Fading Memories

Chaos and Cholesterol

2011-12-28T09:18:00.002+10:00

Chaos is, I have come to understand, like cholesterol. There's the good kind and the bad kind, and it's been of the former for a few days when every man and his dog squeezed in under our unfinished ceilings to celebrate Christmas, life, noise and anything else they could think of. Concurrently.

Our long suffering neighbours had guests of their own, but they suffered in silence, perhaps not willing to show their faces lest we should spill over into their house as well.

They were not to know that that was never a possibility as the recent modifications at Dickyworld have been pronounced by all the attendees to be entirely satisfactory, and we all seemed to be able find a place to hide that suited our own particular definition of comfort as energy levels fluctuated without synchronicity. Perhaps the renovations have been too satisfactory, as there is talk among all who were present of a repeat event!

Now the resumption of normal programming has begun. The guest list has reduced to just Miss Lily and her Mum now, and the world is almost silent once again ready for the sander to start on the one remaining room I would have thought.

Perhaps I should wait a day or two, or maybe a week.

Oh ye of little faith!

2011-12-23T16:33:00.002+10:00

To be fair, the paint has only its seal coat, and the Danish oil on the timber work, including the kitchen bench top extension is still a little tacky, but we got there with about twenty minutes to spare before the first of the scraggy hordes began to trickle in.

I don't understand the psychology of the deadline, what it is that makes shopping centres open on time when just the night before there was a year or two worth of work left to do, but what ever it is, it works around this place as well.

I think it safe to say that we've broken the back of the renovation, from now we'll be chugging along at a much more relaxed pace, perhaps our reporting will reflect that too!

And now for the Christmas tree.

Chaos!

2011-12-18T18:35:00.001+10:00

Were one to categorise the degree of chaos we are currently living in, I think it would be apt to give it an "utter" rating. We have reached something of a crescendo though, with dust having crept under every cover and a few walls still to go.

But there has been progress. The keen eye may notice the new ceiling fans, which nicely compliment the light fittings now installed, switches and power points might even be functioning by week's end. Of course Brendon our long suffering plasterer is almost done as well, and another two or so days of sanding walls will see me ready to start the sealer coat.

That is after I finish the temporary kitchen cupboard extensions of course.

We are settling down to a dull roar now though with the messy stuff almost over until the new year when we tackle the ceilings, and we can see an end to the disorder. Perhaps it's not an end, rather just the end of the prelude.

On Friday, the chaos returns accompanied by noise as well, the sort of noise that ear protection cannot reduce. On Friday we shall be occupied by things other than building for a few days, as the scruffy horde descends, and the centre of attention turns to grandchildren, all three.

Perhaps I shall just snooze on the couch under the covers and they'll be unaware of my presence!

Itchy and scratchy.

2011-12-15T19:51:00.004+10:00

The insulation in our roof may look all yellow and fluffy, which is exactly the way insulation is supposed to look, but on closer inspection there are some gaps.

Large gaps.

Our very own CSIRO says that a gap as small as 5% in the insulation layer will reduce its efficiency by over 50%. By my quick sums we have an efficiency of somewhere around minus 300% which is quite a staggering thought really and goes a long way towards explaining why, given the right conditions inside the house can become quite uncomfortably warmer than outside.

If there's anything worse than being of large frame in a confined space, it's being of large frame in a confined space full of dust when the space is inside a roof and the temperature is unpleasantly warm, cutting up bits of fibreglass insulation while the next ten year's quota of perspiration does it's best to ensure that the little shards of fibreglass stick to any exposed skin and work their itchy way below the surface.

Perhaps that's why when the insulation was installed in our place they got out as quickly as they could without actually doing anything particularly useful with the fibreglass batts apart from storing them in the ceiling for convenience of some future owner.

It's all a bit of a shame really, because having decided that one of us would need to fix the problem, every time I looked around for a volunteer she'd be off doing some important job and couldn't possibly spend an hour or so doing a fair imitation of pilates in a sauna while lying on a bed of nails.

Realising that there's have to be compromise if we were going to make progress, I started last night, and worked till midnight pretending that it was comfortable, that I was imagining the heat, and the fact that my clothes looked like I'd just been for a swim in them would have been pleasurable if I actually had. The first half is done, and in only took an extra twenty square metres of insulation to fix.I'd do the rest tonight, but I still remember how uncomfortable it was, and I think I'll wait till the rash has gone and the itching has subsided.

We had the western facing windows tinted yesterday too, so ready as we are to thumb our noses at summer, today the cool change arrived.

Progress?

2011-12-08T11:16:00.001+10:00

If this were an episode of Grand Designs, Kevin McCloud would arrive and look bemused or even bewildered and wonder to the camera what we'd been doing for the past few weeks.

The end is nowhere in sight, he'd remark quietly to the camera and remind us all that we are leaving once again in not much more than three months time.

But like catching monkeys, slowly slowly will get us there I'm sure. If we're really lucky the plasterboard will be done in a week, the wiring is almost complete now, both repairs and new bits, and surely there can't be more than a few days of carpentry left.... can there?

Well actually yes there can. The third bedroom has a "woof" or two in the floor just where the robe has to go, and that means dismantling at least part of the bathroom downstairs before we can start. Even simple renovations have their problems it seems!

Joan, you can come, we will have a bedroom and buckets of white paint for you to splash in.

With Santa coming in a few weeks though, the building industry goes into panic and shutdown at the same time, so we'll have to see what we can do about a kitchen into the new year I suspect!

Oh well, back to the sander.

Tally Ho!

Going Nowhere

2011-11-22T22:53:00.001+10:00

Our little project is not entirely under control at the moment if truth be told.

The living room is full of bedroom, the dining area full of study, the study is around here somewhere, and the bedrooms are pretty much empty of anything useful, except that whenever we need to find something that we absolutely can't do without a minute longer, it usually turns up under some sanding dust in one of them.

I suppose if I could only stay motivated to keep sanding for more than a nanosecond at a time I'd be making some visible headway by now, but every nanosecond generates an hour of clean up and cleaning up is one of those mind numbing tasks that leads to thinking.

Today's thinking led to trying to discover what the living space might look like if the dividing wall was removed, except that once the wall sheeting was gone, the frame was riddled with electric wires running across and back and Trevor our electrician won't be back till Saturday, so we'll have to wait a few more days.

Today's thinking also led to discovering that cleaning up after removing a couple of gyprock walls takes even more time than after sanding.

Progress?

2011-11-16T21:33:00.001+10:00

A few weeks in and the list we have on the boat seems to have paled in to insignificance compared to the list of jobs in the house.

The first wardrobe is in at least, the second ready to go, and the third, well the parts are in the boxes with the funny writing on the labels although with a bit of deduction we think we can spell "Ikea" in Mandarin.

Perhaps we shall have three habitable by the time Santa comes, but that's a bold prediction. It's about economics you see, it's far more economical to have Brad the gyprock guy in once than once for every room, so sadly the plan to finish each room before starting the next has involved into a plan to start every room and leave the place in a complete state of disarray for as long as we possibly can.

We've crossed one thing off the list though. "Airline Tickets 2012"

If the disarray is still with us by the end of March, it is safe to say it will be here until September!

Unbuilding Dicky Beach

2011-11-03T22:21:00.000+10:00

Ahh Joan, before the white comes the colour!

