Brittany

We are currently moored in the pretty village of La Gacilly on the river l’ Aff, not much more than an creek really, but delivering a delightful entree to the southern part of Brittany.

We arrived a day early in Messac, a small village, but importantly, a base for Le Boat, from whom we are taking delivery of our canal and river craft.

Friday promised sunshine and it delivered in part, though with an edge with a cutting wind. Breakfast was the same as the previous day, a couple of of croissants and some slices from a breadstick.

Jen has taken to lifting the leftovers so we have something to have with our cheese for morning tea. Our mission was to investigate the boat harbour and inspect our craft so that we could properly provision ourselves. As it turned out, the crew was prepping our boat and we were allowed on board to have a good recce, sign up the paperwork and take an early delivery. As we wandered back to the hotel via the railway station, the train pulled in and off hopped Fiona and Don. “Hopped” might be a problematic description. They literally fell from the train, staggering under the weight of massive backpacks. It was wonderful to see them and Jenny especially has been pining for the company of our children. After a very nice lunch at our pub we agreed the plan to deliver all our luggage to the boat, shop at the SuperU (supermarket) for provisions and get that delivered to the boat as well, in time for the handover and driver training.

We decided that Don and I would get the luggage delivered while the girls made the 2 km trek to the SuperU. In Messac the taxi service doubles as the ambulance service, and, I suspect, the undertaker. So the vehicle that came was the ambulance which course, just had to do. The hearse might have been better suited for all our luggage, but might not have established the right tone for picking up the groceries.

The run-down and training for the boat was pretty quick, but I was reassured by Don’s confident nodding when Laurent checked if we understood, so I nodded too. Don’s courage trumped my cowardice so I was happy to hand over the first driving to Don, especially when we saw the initial test of winding our way through the marina, avoiding the other expensive-looking craft, and negotiating the lock about 500 metres downstream. We fishtailed madly down the river to the probable amusement of the people who seemed to gather to watch novices take the first tricky drive through the lock. Luckily Laurent stayed with us for the lock transaction and his barked instructions and encouragement got us through. He also helpfully phoned ahead to the next lock-keeper to warn him that novices were on their way.

The second lock was very tricky as, while we edged up towards the gate, the lock-keeper was waving, in what we thought was a playful greeting, until we realised that another craft was coming through from the other direction. So we, (and happily for moi, Don in particular) had the nasty job of hovering against a nasty little side current and avoiding drifting into the path of the oncoming craft. Eventually we lurched toward the narrow lock gates at an alarming 45 degrees, the steering wheel seemingly helpless to provide the direction we needed, the toothless lock-keeper grinning at our predicament but helping us nonetheless. I was discovering that even Don, a practical man, was having trouble differentiating the steering dynamics of a boat from a car, and whose cries of “Bill, I need help!” were falling of conveniently deaf ears!

Luckily that was the last of locks for a while, and the following day we took the opportunity to practise  manoeuvres for docking, turning and getting into and out of tight spaces. I recalled that whenever I have been on Sydney ferries I have observed how their manoeuvring is done using forward and reverse and side thrusters, and not using the rudder much at all. Anyway, we have it down to a fine art now, and have had great success at the following locks and the various moorings.

Of course, driving the boat is incidental to the purpose of our journey, which is to enjoy the French countryside.

Our first stop was at the village of Port de Roche, a tiny hamlet, but with a recommended garden (Le Jardin Anglais du Manoir de la Chaussée) for our enjoyment. Unfortunately, by the time we moored, it seemed to be closed, so we had a beer at the little cafe and decided to come back in the morning. Again, the gate seemed to be locked, but seeing a scruffy looking chap in the grounds, Jenny inquired, grasping desperately for the French drilled into her at Queenwood, “Bon jour Monsieur, le portillon, le gate is not, er, opening. Is le jardin opern.” The gardener responds in a beautifully Welsh accented English, “just undo the butterfly clip. Do you know what a butterfly clip is?” As we enter he came down to greet us, saying that he was just the gardener. There are five hectares of wonderfully random, but beautifully presented gardens – an English garden, with lakes and streams and thousands of plantings of trees and flowers. We are met by swans, geese and donkeys, and it is such a tranquil setting we could stay for hours. The gardener had promised to make us a cup of tea after we had finished our exploration, and he sat with us to give us the history. Of course, he was not just the gardener, worthy as that is, but also the owner in a line of British folk who first established and developed the garden over the years. Parts of the house in which Darius and his wife live, were built in the eleventh century. Darius is also something of a painter and we had some good discussions about the arts and some of the better places in France to visit. The house has its own history and apparently during the Second World War, was a centre for the resistance movement, and the site where the Germans executed 11 resistance fighters. There is a memorial at the front of the property.

We are very glad we stayed to see the garden.

On the way back to the boat, we stopped for a quick lunch at the cafe. The proprietor was Sonya, from Scotland, though she seems to have lived in France for many years. We try the fish and chups and are not disappointed.

Our next destination is Redon, a larger city with better port facilities and the opportunity to fill our water tanks and plug in to mains power to recharge our boat batteries, and use 220 volts for our own devices. The trouble was that the harbour master’s office was closed, but we made a call and he came down to plug us in after 19.30, so quite late in the day. We were a bit stunned to observe the pistol he had on his desk, and wondered what sort of bothersome boat people he had to contend with. Maybe he could lend some advice to our dear leaders, monsieurs Abbott and Morrison, for our harbour seemed very orderly, well kept, and free of asylum-seeking types.

