H
aving provisioned Liberty
and practised manoeuvres
midstream, we at last
headed down the river
Saône, which treated us
kindly. The engine roared
with confidence, even if those in charge
of it had none.
Occasionally we saw signs on the
tree-lined riverbank with the letters PK
followed by a number, different on each,
such as PK214. Liz and I theorised that the
French were teasing us about our Pitiful
Knowledge, before discovering in the
canal guide that they were distance
signs: PK standing for Point Kilometre,
the number underneath being the
distance from a fixed point. So we were
214km upstream from Lyon (though
Pitiful Knowledge with 214 things still
to learn seemed more appropriate).
As our first lock approached, I
nervously activated the VHF radio. Apart
from playing with walkie-talkies as a kid
(“Thunderbird Five to Thunderbird Two,
come in, over...”) I had no experience of
formal radio communication, but did at
least know my Alpha Bravos. Ten minutes
from the lock, and hoping I didn’t sound
like a complete Tango Whisky Alpha Tango,
I transmitted in strangled French that we
were a bateau plaisance called Liberty,
heading downstream (avalant) and would
be there in about dix minutes – just as the
canal guide said we should.
To our surprise, the lock keeper acknowledged
our call (“Rojerrr, Sunderbird Fahve...”), and minutes
later we tackled our first huge, commercial-sized
lock, with a drop of around 4m. Luckily we had
it to ourselves, relieved not to be sharing it with
300 tonnes of commercial boat, and emerged
at the other end unscathed.
Over the ensuing days we encountered a very
wide variety of boats or, more to the point, a variety
of very wide boats. Some, especially those laden
with gravel, appeared to be sinking, the river actually
lapping against their gunwales. It was clear who
would win in any game of chicken, so we gave them
a wide berth and made sure not to make any waves- literally or figuratively. In fact, everything went
swimmingly (though that’s probably not the best
phrase to use when you’re cruising mid river with
no idea what you’re doing), at least until we arrived
at Lyon’s marina.
This new and sparkling facility, created from
an old industrial area to the south of the city,
was, we discovered, just shutting down for the
season as we arrived. “Ze capitainerie ees
closing tomorrow,” the hunk in charge
told us. He was devastatingly handsome,
much to Liz’s delight. “But,” he continued
in his charming French accent as Liz
steadied herself from swooning, “Zere
will be power and water available for ze
next two weeks for free and you can stay
as long as you want.”
Liz wanted to stay forever, but I tactfully
suggested that a few days would do us. We
weren’t the only ones to take advantage of
this free mooring bonus; not long after we’d
tied up, a lovely old wooden cruiser pulled
in, displaying a faded elegance and smoky
exhausts. We helped the skipper to moor, as
you do, and as he turned off his engine and
without pausing even to check whether our
knots were up to scratch, told us in a heavy
Cockney accent that his name was Michael,
only of course he pronounced it Markle, as
in, “My name is Markle Caine...”
“Last time I was ’ere this was all
a building site!” he said, gesturing
grandly to the marina and its brand
new apartments, cafés and bars.
“Bleedin’ ’ole in the ground this was.”
Anyway, he wanted to chat, and chat,
and... chat. We listened politely to his life
story for about two weeks before finally
navigating ourselves away from this
uncharted hazard. After that, we vowed
to keep a low profile, and tiptoed past his
boat every time we went ashore. The day
we left, we slipped our moorings as stealthily
as possible, only starting the engine once we were
clear of the pontoon so we could make good our
escape. We drifted out on to the river and turned
south as quietly as possible.
From that moment on, to be ‘markled’ entered
our boating dictionary. Verb, past tense: to be
ear-bashed by an enthusiast; to lose the will
to live as a result.Next month We face a killer lock, and the Rhône
does its best to destroy LibertyApart from playing with walkie-talkies as
a kid (‘Thunderbird Five to Thunderbird
Two, come in, over...’), I had no experience
of formal radio communicationMIKE BODNAR: There’s nothing like taking a leap into the deep end to quickly improve
your knowledge, boating or otherwise. We learnt all about this as we set off down the Saône
THE L-PLATE
LIVEABOARDS
Liberty has breathing space
and then some in one of the
ginormous commercial locks
on the French waterwaysCOLUMNSTHE L-PLATE
COLUMNS