The old wardrobes have magically disappeared, although it's fair to say there are rather large marks where it's been. It's not just the colour that tells us a little of what has been before. If one were to take out all the drawers in the old robe, and lie on one's back looking up at the underside of what may have been a dressing table, one would have seen carved ever so carefully in the chipboard, a heart with "Vanessa" scratched within.

Of course if one had taken to the structure with a big hammer and a crow bar, there would be no need to lie on one's back....

On another note, we've spent more time than we care to admit I suspect, poking around in a well known Swedish furniture store over the past year or so, acquiring bits and bobs for the boat.

This became painfully apparent when once again we trudged south to a store from the very same chain, to start the reconstruction process for the house, and we discovered the cafe was on the wrong side of the entrance hall. Not only that, but the tables were square not round, and as we popped in to start the day with our "free" coffee (for members of the "family" of course), we should not have been surprised that the prices had a dollar sign, not a "€", but we were!

Seven trolley loads, four hours and 450kg of more stuff from the collection point later, we had all the pieces we needed safely on a truck hopefully to re-appear in our driveway after a few days.

Then we can do the same in the other bedrooms, then fix the electrical stuff, then the gyprock, then perhaps, we'll bring out the whitewash!

Unpainting Dicky Beach

2011-10-27T10:02:00.000+10:00

If there is anything more mind numbing than inexpertly painting the inside of a house, it must be unpainting it after it's been inexpertly painted.

Despite my best intentions expressed so firmly before leaving France that we'd do nothing to the house for a year, all that flaking paint and the creaking doors have got the better of me and so far the score since arriving back four weeks ago today, is one pirate ship, one larger hole in the living room wall than was once the case, and one bedroom almost denuded.

The colour revealed once the layers of time have been removed may once have provoked a "what were they thinking?" response from ourselves, but now, well it's sort of cheerful, and it reminds us of another place, another time. (click on the link or see the photo below!)

For an instant one of us considered leaving it, a blue-green sky dotted with friendly clouds...... but the rest of us thought I'd like to paint it quite soon please.

Ship Building Daisy Hill

2011-10-16T21:44:00.000+10:00

It's hard to believe that we've been back two weeks.Even with the fog on our brains now dissolved we seem to have been living in something of a whirlwind.

We've been seriously planning what to do with the house, even knocked out a wall for good measure. We've walked along the beach twice a day with the mighty Grand Dog while trying to figure out what we might knock out next.

But Mr Four becomes Mr Five tomorrow and there was a pirate ship to build, so that seemed like a good place to start. It was nice to be hanging round boats again if I do say so myself.

It's come to this. Dicky Beach

2011-10-03T09:47:00.001+10:00

When one resorts to posting pictures of one's grand-dog on one's blog, it's probably time to hang up the keyboard for a time.

We are taking it easy, sleeping in fits, getting to know the house we left not quite settled in.

Even after a lifetime of living on this side of the world, the cars suddenly seem stupidly large, the sky similarly so, and drivers on the freeways just stupid.

I had panicked for a bit on Friday, desperately trying to get all that had to be done, done before the shops closed on midday Saturday, to be gently reminded that they don't. We went into a well known European brand of supermarket this morning and as is my custom, I made a bee line for the non grocery items on sale. Browsing, I was surprised to find myself reading the instruction label on an item without faltering, and even more surprised to discover it was written in English.

I think we are a little disoriented, but to be fair to us we've been away a while and we will need to once again familiarise ourselves with some things.

Last Tuesday, in a Post Office in London we were scrambling to rid ourselves of change and found a gold coin that should have been a Pound, but it seemed too thin. We couldn't work it out, so asked the lady in the queue behind if she could tell us what it was.

After a short examination, she pronounced it to be:

An Australian One Dollar coin.

A Patch of Blue Dicky Beach

2011-10-01T09:15:00.000+10:00

The sky is clear, the sun is slowly rising above a patch of blue.

It's a perfect welcome home.

The only thing wrong is that it's not much after five in the morning, and we should really be tucked up in bed with all the sensible people. We've been awake for a while, thinking that it was an hour later than it was thanks to Mr Telstra thinking that we live in NSW and changing all our automatically updating clocks to daylight saving time.

So we sit on the beach for a bit, and pinch ourselves to remind us that we aren't actually dreaming all this.

Buzz Brisbane

2011-09-30T07:23:00.003+10:00

Today is Thursday apparently.

The fact that I could correctly answer that particular question should it be asked is apparently a good sign, but I am reminded of another exchange in the Hitchhikers guide to the galaxy just after the two central characters have materialised inside the Vogon ship which perhaps better describe the way we feel:

Ford Prefect: How are you feeling?

Arthur Dent: Like a military academy. Bits of me keep passing out.

It's noisier here than I remember, there's a sort of background buzz and things seem a bit blurry, I can't put my finger on why, perhaps after a day or two I'll have regained my composure.

Half Way House Singapore

2011-09-28T20:41:00.000+10:00

Sitting in the shade of a mirror tree, while reflected sun rays made of fluorescent lighting bask the windows of the lounge is something that probably only happens in Singapore.

In time we are almost two thirds through our journey, another few feature length movies and it will be Brisbane!

Time to Fly! London-Singapore

2011-09-27T17:30:00.000+10:00

The lag in body clock which comes with travel has begun, waking as we did before six this morning, not out of excitement or anticipation or any of those things, but because it was seven according to our brains, which hadn't computed that we'd not got to bed till midnight in yesterday's time zone.

We must now fly south for the winter.

By the time the day is finished it will be the day after tomorrow and we never quite come to terms with that bit. It's late afternoon now, we have time for a quick goodbye on our way to the train, then our airport sojourn begins.

When next I type we will be in Singapore. If that is not the case, the tale will be really worth reading!

Go! Lagarde-Luneville-Nancy-Paris-London

2011-09-26T17:48:00.000+10:00

Our journey of a thousand leagues begins with a cab ride, or actually with a Maggie ride to Luneville.There were little lumps in our throats as we glanced back at the harbour, and we weren't sure if it's because of the farewells, or the anticipation of the "hellos" in a day or two, but once again we couldn't help but notice the lack of emotion attached to the journey itself.

Perhaps as travellers we have become "seasoned", comfortable with being "on the bus" that takes us to our next .

Five trains later (if we count the change in the tube at Edgeware Road) with only a break for coffee with apple and caramel crepes in Paris, and a bit of a wander round the Galleries La Fayette, we were tucked up safely in London with Shelley and Julian.

Tomorrow evening, another train and then the journey begins.

Steady Lagarde

2011-09-25T06:53:00.000+10:00

All we had to do was sleep late, lunch, zip up our bags and the boat covers, have dinner and go to bed one last time in Lagarde.

But we woke before dawn, which is a reasonably simple thing to do as it's dawn around half past seven, If it hadn't been for the hint of fog and the stillness of the sunrise we may even have felt cheated by the early rising. With so little left to do, the morning was sort of frittered away sorting photos and updating blogs, and Jacques suggested that we do dinner instead of lunch, as the restaurant would be a bit quieter then.

He was smiling as he spoke. It's been a two year labour of love getting it together and he's somewhere between terribly pleased and just plain terrified that in these early stages of the teething troubles that the crowds can bring.

So we did, and it was splendid, although much to his chagrin or is that big grin, not much less busy than earlier in the day.

Our bags are packed, we're ready to go.

