Of babes, boats and bicycles...

May Day had me reminiscing about the same day some years hence, when Suzy Q signed up for duty as unpaid crew on a cabin cruiser on the Canal du Midi. How, my dear friends, you may well feel entitled to ask since we're all getting to know each other quite well, did this bit of divine good luck befall me? Blame it on Mr Suzy Q and a somewhat Senior Fr SQ, (unofficially adopted father of SQ) who tinkers on his boat on the canals during the European summers. It was decided in a ribald moment between the two men (who always seem to know better) that poor old SQ had lost her mojo having been tied to her children by their bib strings, and should get out and live a little again. Your quivering and tearful correspondent was sent reluctantly on her way to meet her fate on the waterways of France, abandoning house, husband and babes on this madcap adventure. I cried solidly for the first few hours, (just the person you want to sit next to on an all night flight) but then my schoolgirl German kicked in and I decided to console myself with a few Rhine wines. This just about got me through to the part when I imagined my darling daughters getting up for school without me to brush and braid their hair, praying that Mr SQ wouldn't be too grumpy with them already, and hoping he'd serve them a healthy breakfast. That is of course if he had remembered to get them to brush their little teeth and say their prayers the night before, or if indeed they remembered to get up for school at all. Of course I  really needn't have worried, as he is a wonderful and competent, if somewhat avant-garde daddy, and he coped admirably, but still, I'm a mother and "Worry" is my middle name.

However, I had to survive solo without my children to hide behind, and make my way from Munich to Marseille (having actually remembered to change planes in Jo'burg) then go by train to Avignon, then change for Tarascon and go over the bridge with my sailing bag to Beaucaire. Luckily I travel light, this being a lesson I try to share with my daughters, in a slightly more literal sense, as I've yet to see them travel with less than two BIG bags whenever they go away, even for a day. I was seconded to duty with the sole purpose of cleaning a carpet, which remains a bit of a mystery and is still a family joke of note, as after three weeks on the Canal du Midi my carpet cleaning skills were never put to the test. (Or is your SQ just a slightly cuter operator than anyone ever gave her credit for?) Still, I hope that I did earn my keep helping to navigate the waterways, ensuring that the wine flagons were forever full (not an easy task with two seasoned sailors on board, which task occasionally entailed me cycling ten km along bumpy towpaths carrying an empty, then very full and heavy 5l jerry can on my aching back) and the table adorned with the freshest and most delectable food from the many markets we passed on our gentle travels along the waterways. I was, in truth, like a kid in a candy store, utterly captivated by all the fresh cheeses, olives, fruits and vegetables available, and we haven't even mentioned the patisseries and boulangeries yet. WHY can't shopping at home, in a country with such abundant fresh produce, be as exciting as doing the groceries in France? 

Anyway, suffice to say, I had an absolutely ball exploring France from this floating hotel. I can highly recommend boating as an idyllic way to travel, as it combines the comfort of accomodation, (no panic on arriving at train stations struggling to find passable digs within walking distance of the usually insalubrious surrounds) the benefit of being able to shop and prepare beautiful, affordable meals on board, or dining ashore if a decent looking place turns up. One can take the pace at one's own whim, and stop wherever, whenever, if a particular place takes one's fancy, or move on if it, or the neighbours don't appeal. The canals are of course, on flat ground, hence a cyclist's dream (unless you're Lance Armstrong and thrill to the Man of the Mountain Challenge) and so it's leisurely cycling along the scenic and often well shaded towpaths, without traffic to impede one's ride. I LOVE cycling, but, call me a super wimp, and blame motherhood for this, I haven't taken my bike on the roads in longer than I care to admit for fear of being struck by a taxi, or worse, a yummy mummy in her supersized 4x4 rushing to get Yummikins Junior to play group on time so that she can make her belly dancing class at the gym on time.

So for me, freedom beckoned on that trip, with the ability to shop for fresh artichokes, cherries, asparagus, and cheap and cheerful co-op wine dispensed into our sesmankan with a petrol bowser, to be enjoyed at leisure over long lunches and dinners under sunny skies or starry nights, and do it all my own sweet time. Come morning and one of us would cycle off to do the fresh croissant run, whoever was up first. (Ok, it wasn't usually me, long live the Captain, but I was emerging from a long dark tunnel of seven sleepless years of babies, sodden nappies, earaches and infections, and the rest) so make no excuses for indulging in a few late nights with late lie ins thrown in as a double bonus, and still give great thanks to these two dear men in my life.)

But they had their revenge. The REAL reason I had been ensconced on board was not just to amuse the Captain, keep him in food and drink and not clean the carpet, but to get the boat up the dreaded Fonserannes Lock just outside Bezieres before he picked up his first paying guests of the season. As with life, marriage, babies, middle age, nobody warned me, and probably just as well!! I had been happily lulled into a sense of comfortable, false sailing security, cycling, shopping, handling, womanfully I thought, a few locks, the workings of which were lost on me, just holding the ropes as hard as possible and hoping for the best and never anticipating what was next to come.

Now they tell me that seasoned sailors quail at this sequence of eight staired locks going up 21.5m in rapid succession to raise boats over a mere 300m stretch. Before I knew it, they were upon me, but I was not upon them. Captain, in all his experience and wisdom, had somehow forgotten that I was supposed to be standing on the quay manning the ropes as we began our rapid and rather terrifying ascent. We were suddenly jostling for position in a tiny lock, accompanied by three other boats, all MUCH better manned than our paltry two man crew. Captain, realizing that I was in the wrong place at precisely the wrong time, threw me bodily up onto the quay (slap bang on the old sore knee) just as the waters were going down at an alarmingly rapid rate. There to regain my composure in front of hordes of German tourists, viewing the spectacle from behind the safety of their video cameras, whilst laughing heartily (haw haw haw) and never once coming to the aid of a damsel very clearly in serious distress. Ropes were thrown to me, which I luckily caught, but holding the boat steady was like hanging onto a bucking bronco as hectolitres of waters surged into the lock to raise us to the level of the next lock. And so the process was repeated up all the rest of the locks, without so much as a breather or a helping hand. 

Would you tackle this single handedly!?

Around me, strong young American men with reinforced sailing gloves struggled to hold one rope each, whilst as single ungloved crew, I had to manage all four. Miraculously, and with grateful thanks to St Brendan, patron saint of sailors, we made it to the top, then glided just around the corner to a quiet shaded river bank to catch our breath. Lo and behold, patting ourselves on our backs, we were passed by a couple in a kayak with a pet duck, who had just come through the locks after us. Either we were hallucinating or needed a richly deserved drink, but alas and alack, the cellar was bare. As if conjured up by some magic fairy, a vendor of wines appeared, selling his predictably tres cher wares, but who were we to quibble at a mere topic like price in such an hour of need. Though we didn't quite choke on our sundowners, they did go down a treat that night.

View of  Roman Canal outside Bezieres from our resting point

It was a new and improved (or just the older, somewhat wilder pre maternal) Suzy Q who returned safely to her family after her sailing adventures. The Captain I'm informed, took a month to recover.

Lotsa love,


Suzy Q -  ever at the ready for another sailing, or similar adventure!