Following a tip from Darius, we decided that the following day, Sunday, we would head for the village of la Gacilly, a journey of about three hours, but a little longer if we took advantage of the stops along the way. The first obstacle was the narrow lock, drawbridge and sharp 90 degree turn to leave the river system and enter the canals. With all our practising it worked a treat. At first the canals were broad, and waters quite calm. Unable to resist the lure of a creperie, we stopped at, well, it’s not a village, more a spot on the map, Le Houssac, which had a cafe, great coffee and delicious crepes. Chatting to a couple of fellows at a neighbouring table, we discover that they are locals, but also Englishmen. It is astonishing the number of British people who seem to reside in France. Not that you could blame them. The climate is pretty good, the food marvellous and the scenery is stunning.

Leaving our creperie, and soon after, the canal, we enter a narrow passage to the Aff river, a little stream that meanders through lush green wetlands, forests and valleys. At times the stream is so narrow we wonder if we have made a mistake, but our maps seem to indicate we are roughly in the right area. The stream narrows further and twists and turns alarmingly and we are very glad that we don’t encounter an oncoming boat, as there is no way two could pass.

Eventually, and to our delight we saw ahead the bridge and weir at la Gacilly, and finding a mooring, hooked up to the mains electricity. This is a very pretty village. Apparently the Yves Roche family bought most of the village at some point and apart from making it the headquarters for the cosmetics business, have established a sort of artists community for painters, photographers, sculptors and other creative types. There are many galleries and studios and it looks a very busy little community. There are certainly many tourists and opportunities for campers and caravaners.

We decided to eat in. Don made spaghetti bolognese which was as good or better than we have encountered at the restaurants we have tried this meal. As we sat on our top deck, with the backdrop of the village’s old houses, and the trees dipping their branches into the waters of the Aff, the sound of water tumbling over the weir; as we ate our our meal and sipped our wine, we all thought “this was the best day” just as every day has been the best day. It was really nice to sit with family in this serene place and feel at peace.

Tomorrow we retrace our steps (so to speak) to Redon where we will again stay and have a look at the old city before continuing our journey South. 

We bade farewell to la Gacilly mid morning, and after negotiating the tight curves of the Aff, moored at Le Houssac for a coffee but found it closed. As we released our mooring, the boat made an unexpected tap of the pontoon which prompted me to attempt a backward 0.5 somersault with pike down some steps and into the bottom of the boat (degree of difficulty 0). I landed flat on my back with a one metre fall but knocked my scone en route and was quite stunned with the impact. My back was excruciatingly painful. I could barely stand, let alone walk. We made a dash for Redon I found myself at the mercy of the French health system. Jen made some inquiries at le pharmacie where it was suggested that the best treatment would be at the hospital. The taxi trip probably exacerbated the wounds, as the driver drove as taxi drivers do with haste their imperative rather than comfort, so we lurched around corners, accelerated and braked with a heavy foot as I groaned and gasped with the pain. The hospital was really quite good, though nobody knew any English. The process took quite a while, but was thorough enough, including x-rays, and the diagnosis of no breaks, but some badly torn muscles. The doctor prescribed some pain relief, but that was all they could offer. Happily the consultation and x-rays were free of charge. The medication (Biogaran 1g paracetamol and anti-inflammatories) seem to be effective, so all in all, a good outcome.

Unfortunately this episode dominated our day, and with Redon being pretty much a closed shop on Mondays, we left on the following morning with a very limited experience of this regional town. But we had the promise of castles and chateau as we progress toward Nantes.

I was assigned only light duties where I could do as little damage to myself and others as possible.

Tuesday presented with grey skies and showers. We have had a pretty good run with the weather, and the previous day had given us sun and blue skies, so we can hardly complain. I made a quick, if painful, walk up to the town, first to refill the wallet with Euros. Although they seem to disappear at a rapid rate, we certainly get better value than in Switzerland. Then a quick stop at le pharmacie to stock up on the heavy duty paracetamol – I want to make sure I have enough till we get back to Australia.

Fiona has excellent culinary instincts and rustled up a hearty breakfast of croissants, ham and eggs and good coffee. A good start to the day.

Our plan was to get to Gruenrouet which, according to our map, offered excellent facilities, restaurants, a pub, patisserie, power and water for the boat, and some recreational activities. From Redon, the Vilain widened out to a beautiful and broad river with lush farmland on both banks. However, we soon left the Vilain to explore the Nantes-Brest canal after first negotiating the first of many locks on this part of the route. Several of the locks are self-operated, so the lock-keeper gave us some instructions including a short video. It seemed clear and fool proof, but we have proved quite adept at challenging the concept of foolproofery.

Gruenrouet seemed to be a popular spot as it has excellent mooring facilities. The pub and restaurant are just at the water’s edge so, after securing the boat we made haste to the pub only to be told: non. closed for the afternoon. Well it seemed that everything was closed for the afternoon and the rest of the day, possibly for the large funeral that filled the local church. We tried a form of communication with a local fisher youth who had a line in the water a few metres from our boat. However he seemed convinced that Australians spoke via a series of whistles and odd hand movements that did not seem to make much sense. “Ristorantes ouvre?” We attempt and he nods vigourously. “Where?” We prompt, and he shakes his head “all ferme” (closed). We retire defeated and have another make-do meal courtesy of Fiona’s ingenuity in la kitchen.

All in all, though, a good day on the river, and as always, Brittany presented a beautiful landscape and pretty villages to explore. Tomorrow we continue our journey on the canal.