Now we just have to work out how to sleep till a reasonable hour tomorrow

Ready Lagarde

2011-09-24T13:03:00.000+10:00

It's completely uncharacteristic but I think we're almost done. All we have to do is to pull on the covers now nicely custom fitted, lock the door and leave.

OK, we do have to pack and have a couple of lunches and a dinner or two, but by and large the boat is looking like something that's had an awful lot of attention this year, which is actually quite gratifying, because it has. It's been hobby stuff of course, but it will be interesting now that the back of the major renovation is complete, to see what crops up next year. There's always painting the outside I suppose, and a window or two are still awaiting sealant, but they can wait.

The photo by the way, is for Gerry who needed to see the new floor. It and a few others suitably annotated may be viewed on our Flickr Album by clicking this link for those interested. Beware though, the album also contains the original "purchase" photos from 2009.

In summary, we've sorted most of the potential mechanical failures, replaced the 12v wiring, installed 230v wiring, a fridge, a washing machine, a new hot water unit, new flooring, replaced some plumbing, cleaned everything, made new floor hatch surrounds, stripped and relacquered internal timbers, rebuilt the aft cabin, and probably a few other little tasks, all while having a jolly good time in our spare time!

We aren't sure though, whether we are ready to tackle renovations on the house any time soon. I don't think we'll be finished those for Christmas!

Now to pack the bags and off to dinner.

Cleaning Lagarde

2011-09-21T08:18:00.000+10:00

Some people, it must be said, go to ridiculous extremes to make things ship shape. Just exactly why every speck of dust must be removed from a boat which is about to be left outside in sleet and snow for six months, and will be covered in all manner of fungus when we return, has never been explained to me, but that is just the way it is.

Everything is almost ready, the outside has been scrubbed to within an inch of its life, we've stripped all the stain from the timber trims internally and given them a few coats of clear, I've finally found a solution for our steering inconsistencies, a few mechanical bits have been finished, we've made new covers for the boat, and our food supply looks as though it'll see us exactly through to the end.

Everything is sparkling, it feels as though we should just go somewhere. (Boring before and after photographs will appear shortly on our Flickr stream - stay tuned.)

We are of course about to go somewhere, we are excited to be on the move, but can't bring ourselves to describe our destination as "home" exactly. "Home" it is of course, but we are here and this is home too.

We have become migratory animals we think.

Storm Looming Lagarde

2011-09-19T07:57:00.000+10:00

For the first few days after arriving back, we knew we had almost two weeks to clean up, pack up, do a few odd jobs and generally get ready to leave.

So we did what any sensible person would do in our situation. We lay in bed till late, read books, made lists, had coffees, designed kitchens for house extensions, played on other people's boats and generally resisted the urge to move on every couple of days. Each day was such a perfect replica of the one before that it seemed pointless writing about it even.

The date of our departure was getting closer, the list longer, a storm was brewing!

Home at last Parroy - Xures - Lagarde

2011-09-14T07:13:00.000+10:00

We were faced with eight kilometres to travel to the end of summer, and the sun was out, the sky blue and we couldn't think of a way to extend our journey any longer so we eventually slipped away from Parroy.Then we realised we hadn't really explored Xures. The reason for that is that there is little to explore, a handful of houses and a church, and it's not much more than a brisk walk from Lagarde in any case, but today seemed like the perfect time and place.Eventually, despite our best efforts to delay progress we happened upon Lagarde.Home.We were barely at our mooring before we were being called on to see progress on the house, and visit the new restaurant, and check out the boat next door. We hadn't even completed writing our list of jobs before we were being invited out to dinner.Yes. We were home.

Stalling the inevitable Champigneulles - Parroy

2011-09-13T03:13:00.000+10:00

We could have easily made it back to Lagarde by mid afternoon, but the day was overcast, and there were intermittent showers and we really had our heart set on finishing our season bathed in sunshine, returning triumphantly with the roof back so we stopped at Parroy, concerned that the six kilometres per hour or so we'd been moving at was a tad on the hectic pace anyway.

After all, we'd passed a boat today.

Champigneulles

2011-09-12T10:00:00.005+10:00

Now where was I?

Some have noticed a certain absence for a few weeks almost exactly, and that has been for a very good reason. I've been completely slack. Despite the date of this post, I am writing in restrospect.

It's just that as we were approaching Nancy we had but a day left on the water, so we started to slow down. When the rowing scull overtook us on the inside, we knew the pace was close to right, but even so it would take barely two days to get back to our base.

After a small dose of hardware shopping we had enough supplies to keep us occupied for the next ten days or so, and reluctantly set off in pursuit of the rower.

Slow down, we're going too fast. Pont-A-Mousson to Champigneulles

2011-09-11T16:49:00.001+10:00

This is Sunday, the day that all of France and if our experience from a fortnight ago is anything to go by, half of Germany as well, goes fishing.

There being no point in leaving in the fog, we had another coffee and wandered over to town to buy baguettes and perhaps a little something for morning tea.

Often one can find the bakery early in the morning by simply walking in the opposite direction to the line of baguettes walking to homes various, but occasionally in places such as this, things become a little more complicated. There is a shop in Pont-A-Mousson we quite like and as we cross the bridge that gives the town its name, the line of happy customers walking towards us laden with pastries and bread confirm that we are not alone. The equally large number of similarly people walking in the same direction as we are tends to give one the the impression that healthy competition exists in town, and this on a day when most of the bakers and pastry cooks can be found sitting on the banks of the river with a fishing rod in hand.

We eventually putter off up the river, with coffee and escargot au chocolat, in hand, having suddenly and for no logical reason realised in the process of buying the bread that we have exactly two weeks until we begin our return journey to Australia.

We drop the throttle back a notch or two trying to prolong our time on the river, knowing that we could easily be in Nancy tonight, but we stop five kilometres short without really knowing why.

On the road again Pont-A-Mousson

2011-09-10T04:40:00.008+10:00

Some days it's just time to go.

The sun comes up, or in the case of today the fog lifts after breakfast, we look at each other and we just sort of can't find a reason for not moving, so we do. We don't always move exactly there and then of course, a long voyage entails provisions, it could be hours before we stop somewhere near a bakery after all.

We thought maybe we might stop at Ars-sur-Mosellle, and wander round the "Aqueduc roman" for a bit or stay at Corny-sur-Moselle and perhaps cycle back to Jouy-aux-Arches, but we pushed on past and took another photo from the water making a note to stop next time. Then we thought we might poke around Pagny-s-Moselle too but by the time we got there it really wasn't all that much further to Pont-A-Mousson and about that time a fitting in the water system popped off and made a valiant attempt at draining our entire tank into the bilge before we discovered it, so Pont-A-Mousson became a port of convenience as well.

Suddenly we can't escape the feeling that we are on our homeward journey, we have our head down and our tail up.

Perhaps tomorrow when it rains again, we'll feel differently.

A lot of glass Metz

2011-09-09T04:34:00.014+10:00

I was going to describe in some detail how we hauled the plywood out from under the mattress and across to the picnic shelter at the rowing club, where we fiddled for a couple of hours dismantling our table and making an exact mock up of how we thought a new small table might be, and then decided we would be much happier not changing the original setup anyway, but there really isn't anything too interesting in any of that.

I wasn't going to mention that after lunch we finally succumbed to the lure of the illuminated monster that quietly guards our harbour.

