop started to turn, it clogged with rags and metal wire again. With a strong wind pushing and pulling us in every direction, Tracy somehow managed to keep the overhanging branches from smashing our glass structures to pieces as I attempted to free us. There was no towpath and no one to call to for help and with evening fast approaching, we had no chose but to carry on trying to escape the canal’s oily grasp.

It is a strange thing how your mind works, but in the midst of total despair all I could think about was how we were going to get the dogs off for a walk and a wee. The pair of us felt a wave of anxiety flow over us as we couldn’t see how we were ever going to get away from this nightmare.

Eventually, Tracy said a prayer, this gave me chance to stop for a moment and think logically. With a calm fresh approach and a much clearer head, it came to me that the only way out would be to reverse as this would help prevent the prop from digging in. So with the use of a long telescopic hook, I straightened the boat up just enough for us to reverse without hitting an overhanging branch.

We managed to move a couple of feet and I cleared the prop. Another couple of feet and I was back in the weed hatch again, but slow as it was, we were moving. At one point, I cut my arm and, thinking I might turn in to some kind of mutant, managed to convince Tracy to have a go. The mats were tough going and so it wasn’t long before I was back on rag duty using my uncut arm.

During our tribulations, I noticed a chap from the factory wearing a hazchem suit and ear defenders having a gongoozle at us through the trees. He didn’t ask if we needed help and vanished soon after with a phone stuck to his ear. An ember of hope glowed momentarily but rescue didn’t appear.

It was some two hours later before we were both thanking God, as we finally managed to navigate the few hundred yards back to the bridge and escape the toxic dump. We couldn’t believe that an industrial plant in Europe could get away with causing such an environmental disaster as this. It appeared they were using the canal to dispose of all their oily rags and metal filings, about a quarter of a mile’s worth by our reckoning (bastards).

What a relief to get back to the mooring at the start of the canal.

Our moorings on the Lens

We were joined by a Scotsman and his daughter that evening and it was lovely to chat to them

We couldn’t leave Canal de Lens fast enough as the next day were up and off at first light. Béthune was our next stop situated down a short side arm. The mooring was right outside a bar and the bar maid and customers all stood at the window and waved as we moored up. The friendly welcome was all the excuse we needed to pop in and have a couple of beers.

Béthune town centre was around 5km away and, needing to get the washing done, we had a cycle there the following day and were both surprised at how lovely the town centre was. Once the washing was in the machines we then enjoyed a wander around.

Béthune town centre

Returning to the boat, we needed to get water before we set off. There was a trip boat moored next to us and the crew were using the water point to wash it. I asked the boat’s captain how the water point operated, as it was a contraption we hadn’t seen before. “You’re going to need one of these,” he shouted back proudly holding a plastic fob in the air before popping it back in his pocket.

“Can’t we just use yours for a moment,” I asked knowing in my heart what he was about to say. “No, you will need to buy your own.” He replied. We didn’t fancy a cycle ride back to VNF at Béthune so I popped back into the bar and they were kind enough to refill my two five litre water bottles.

Water, water all around but not a drop to drink

Reaching Flandres lock we asked the lock keeper if we could fill up with water. He didn’t have any but he did direct us to the port de plaisance at Arques.

The old boat lift (dates back from 1888, not in use now but is still a tourist attraction (there is still a boat in there, I wonder if there is a skeleton crew).

Reaching the port, a fellow boater decided to walk over and shout instructions at us on where to moor up. Thinking he was the capitan, Tracy threw him the rope and he tied us up on a bank with very steep sloping sides. Tracy somehow managed to scramble off and up the bank like a ninja spider that was terrified of heights, then after establishing he wasn’t the captain, I maneuvered the bow of the boat a few feet forward on to the safety of a pontoon.

The port de plaisance at Arques

I thought this was neat

With no captain around, Tracy handed Mr ‘why don’t you go back to you boat and mind your own business’ €3 for water. Just as we were finishing the operation, the captain walked over. He was a really friendly chap who told us he once crossed the Channel by pedalo.

On our way once more, we continued for around ten kilometers before finding the river Houlle, a good spot to get off the busy waterway and moor up.

There were loads of these off shoots on the main canal for small craft to explore, we wished we had a kayak to join them

After our experience on the Lens, we were both a bit apprehensive about what we would find, but the river couldn’t have been more different. Tiny holiday homes lined the narrow river and the fishermen were too numerous to count. More importantly, wild life in the form of ducks, coots, moorhens and swans were in abundance. A sure sign, we thought, that some horrible factory hadn’t polluted it.

The journey down the River Houlle

Some people had constructed little ferries for themselves as parking was only available on the opposite side of the river

After four kilometers we spotted the moorings provided for visitors and decided not to investigate the river further but to tie up. We were in the small village of Houlle and it was a wonderful, rural idyll.

Our mooring in Houlle

It was reassuring to see lots of fishermen here

Who lives here - Robinson Crusoe?

Oddjob is a fantastic swimmer, Piglet however is a different story...

He just likes to get his trotters damp

Ducks enjoying the sunshine on the jetty...

Not for long once the lads spot them

My birthday arrived in the middle of the week and we celebrated at a restaurant in the village. The cheese course consisted of local cheeses we had not had before. In fact the Batistin was so nice we took a long cycle ride out to the farm to buy a truckle for ourselves.

We popped in to a farm shop on route and spotted these. I've not coloured them in, they are actually this colour. We bought an orange and purple cauliflower and were disappointed they tasted exactly like the bog standard white ones.