Motor Boat & Yachting — February 2018

O

ur naïve plans to cruise the southern
waterways of France through winter,
it was becoming increasingly
obvious, were probably scuppered.
We’d heard rumours that parts
of the Canal du Midi would close
for maintenance, but reliable information was
a scarce as chip butties in Paris. The Gallic shrug
of the shoulders was about as much confirmation
as we were able to get.
So we headed up a dead-end branch of the Canal
du Rhône a Sète to Beaucaire [in Gard department],
which had come highly recommended. As we
approached, the canal became more overgrown and
unkempt, an ugly, dusty and noisy factory appearing
on our port side, looming over us threateningly. Liz
and I looked at each other, both thinking that maybe
we should turn back and try somewhere else.
Just before reaching the town itself, we passed
a half-sunken boat surrounded by the equivalent of
floating road cones. I said to Liz, “Is it a coincidence
that Beaucaire rhymes with ‘take care’?”
But as we motored under the town’s bridge, the
whole port opened up before us, seemingly full of
boats, a colourful pageant of vessels from quasi-
superyachts to dayboats. Which meant heading
for the first available mooring we saw, in case it
turned out to be the only available one.
We weren’t welcome. On a neighbouring boat,
the curtains twitched and a woman scowled
suspiciously at us as we tied our ropes in the
gusting wind. The drapes angrily swished closed
again. Maybe she didn’t like us camping in her
front garden, which, metaphorically, I suppose
we were. But there was no sign to say that
we couldn’t and no other berths for us to take.
As it transpired, Beaucaire’s initial dour welcome
was misleading. The town proved to be a very
agreeable winter port, possessed of a merry band
of boaters, good shops and best of all, a quayside
bar where the ‘staylors’ (as we called boaters
who lived aboard but didn’t actually go anywhere)
met every Friday night for drinks and chat.
Conversations ranged from dazzling delights to
buckets of bilgewater, depending on who you were
speaking to, but were never less than entertaining.

The boss of berths at the capitainerie welcomed

us warmly and found us a pontoon, closer

to the centre of the marina and conveniently

(or dangerously, depending...) opposite the bar.

So Beaucaire became our winter home,

populated by boaters of all nationalities, but

with a British majority, which is why every few

days there would be a boaters’ broadcast on the

VHF radio in English. This was usually hosted

by Sandra, whose distinctly northern accent –

while sounding out of place in French Beaucaire

• at least meant we didn’t have to translate. (She
  could also speak fluent French when required.)
  Her repertoire included the charming segment
  ‘Treasures of the Bilge’, during which anyone with
  something to sell, exchange or wanting to buy
  could speak up.
  Perhaps the only downside of the marina was
  its windy location. Being on a boat, we certainly
  knew when it was blowing, as we rocked and
  creaked and tugged and bounced on our ropes.
  We were glad we weren’t cruising anywhere.

At one point, the wind continued unabated for three

days and was wearing us down. It didn’t pose

a problem, it was just annoying. But the French

have a name for this irritating wind; it isn’t just

a ‘northerly’ or ‘southerly’, it is the Mistral, from

the old Provençal word for ‘master’. Knowing the

name of a wind doesn’t make it any more pleasant,

but it’s more romantic than just being labelled by

its compass point origin.

In the UK, we tend to wait for a real storm before

we give it a title – Storm Brian and Storm Doris,

to name just two recent notable blusters. But if

you’re looking for a moniker to epitomise a wind

of unimaginable force, so strong as to be a true

wind of change, the sort to uproot oak trees,

bring down powerlines and reshape the very

landscape in which we live, then we can’t help

feeling that you should be battening down for

a Force 12 Thatcher. A Thatcher wouldn’t just

blow; it would handbag you into submission.

We decided we’d rather have Le Mistral,

and hunkered down till it blew itself out.

Curtains twitched and a woman

scowled suspiciously as we tied

our ropes in the gusting wind

37

MIKE BODNAR: After a less than propitious welcome, Beaucaire proved to be

a most agreeable place to spend the winter, aided by a conveniently placed bar

THE L-PLATE

LIVEABOARDS

COLUMNS

THE L-PLATE

Beaucaire basks

in some refl ected

winter glory