Curiosity finally got the better of us so we popped inside the cathedral for a squzz. We don't normally do cathedrals unless there's something particularly significant about the architecture or the goings on inside, or we feel vaguely curious. We just don't have any desire to "tick the box" marked "cathedral" in every city we visit.

Through happenstance we often find something quite surprising or even satisfying when we do, and so it was today, having studiously avoided reading anything of the history of the building, and for that matter having studiously avoided the entrance even, when we finally succumbed we were surprised, to say the least.

When one finds oneself somewhat unexpectedly in a forty five metre high room (I'm sure it's not that tall outside) lined with six and a half thousand square metres of stained glass, one finds it difficult to maintain one's composure, let alone to keep up one's terribly blasé demeanour about such things. Yes, yes the Chagall windows are a wonder, as are the others produced by various artists over a five hundred year period, but heck this thing is more than a thousand years old. A thousand!

It almost makes me wish I'd listened during those history of Architecture lectures.

Time Walk Metz

2011-09-08T17:25:00.010+10:00

We don't do museums often, and when we do it's because there's something we want to see.

In Metz we just had a suspicion that the museum, with building work interrupted in 1937 by the inconvenient discovery of an entire Roman Bath complex in the exact spot that engineers had suggested would be perfect for the building's foundations, may indeed be an ideal spot to shelter from the by now quite tiresome wind.

There's something definitely in the air that suggests that we may have seen the last of summer, although in a day or two we will have forgotten the wind, but not the museum.

The very fact that the history of three millennia can be recorded with artefacts collected within walking distance of their current resting place is thought provoking enough, but the story is beautifully told in a completely modern three dimensional game of snakes and ladders through which one makes a clear and logical progression through time, beginning a long time ago, descending through the Baths of only two millennia's vintage and arriving back near the entrance somewhere in the middle of the eighteenth century, after which one can wander round town and see the impact of "recent" history for oneself.

On the way back to the boat we told the harbour master we thought we'd hang around a few more days.

Looking out Metz

2011-09-07T05:51:00.020+10:00

I have been told that public servants are not allowed to look out of the windows of their offices in the mornings, to leave them something to do in the afternoon. One could ask how, with nothing to do, I can't even find time to report on the day's goings on on the day concerned. I think it's the stress.

The front cabin floor you see has been decidedly spongy. We put off looking at it last year, deciding that one champignon garden at a time is enough to deal with, concentrated our efforts on reclaiming the after berth, and put the forward piece away for a rainy day. All year we've carried two half-sheets of ply under our mattress as a contingency against the time when we might peek under the vinyl, and it has to be said we've been delaying it all in the hope that it might just magically go away.

Today it was rainy, and time to attack the monster.

Strangely, extraordinarily even as these things go, after fighting with the vinyl for half an hour or so, when the ugly truth was revealed it did not lead to some massive amount of unplanned demolition and new construction. The floor had been repaired some years ago, and was in perfect condition, a few small adjustments to the access panels involving the use of a hammer and a screw driver and the sponginess was gone!

By the end of the day I hadn't been ashore for two days, another visit to the market by her good self had set the scene for a long and relaxed evening, and we have new flooring from stem to stern.

(Yes Gerry, I'll take some photos as soon as I've put the tools away!)

Another Work Day Metz

2011-09-06T05:32:00.013+10:00

Fortunately the wind was roaring again this morning, so there really wasn't any point in getting out of bed.

Ahh yes, the floor.

Well it's just that it involved work. Scraping and cutting and bending and so on, and the wind was blowing cool and probably ill and if she hadn't made me a cup of coffee while I lay in bed reading, and announced she was off to forage in the market and it would be nice if there had been a start by the time she got back, there may not have been.

Today it was the middle bit, two simple panels, each less than a metre square, with two thirds of the old vinyl already freed from the sub base, albeit after a few hours of prising and scraping over the last week. How hard could it possibly be?

Six or maybe even eight hours hard, that's how hard!

But now we have only the front cabin to go, and the basket of goodies that turned into dinner was superb!

Lost Metz

2011-09-05T05:06:00.012+10:00

We've driven in Metz a few times, and even with the aid of electronic wizardry just can't get the hang of it. Almost every street starts off being one-way and ends up one-way in entirely the other direction, which rules out things like having a destination in mind when one sets off, it's better just to wait and see where one ends up. Of course when one does end up the wrong way, one can choose to turn left, into the face of oncoming traffic as directed by the road arrows, or right, into someone's living room as directed by the arrows on the posts.

Our day went a bit like the road markings actually, we couldn't really work out what we wanted to do.

The weather was verging on indifferent, so we thought it might be a perfect day to spend in the museum. There again it was a perfect day to remain snug, warm and horizontal until at least museum opening time, and perhaps a little later I could battle for a time with the bits of old floor vinyl which still haven't released their grip on the plywood.

By the time we sorted ourselves our, completed our ablutions, put working on the floor off for another day, had coffee, wondered whether we might get a bus to see if we could find a mattress shop, and myriad other things, it was far too late to contemplate museums, so we wandered to the market to find something for dinner, but it was closed of course, this being Monday.

I suspect that tomorrow we shall begin this process again.

Centre Pompidou - Metz Metz

2011-09-04T05:32:00.009+10:00

I wondered about posting this photograph almost as much as I wondered about "the impression that the structure is exploding encourages the viewer to move not just with their eyes, but with their whole body".

I wish I'd thought of that, but by the time I got to that bit, which refers to a work "focussed on the ascendency of architecture, particularly museum architecture, over art", I'd read through three pages of justification for what is an acclaimed piece of architecture yet two of the four galleries could not be found by the busloads of german tourists arriving on a relatively quiet Sunday. It was on the fourth and fifth pages where the solution was to be found: the exhibitions on the first two levels were "until 04.07.11" a somewhat disappointing realisation after one had paid if not a king's ransom, at least the price of two coffees to wander through the interior of a gallery that by design, was half closed!

The visit though, was inspirational, the few dozen pieces on display truly modern masterpieces and it would be trite to suggest to those who clearly know a lot about this sort of thing, that perhaps signs are easier to read if they aren't in white on a white background.

A lot of hot air Metz

2011-09-03T05:21:00.010+10:00

Things seemed to be going exactly according to plan as far as we could tell, the little hand was on seven and for a time we had been quite oblivious to that fact, eyes wide shut under the comfort of the doona, but then the roar of the montgolfiere interrupted our repose.

The hot air balloon festival is held every two years, although this year seems to be some sort of a minor fill-in with just thirty or so roaring into life a few metres from our berth each morning and evening before drifting silently away over the distant hills. Given the proximity, and despite the rather uncivilised time, it seemed to us that we would be in some way remiss not to drag on some more suitable attire and attend the proceedings for a bit as one by one the crew brought out their petrol powered fans to inflate their craft.

There's something strangely addictive about watching one after the other rise to a point where they can't possibly clear the trees, but they do, before falling almost back into the water, but they don't, then finally finding their ascendency and drifting off to the horizon each following the other as if joined by string.

As a mode of transport they make no sense at all, yet at the same time if one can live with the randomness of the journey they make absolutely perfect sense.

Ahhh... Metz

2011-09-02T05:17:00.012+10:00

Last year we discovered that we liked Metz a lot, and resolved to spend much more time here in future so true to our word we shall stay put for the time being.

