Arriving at Saint-Florentin, I found the port packed with all sorts of boats. I arrived on the tail end of a weekend long boat rally.
The point of the rally was to show support for Saint-Florentin and the Canal du Bourgogne. Apparently, the French government plans to turn control and responsibility for the canals over to the respective Regions. Bourgogne-Franche-Comte seems to be considering closing or severely curtailing use of the Canal. This, despite the fact I saw a publication by the Region where the head of the region described the strategic vision of the region as being focused on jobs and ecotourism, highlighting the history and natural resources of the area.
It is hard to imagine what could replace boat traffic as a staple in the many small towns the Canal passes through. As noted in my (upstream) earlier blog on Saint-Florentin, the port is being steadily improved and is under excellent management (as a private venture) in a community whose town center seems to be experiencing decline.
And, so, the boats came, from all over, in support of Saint-Florentin, the Canal du Bourgogne, and the unique resource of history, travel, and pure enjoyment the canals of France represent. Thus, the weekend rally and the full port.
The Captainiere had made a point of asking boats about the departure times planned for the next morning and, consistent with my stated intent, I had cast off and was waiting for the arrival of the Eclusiers by 9:00 the next day. Finally, at 9:20, three people showed up to operate the lock. After conferring amongst themselves, they set about asking questions of me and one other boat, it still tied to shore. It seemed the Eclusierswanted to conserve water and have two boats lock through, while the other (quite large) boat thought Desormais was too big to share a lock with them.
Finally, the lock opened and I entered it and started to tie up. A young woman indicated I needed to move all the way to the front, as the other boat had agreed to depart early. I looked back to see a massive steel hulled cruiser, complete with a tall V-shaped hull, begin to head for the lock. The final result was both boats fit in the lock (barely) but with their V-hull looming a bit over Desormais’ aft rail!
The large cruiser shared locks with Desormais until we reached Brienon-sur-Armangon at lunch time. They stopped for lunch, while I proceeded to wait at the next lock for the afternoon opening, eventually (and happily!) proceeding on alone.
The last stretch of Canal du Bourgogne into Migennes is approximately 6 Km long and straight as an arrow. As such, one spends the better part of an hour moving straight along the canal, the end far in the distance. I found myself thinking of this as my “home stretch”, as my thoughts drifted back to all I had seen and all I had met along the way. There were pangs of nostalgia for moments past, mixed with thoughts ahead to safely preparing Desormais for winter. While not the most engaging of sections on the canal, those last kilometers were ideal for me as a time of reflection, a proper end to a great adventure. For almost an hour, I had an effortless, slow journey down the canal, all the while my mind revisiting all I had seen and done. It was a perfect last hour alone on the canals.
Migennes was awaiting, with one new twist as I pulled in. Space in the middle of the quay had been reserved for two commercial barges, massive boats that tied up rafted together the next morning.
Yet before that space was filled, a boat that had been moored ahead of me in Saint-Florentin, La Rebelle, pulled in, having followed behind me down the canal. I helped them pull in and moor, meeting Steve and Rosie as they tied up. After a bit of chatting, it was suggested we get together late afternoon for some beverages. As I had noted the evening before, they seemed to carry an array of chairs and table on deck under a tarp, ready at a moment’s notice to host a party of any size.
When I commented on that later, they asked why I hadn’t joined them the night before. That launched us into a conversation about life on the canals, and how one becomes drawn to this life (or not). Steve was from Australia, where (I believe) he and Rosie had met, and they had family literally all over the world. They had slowly been drawn to France, first while visiting relatives. They had considered getting a place in Paris, until the realized the effort and investment required. Eventually, they learned of barges and finally gravitated to buying La Rebelle, spending most of their time on it north of Paris.
What ensued was a great conversation on why people come to be captivated by a canal barge and life on the rivers and canals of France. Steve and Rosie had eventually come to express their belief both simply and directly. “You’re either born French or you’re not”, they told me. Strangely, for my self-perspective as Bag Pipe loving Scottish descendant, I understood. Whether it is, as I said in an early post, “the light”, or simply my addiction to history and Pain au Chocolat, I, too, have been captured by this life. It afforded a different time, a different speed and perspective. It meant you slowed down to where you weren’t simply living, but you were experiencing your life, slowly, purposefully and fully throughout each day. The difference is well worth seeking.
All three of us agreed, there were many that would not agree with us, many that would not understand those sentiments. But on the topic of “being French”, in that moment, we were in complete accord.
They also shared that their passion, their desire to support canal life, was what had led them to the rally in Saint-Florentin. It was their first venture south of Paris, as they traditionally operated in far northern France. They had not only embraced this life, but had become active advocates, and so had made the trip to the rally.
We parted ways that evening, and they left early the next day to head toward Paris and further north, returning home. While I had a few days left wrapping things up, my journey had effectively ended, unpredictably, where it needed to. With others who had been unknown to me previously, but who were now kindred spirits, friends who had discovered that they, like me, had been “born French” on a canal boat on the rivers and canals of France.
