W
hat a treat to turn west on to
the Canal du Rhône à Sète
and finally head towards
the Canal du Midi. It was
late March, and we’d been
liveaboards for almost six
months, about four of which had been spent
waiting for the French waterway system to emerge
from hibernation; our fault for naively expecting
that cruising through winter would be an option.
In principle, it was printemps – spring – but
nobody had told the weather gods, and as we
cruised under the grey canopy of the Camargue,
we were dressed in hats, scarves and jackets,
with plenty of cups of coffee for added warmth.
The skies were endlessly dull, and a chill wind blew.
The Camargue, famous for its grasslands, birds,
white horses, cowboys and bulls, failed to excite us,
and we found the wide open exposed landscape
gloomy. “What’s all the fuss about the Camargue?”
I asked Liz rhetorically, my words whipped away by
the wind. “And this ‘lovely Mediterranean climate?’”
She shrugged; there was no answer.
We had a brief spark of enjoyment at Maguelone,
where a short walk from our canal mooring took
us to its lovely 11th-century cathedral. Of small
proportions, and much rebuilt and rescued in the
intervening centuries, it was a lot less daunting than
some other cathedrals we’d visited; somehow more
personal, more approachable. A woman sang solo
hymns on a gallery above the nave, her voice pure
and clean in the cold air. Gorgeous.
On the stroll back to Liberty, Liz tried desperately
to get a definitive shot of the local pink flamingos,
but they stuck their heads underwater and turned
their feathery bums towards her every time she
tried to focus. Camera-shy maybe. She managed
to get a couple of shots, but as she said afterwards,
the results were more Notional Geographic than
National Geographic.
We continued west and reached a highlight that
we’d been looking forward to, the Étang de Thau,
a lagoon which we had to cross to reach the start
of the Midi. In fact, the Étang is only really separated
from the Mediterranean by a thin spit of land, and
its water is brackish but crystal clear.Our guide book recommended looking
for marker posts, and to keep the oyster
farms to our right. The local towns thrive
on the shellfish grown here; discharge of
waste of any sort is discouraged, if not prohibited,
so we crossed our legs and fingers that we’d get
across without mishap.
We’d been looking forward to the Étang because
it was new and unknown; not a canal or a river,
but almost an inland sea, around 21km long and
8km wide. It gave us the impression that we were
on the Mediterranean Sea itself. As we left Sète
behind, the shores seemed distant. There was
a bit of a chop – nothing serious – and best of
all, the sun came out and the clouds disappeared.
It was thoroughly enjoyable, although we were
constantly peering through the binoculars trying
to spot the faint distant marker posts.“What’s the worst that can
happen?” I said, knowing that
the average depth was over 4m.
“All we have to do is keep the
bivalves on our right and head
west.” Which is what we did.
After a couple of hours,
we reached the entrance to
the Canal du Midi. It wasn’t an
auspicious start; as we cruised
into its shallower and narrow
waters, we were bordered on both
sides by boats, many dilapidated
and some half-sunk. The grey
clouds reformed overhead.
But, things would get better- how could they not? Dating
back to the late 1600s, the
Canal du Midi was a fantastic
engineering achievement then,
and remains so today (it’s now
a UNESCO World Heritage Site),
connecting the Atlantic
to the Mediterranean.
And it was all thanks
to Monsieur Pierre-
Paul Riquet. Battling
bureaucracy, political
rivals, and diverse
geography along the
way, Riquet never
lost sight of his goal:
to join the two bodies of water to enable trade
and passenger transit. Not only did he achieve
his dream, his labourers enjoyed some of the best
working conditions of the time. Sadly, Riquet died
just eight months before his project was completed.
We saluted his genius every time we entered one
of his oval-shaped locks, built this way to maximise
the strength of the lock walls. But a major challenge
lay ahead: the Fonserannes Staircase, which would
(if we could manage it) take us up to the Canal du
Midi proper and on through some glorious leafy
countryside. Little did we know that the local
gongoozlers were waiting, rubbing their hands in
anticipation of a Sunday afternoon spectacle...
The Étang is only really separated from the
Mediterranean by a thin spit of land, and its
water is brackish but crystal clearMIKE BODNAR: After months of waiting for the French waterways to wake up, we’re at last on our way
to the Canal du Midi. If we rub our gloved hands together and look around, it’s almost as if we’re on the MedTHE L-PLATE
LIVEABOARDS
COLUMNSOne of Pierre-Paul
Riquet’s oval locks
on the Canal du MidiThe Étang de Thau
and distant shores