Once more alone, we have suddenly had time to realise that we will be once again heading south this month and were suddenly hit by an urgent need to do absolutely nothing.

Metz is not an easy place to do that though, so we tried to fit it in between coffee with Gary and Robyn and drinks with Charles and Judy and ice cream in the cafe on the square, when we weren't poking in some of the older parts of town or foraging in the covered market for some artisanal sausage or an olive pickled in who knows what, or simply sitting watching the pilots take their hot air balloons over the hills and far away as the sun descended.

Even when civilised people are in bed, the illuminated fountains beckon with their music and laser lights and rear projection.

Perhaps tomorrow we shall try to do not quite so little.

A good idea at the time Metz-Queidersbach-Metz

2011-09-01T02:42:00.001+10:00

It may be nice, we thought, to deliver Shell and Jules to their German destination barely a hundred kilometres away. With visions of meandering through some of those little German villages we'd been going too fast to stop at as we'd tootled past during the week at seven kilometres per hour, we wandered down to the station and hired a car..

The reality of romantic meandering by car is that the romance is tempered somewhat by narrow streets and really fast superhighways and "no standing" signs and "I don't think we should have turned there" coming from somewhere behind the driver's right ear. If ships approaching silently from behind at ten kilometres per hour are something worthy of being alert, then cars approaching at three hundred are close to terrifying. It must be age which makes me think that the 130kph speed limit in France is something quite civli really.

Having entirely failed to meander, we abandoned all hope of a romantic tour, discharged our passengers, and after a fine lunch, slotted the little van into the fast lane home.

Autumn has begun and we have things to do, places to see, and in Metz we are unlikely to run out of either in whatever time we may allot to the task.

The big guys Thionville - Metz

2011-08-31T18:59:00.009+10:00

Lost in all the ramblings of fog and scenery, I may have failed to note that the river is a reasonably serious transportation route. Ships that fit exactly into the length of the one hundred and forty metre long locks travel at twice our speed in places and seem to sneak up and spring out from behind trees. They aren't terrifying, but at the same time they don't have to shout "boo!" to frighten us, they don't have brakes and we simply try to stay somewhere where they are not.

We waited in Thionville this morning while "Sonny" rumbled through the town, fully laden with more than three thousand tonnes of something very heavy on board.

We figured, correctly as it turned out that we'd be able to keep up as the way ahead was relatively shallow and twisty, and since he is a "littly", a mere one hundred and ten metres in length, there would be plenty of room in the back of the locks for us. We marvel at the skill of these guys, placing all one hundred and ten metres exactly parallel with the side of the lock, rarely touching, while almost twelve metres away, there is another side sitting exactly equidistant from the wall.

From our perspective though, ten metres away there is a propellor of several metres diameter and we understand what a fly must feel as it is about to be swatted by an elephant's tail.

We quite enjoy following the big boys though, no one can surprise us from behind, and they know what's happening ahead, so we wait when they wait as ships come round blind corners.

Three locks and a few hours later we are in Metz, and by midnight summer will be over.

I think I can see France! Luxembourg - Thionville

2011-08-30T18:56:00.008+10:00

So this is Luxembourg!

The very name somehow conjures images of something special, like Monaco somehow one expects casinos and marble and big black Mercedes Benzes full of glamour or something. I don't know why, and since the river runs at least thirty kilometres from the urban part of the principality, the mystery of what it really looks like shall remain somewhere beyond the morning fog.

What we can say is that fuel is very cheap, and a lot of people own speed boats.

It seems that this is just one more place we'll have to revisit when time permits, but for now we are running out of summer, and Shell and Jules need to be on their way in a day or so, so today we'll be back in France.

Gondolas Saarburg - Luxembourg

2011-08-29T18:35:00.013+10:00

Saarburg is just one large lock from the junction of the rivers Saar and Moselle.

Many people have heard of a grape based product that originates in the Moselle region, and while that region is in France, and when we turned left we were still in Germany, we can confirm that a lot of that very same grape based product is produced on the river's banks for a very long way indeed.

At seven kilometres per hour, battling ferocious winds and a little current all day, castles, cute little villages and grape vines merged into a sort of very slow, very scenic and very repetitive blur somewhat reminiscent of a scene from a well known television programme of last century, in which Gondolas seemed to appear at every turn.

Should we visit this ruin we would ask ourselves, or wait for the next in a hundred metres or so? The question was largely rhetorical, as for reasons known only to the authorities in charge of these things, for almost the entire length of river until the Luxembourg border, no parking signs are the only thing that is in greater proliferation than grape vines.

Perhaps next time we shall summon the energy to explore by bike!

Quite Beautiful Saarburg

2011-08-28T18:17:00.009+10:00

The scrawl in fountain pen across the green bit on the map said "Quite Beautiful" and given the complete accuracy of the scrawls thus far, we didn't doubt for a minute that it would be.

We quietly slipped away in the wee small hours, not much after eight, with only the sound of the frying bacon and tomato on our stove, and of course the dulcet tone of Mr Perkins breaking the morning still. There were we, alone on the river with Mr P's belches mingling with the morning mist, except for the company a thousand or so fisherman lining the banks, and one or two or maybe three hotel barges, wondering whether what we were seeing was actually "quite beautiful", or was it really better described in more superlatives?

"Stunning", perhaps.

Tuppence's notes against the town of Saarburg, not to be at all confused with the Sarrebourg that we are quite familiar with, indicated that it was quite pretty, but "a bit touristy", and therefore we thought it may well be to be exactly the right place to rest, perhaps after a ride on the chairlift, a climb to the top of the castle turret, a visit to the Mill, and a monster ice-cream beside the mill stream.

Here, I think Tuppence and we may diverge in our descriptions, sure, there were tourists there, and a chairlift too, but actually we think she had it right earlier in the day.

"Quite Beautiful"

On Reflection Merzig

2011-08-27T18:07:00.000+10:00

The plan was that we would depart first thing in the morning, before the cacophony of the day began, and in a rare reversal of our usual form, everything unfolded in perfect accord with the plan.

Not having experienced this sort of thing before, we then realised we didn't actually have a plan for this eventuality, so we just sort of drifted off into the morning calm. Our plans may have been scant, but even they were not quite so scant as our charts, which comprised mostly photocopies from borrowed books and a few notes in the edge column of my diary.

We would find the Sarre from all accounts to be a beautiful spot, and indeed that's how it turned out to be, although with few places to stop should that desire beset us, we decided to strike out for a harbour about half way to it's junction with the Moselle, a small Boat Club harbour with a note written against it in Tuppence's hand which said " harbour master speaks English and sells beer".

It didn't say that he smokes cigars, nor that there would almost certainly be a large thunderstorm later in the day which will catch one if one felt like exploring the town, but he did and there was.

Tranquility Sarrbrucken

2011-08-26T15:03:00.014+10:00

Shelley and Julian have a propensity for bringing rain with them. Not just drizzle, cold icy storms which come from nowhere.

We should have known better than to leave the boat wearing shorts and sunglasses for the ten minute walk to the station. At precisely the minute their train was due, the lights on the platforms suddenly switched on and things took a decided turn towards damp, with a touch of ice.

Sarrbrucken is a bit bustling for our taste, or at least the mooring is. The city centre itself is wonderfully clean with everything in it's place, lined with huge department stores and there is a buzz about it that is subdued and almost dignified, but we are moored beside what could perhaps most accurately be described as a four lane freeway. We are moored astern of a barge with the rather ominous name "the Piraterie" which on a Saturday night hosts an ACDC tribute band long into the hours of Sunday apparently.

The lawn beside our mooring is a coloured testament to party time as well, with what at first glance appears to be confetti but on closer inspection turns out to be beer bottle tops, tomorrow night may not be too peaceful.

We think we can probably do better, so first thing tomorrow now that we once again have a full compliment of crew aboard, we shall resume on our cruise down the Sarre.

Postcard from across the border Sarrbrucken

2011-08-25T03:08:00.010+10:00

Despite the changes that had been creeping up on us for days, and for that matter the fact that we have been travelling down a river whose centre marks the border between France and Germany, it was with something of a jolt that we suddenly found ourselves in an entirely different country.

We can no longer read the signs, nor ask for directions, everything is subtly different, from the way people dress to the size of the ice cream servings at the snack bars in the city. It's fascinating to us that we should be so fascinated.

The hum of the crowds drinking and eating in the outdoor cafes is different, noisier or louder or quieter or what we can't quite work it out, but it is different.

We don't take the changes we see between villages in France for granted by any means, and while we are becoming more familiar with the produce of the various regions we are surprised a little to come to the realisation that that environment is no longer foreign to us.

This brief excursion beyond familiar borders has again given us new eyes

We really should get out more.

Food to spare Sarreguemines

2011-08-24T03:04:00.014+10:00

When we eventually drifted into Sarreguemines we found Jørn and Birgit moored just below the entrance to the Casino, with a space in front of them which seemed exactly the same size as Joyeux.

This was fortuitous as with the departure of the other two we have sufficient food on board to survive a lengthy siege, and in the absence of any signs of insurgent action a lengthy dinner was planned instead, to celebrate our last night in France (for a week at least), our last night in the canal system (for two weeks at least while we move onto the rivers) and anything else we could think of during the course of the evening.

Things are a changing Harskirchen

2011-08-23T02:57:00.003+10:00

By late morning we were alone once more and the blanket of silence which descends after such sudden departures took no time in arriving. I's a pleasant silence though and once again alone, we will have more time to smell the flowers I suppose, not that much time is needed because the last displays of summer are everywhere in the villages.

Celine and Dume were surprised to say the least, when in Niderviller they bought bread and were told the price in German, and that was forty kilometres back. Now within a few breaths of the border the changes are much less subtle. It's not just the town names and the beer billboards written in this new foreign language, the architecture is different the gardens show a different disposition, flower boxes seem heavier, not more beautiful by any means, but the planting and character is distinctively different to the arrangement and colours in Alsace.

We aren't in Germany yet, but we can feel it coming.

A new plan Mittersheim

2011-08-22T04:14:00.010+10:00

Dume and Celine's world had been turned upside down with the receipt of some news overnight which required them to travel home as soon as possible.

One of the interesting things about travelling by water is that "as soon as possible" is often not as soon as one would think it might be, and while we could have retraced our steps of the previous day, it seemed to us all that since they were not at all keen on driving through the night, the logical thing to do would be to continue to Mittersheim where they could perhaps find a connection back to the car and drive home tomorrow.

The only problem with that plan was that Mittersheim was a mere ship lift, two tunnels, fourteen locks and forty-seven kilometres away and achieving all of that in one day, while entirely possible, is equally entirely contrary to our well worn cruising mantra.

But one must do what one must do, so we bit the bullet and set off on what I think would have been a pretty fair imitation of day in the life of a hire boat had it not been for the stops for walks beside the lakes or the picnics with the roof back in the shade.

Note: photo taken tomorrow in Sarralbe(!).

On the road again Saverne - Lutzelbourg

2011-08-21T04:10:00.010+10:00

By late afternoon, if well after six counts as afternoon, we had only travelled fourteen kilometres.

We had battled hail storms and heat and had watched and coached and coaxed a lovely German family on their first day on a fourteen metre hire boat as they attempted to enter each of the sixteen locks backwards sideways and in every other direction but through the gates. The storms had wreaked havoc on the electrical and telecommunication systems for the locks, and having wreaked their havoc had left us in steaming sunshine with winds gusting from all directions making conditions challenging enough without having to wait for a small eternity at each lock for the gallant keeper to arrive to sort out the situation.

When we finally decided that we could endure no more, or possibly it was the closure of the waterways at seven that made the decision for us, but none the less, when it was made we happened to be in the midst of a beautifully silent patch of forest, just near a bridge that land-bound tourists pay actual money to see.

Splendid.

Ouch Saverne

2011-08-20T17:46:00.007+10:00

It wasn't lack of energy which delayed my rising today, it was lack ability to bend my legs at the middle bit. Perhaps when one gets to a certain age, one must be careful after all, not to overdo things like laying of floors in confined spaces.

Whatever the reason, I have often smiled as i have walked past the Roman runner statues in the Chateau grounds, the ones which by dint of structural inadequacy ended up running in one high heeled shoe. I have wondered as I have smiled at how they must have felt after running a marathon with footwear such as they have.

Now I think I have a fair idea.

Eventually I stopped sooking around and warmed up my knee, in time to tell Celine and Dume they were going to take us for a drive to see the sights of Saverne instead of walking.

I am now wondering about how I may delay replacing the remaining two sections of flooring, perhaps for a year or two.

Content Saverne

2011-08-19T17:39:00.017+10:00

Surprisingly, with the passage of just one night, and the bleariness that comes with rising before ten, the trims around the hatches looked almost acceptable this morning.

Deciding that no remedial work was required set the scene for the day today, a scene which involved me gluing numbers of small pieces of vinyl together to make one big piece.

In theory this is a very simple exercise, I've seen the video tape and it only takes an hour and a bit to do an entire room the size of a small convention centre. Perhaps it was something I missed in the translation. In a very small space divided by a door with no fewer than four separate access hatches, all of which by now are neatly trimmed with aluminium, I can confirm that only three tiles will not need trimming of some kind.

It had been a longish day, but by the time we adjourned to Jørn and Birgit's boat for the evening, I was feeling quietly satisfied. Actually I was feeling as quietly satisfied as the bloke that won the big cup at the horsey "do" last weekend.

2011-08-18T17:34:00.016+10:00

With the smell of progress in the air, or perhaps it was smell of the goat's cheese in the market, hanging in an unusually sultry Queensland sort of air, the work on the trims progressed slowly but surely.

With each slip of my hacksaw or drill my French seemed to improve. By day's end the frames were in place, more a testament to some semblance of patience which I seem to have learned in latter years than craftsmanship. "Workmanlike" is probably an apt description, but we are ready to "do" the floor.

We have an entire galley and aft cabin floor that looks decidedly ugly and bare except for the shiny new trims, and a clear idea of what lies ahead tomorrow.

Back in harness Saverne

2011-08-17T17:29:00.011+10:00

Eventually, hunger forced us from our repose at quite a respectable hour, and we wondered if we would find the energy to venture beyond the four walls of our bunk, and then we wondered why we wonder things like that. (didn't I say that yesterday? Oops!)

The answer lay in a rapidly disappearing week, one in which I had planned (there's that word again) to achieve great things in terms of work on the boat, and at the end of which Celine and Dume would arrive to spend some time with us.

On balance, we were at the point where if things didn't get started, perhaps they'd be best left undone. Time to get back on the Merry Go Round.

Knowing the potential enormity of the task, and having a mind full of the things that could go wrong, I reluctantly began removing the old aluminium trim from the floor hatches ready to make the new ones.

Another Day of Rest Saverne

2011-08-16T17:25:00.006+10:00

Eventually, hunger forced us from our repose in time for morning tea had there been someone awake to offer it to us, and we wondered if we would ever again find the energy to venture beyond the four walls of our bunk. It seems that running around after our Miss One had taken an enormous toll!

We really had intended to do a bit of work on the boat while we were waiting in Saverne, We've had the floor tiles stored neatly in its nethers for four months while sufficient energy has been accumulating to start the job, but each time we checked our energy meters they seemed to be saying, "Why not just hang around and read a book?"

Thanks to Matt and Abbie and a surprise package from Jane waiting for us in London, the stocks of interesting reading material had increased by a thousand pages or so and it would be rude of us not to take advantage while we had the chance.

So we read all day, not leaving the boat at all as far as I can tell except to have a discussion long into the evening with the Danish couple moored beside us.

A rose by any other name Saverne

2011-08-15T17:55:00.018+10:00

It was a Public Holiday in Saverne today, and the temperature was a bit too warm to take advantage of our "stay in bed till the temperature gets to double figures" rule to provide prolonged horizontality, so we adapted it to be the "stay in bed till the time gets to double figures" rule, which produced a much more satisfactory outcome.

We had heard a rumour that Saverne's world famous rose gardens would be open for free today, and since an opportunity to save 2€ doesn't come along every day we found the impetus we needed to drag ourselves away from our bunk, and muster the energy to walk the hundred metres or so to the gates of the garden.

Once inside, we found roses, lots of them which is I suppose exactly what we expected to find in an apparently world famous rose garden. Admittedly it is late in the season and many were past their peak, but there was not a plant which didn't have some sign of bloom hanging sometimes precariously from it.

Unlike last year when our journey of discovery did not take place until the onset of winter itself and resulted in a discovery of rose stems by the hundred and not much else, we were able to ramble among the beds mumbling things like "that's pretty" so the casual observer would actually clearly gain the impression that we had a genuine interest in each specimen.

In truth, we cannot be described by any stretch of the imagination as "rose fanciers", nor even "flower fanciers" particularly, but they were colourful, it got us out for a bit, and we didn't have far to travel to get home for our afternoon snooze.

Horses for coursesSaverne

2011-08-14T17:50:00.013+10:00

This weekend there is a Concourse for horse-drawn vehicles at the Chateau. It's a two day event and on Saturday night there is a big party with incredibly loud music, which, out of deference to travel-weary neighbours is turned off at midnight exactly, about four minutes before the cathedral bells, which are apparently running four minutes late, strike midnight.

Last night was the first time I have been woken by those bells, and I suspect, since I was awake during the applause as the band concluded it's last set and was certainly not awake prior to the bells, that I must have been asleep for precisely four minutes.

Today we thought we'd walk across and see what the fuss was about.

We'd have a bit of a rest first we thought, and maybe read a bit, and put a load or two through the wash, perhaps we should read a bit more, or maybe have a snooze.

By five we were in synch and ready to go, arriving just in time for the presentation of trophies, having cleverly avoided.

The chap who won the big cup seemed very pleased with himself, but actually it seemed as though a fun time was had by all. We watched until they packed up the load speakers, just to be sure we would be having an earlier night.

2011-08-13T15:02:00.023+10:00

Wandering aimlessly through parts of the city familiar and not, did nothing to soften our resolve to spend a lot more time here. It's seems to be like some sort of addiction, the more we have of it, the more we need, but for now we had been away for too long and home beckoned.

We both experienced the faintest flutter of butterflies in our stomach as we boarded the express to Nancy. This was interesting, perhaps even remarkable as for a few years neither of us have had a sense of "homecoming" nor even "adventure" during our travels, just a feeling that we were on another leg of our continuing journey, yet now we were wishing the journey away.

There was no need for that of course, the train was quite happy to convey us at far greater speed than any supercar owner could contemplate. For a brief moment I felt sorry for the Ferrari we left in our wake, wondering if the owner knew we were racing.

Almost three hours, and a quiet coffee in Nancy between trains later, we found ourselves sitting quietly around the table, at home, wondering what our next move will be.

Paris

2011-08-12T14:54:00.007+10:00

There have been books written about Paris of course, and songs sung and movies made too, lots of them, so there is little point in rabbiting on about how it sort of eats into the corner's of one's psyche other than to note that we are yet to find the sort of Parisian whose reputation for arrogance and ferocity in defence of all things related to their way of life and speaking their mother tongue is legendary.

While checking the schedule at the station before changing trains we were ambushed by a man in a hurry, on his way to we know not where, but he had heard us speaking English and was determined to help despite our abundant lack of helplessness. He cross-examined us as to our intentions, walked us briskly to the ticket window, exclaimed loudly in angst when it was closed, pushed us across to the ticket machine and before we could object had inserted his own credit card, scrolling through screens at stroboscopic pace while simultaneously punching buttons, and telling us which platform we needed. In less than a flash he had thrust the tickets into our hands and began to race off in the direction from which he had come still shouting instructions.

I chased after him and pushed a note into his hand to cover the cost of the tickets, and thanked him as I trotted alongside.

Welcome to Paris.

As we sat that evening with Jayne and Peter in the twilight in the courtyard of an Italian Restaurant run by an Indian Family who spoke perfect English, surrounded by a community comprising predominantly Algerians, the world suddenly seemed impossibly small.

On the Move Again London - Paris

2011-08-11T19:42:00.000+10:00

The little red book that confirms my Britishness was put to the test this morning as we departed my other country of citizenship.

"How long will you be away?" asked the nice lady from the British Border Agency in a marked contrast to the stern cross examination we underwent last year as the officers attempted to prise some illegal immigration intent out of us.

We explained that we were really only here to visit our kids for a bit, but we might flit by again in a month or two for a day or so on our way back to Oz.

About then she noticed our French residency cards and told us with a hopeful laugh that she was ready to be adopted.

As the Eurostar departed we pinched ourselves as we often do at the surreality of our situation, wondering just how we came to be doing what we do, delighted that we are, tucked away our London Transport Oyster Cards and rummaged for some Metro Tickets that were yet to be validated.

What day is it?

Thursday?

Ah yes, this must be Paris.

BirthdaysLondon

2011-08-10T19:36:00.012+10:00

We mostly seem to be on the other side of the world when family birthdays are celebrated, so when the opportunity comes to share in a bit of Birthday Cake it's worth hanging around for, specially when Julian bakes it.

As we shared Shelley's birthday Pad Thai in the bustling little place attached to a tiny pub in Notting Hill, I wondered, probably because we'd spent a bit of time standing outside her house yesterday, if the Queen knew what she was missing.

Life on the streets seemed to have returned to their usual as we walked home which is probably not surprising with over a thousand "rioters" now in temporary incarceration. It did cross my mind that they may well have achieved part of their objective to have a taste of the life of the privileged classes, after all they were probably enjoying the same view of life that the Royal Family enjoys each day.

Through iron bars.

Christopher Robin went down with Alice London

2011-08-09T07:46:00.017+10:00

More than thirty years have passed since we last took leave of Her Majesty to inspect her guards as they changed shift, and one of us decided it was time we popped off once again to ensure that all was well.

We are not well practiced at this being tourists lark, having to be places on time, joining queues and so on, but had done our homework and the website had assured us that if we arrived fifteen minutes early all would be well.

Indeed it was, and we took our place around one thousand people back from where one could actually see anything, and proceeded to watch the backs of heads various for the next thirty minutes, progressing towards the fence ever so slowly as those in front, realising they would never actually get a reasonable view, wisely departed. Interestingly, those in the after positions seemed to become increasingly optimistic as they crept toward a position four or five people from their target, only to realise that the reason that the first four or five rows of people hadn't actually left was that they could see the action, and were therefore unlikely to give up their spots.

We didn't care. We were free to do whatever we wanted. If that involved looking at the back of someone's head for thirty minutes while somewhere in the distance out of sight a band worked its way through Neil Diamond's greatest hits, well so be it.

By the time even we had run out of patience and turned to leave, the million or so people who had been behind us, were of course in front of us. In front of us in the queue no matter in which direction we turned. In front of us they were, at the Cabinet War Rooms, at Westminster Abbey, at Southbank, at Covent Garden, and Picadilly.

So we found a restaurant they didn't know about and did lunch.

Too Close to Home London

2011-08-08T07:37:00.009+10:00

It was nearly ten thirty and time we were leaving when the phone rang.

"Dad, we think you should get a cab home, things are getting a bit interesting outside. It's not safe."

Deep down we knew that we would have been fine on the Tube, change to a bus in Kensington High Street, walk from Notting Hill to Queensway and home. Anyway, we were miles from last night's troubles.

As we bade our farewells, we laughed with Paul and Bertha at the fact that we were old enough to have children who worried about us, quietly revelling in their concern for us, and we wandered out into the night to do as we were told. The taxi driver was quite sombre when we told him where we lived. "Queensway is closed, and I'll have to go around Notting Hill, they're all over it there", he said. "I don't know where this is going to end".

The streets were eerily almost deserted, few cars, fewer pedestrians, Policemen in pairs guarding electronics shops as we passed by. The radio broadcast sounded like the natural disaster reports from home, except this disaster wasn't natural.

Fortunately for all, the damage in "our" neck of the woods was petty, but the atmosphere that pervaded that night was one of incredulity.

Something in the Air London

2011-08-07T07:32:00.010+10:00

Sundays are a great day for having a long breakfast and just hanging around. We really should have gone for a walk or just sat in Hyde Park or popped off to a museum I suppose, but we've done a lot of that of late, and a day of nothingness seemed quite appropriate. Actually a day of nothingness was substantially overdue.

Of course when nothingness comes with a bottomless of broadband internet it turns into somethingness, so while one read, and two went out for coffee and a bit of respite from the old folk, the other found himself knee deep in gigabytes. By mid afternoon new operating system, updated GPS mapping, an application or two which may or may not prove helpful in time, a new system startup burned, everything backed up in triplicate and the absolute sense of a day completely gone with nothing to remember it by.

We did have an appointment down Regent Street early evening though, to see what the nice people at the Apple Store could do with Shell and Jules' old black computer. As it turned out, they didn't quite know either but if it wasn't going to be inexpensive they promised they'd do nothing which seemed like a reasonable compromise.

As we walked home we did notice that something was definitely awry in old London Town. In quiet backstreets of Paddington the friendly Bobbies were dressed to kill.

"Strange", we thought, and ambled home through the leafy dusk.

Clearly they knew something that we did not, but we didn't give it a second thought.

(Note: in the interests of staying within the bounds of the anti terrorism act, the photograph is from another day and another location!)

Toy Museum London

2011-08-06T07:23:00.019+10:00

It was Saturday, but we all slept in as though it was Sunday. None of this places to go things to do people to see stuff. We'd all done quite enough of that for one week thanks very much.

Eventually we stirred and decided among ourselves that we really should get out and about, so we took a vote among ourselves and followed Jules curiously to the other side of town. As events panned out in the next day or two the "other" side of town, the one where one imagines that just below the surface, evil lurks round every corner, was to become international news. It's safe enough in broad daylight just before Saturday lunchtime of course, specially when one finds oneself just before lunchtime at the Museum of Childhood.

We'd heard reports, or to be less diplomatic, Julian had heard reports that it was pretty cool, stuffed full of toys of all kinds.

I suspect that we to a person would agree that while it was indeed stuffed full of toys some of which did have a certain charm. The museum really amounted to a comprehensive albeit apparently semi haphazard collection of old toys stuffed into glass cases. How very fifties!

Some of the items in the collection were quite new, many not, and one of them dates as far as anyone can tell from 1,300BC, which makes it quite old, but in terms of display and presentation I suspect that we all felt there is probably nothing that a small environmental catastrophe wouldn't do to improve the whole thing.

Fortunately for the collection, sadly for the presentation, toy museums don't seem to be high on the looters' list of things to do for now at least, and days later the much needed catastrophe has thus far failed to materialise.

Have they really gone?

2011-08-05T03:48:00.018+10:00

There's no way of describing the vacuum that is created when a bunch of people with whom one has been confined for a few weeks disappears in to thin air.

When one of the people concerned is a little over one year old, the silence in that void is absolutely deafening. For an instant, when the shuttle arrived to transport them away, we were sad that it had all come so abruptly to an end.

Then were at a loss, constantly checking beneath our feet an over our shoulder to ensure we weren't about to step on her.

Even the statue of Physical Energy in Hyde park seemed to have stopped mid salad to check that all is well. By tomorrow they will be back where they started, and with just a little effort, we will be winding back to a far more sensible cruising pace.

It will be quiet though.

It's a bit tiring really. London

2011-08-04T03:45:00.009+10:00

Feeling decidedly as though yesterdays plan had been a good one until we changed it, we left the tourists head off with their guide to see the rest of London.

Not for us another mad uncivilised dash around the place.

A gentle walk for groceries, an hour or two playing with Uncle Julian's Jenga blocks and a couple of long sleeps seemed to be a perfect solution to passing a bit of time in company with one's grand daughter.

She in turn thought exactly the same as her elders, and when we eventually woke it was barely in time for tea.

2011-08-03T03:42:00.008+10:00

We had decided that arriving in London before the shops were open would be a good thing, as it would allow the reunited sisters to belt around like mad things catching up on a few years of separation while we could simply spend another relaxing day in the company of Miss Lilly.

In coming to that conclusion we probably hadn't taken into account that after a long day of exploration we'd have to leave our hotel at a terribly indecent hour, in darkness during a heavy storm, and by the time we'd travelled as sub-sonic speeds for a couple of hours, we'd feel as though we'd been travelling for a week.

For reasons that seem difficult to explain even with the benefit of hindsight, with Miss Lily dressed in her English finery with her new Guard bear we diverged from our plan.

For reasons inexplicable except that it seemed like a good idea at the time, we accompanied the intervening generation across Hyde Park, past the Serpentine and the Albert Hall, past the Princess Di fountain onto double decker buses into the City itself, around Fleet Street and Covent Garden, through pubs that had last been renovated in the seventeenth century, past cathedrals and towers and spires, via most of the places on the monopoly board.

I'm glad Shelley had decided there was no point in trying to take them to see everything on the first day.

The Madding Crowd Paris

2011-08-02T03:39:00.006+10:00

If a day running around with one's children in Paris is a lot of fun, a day without them, left in the care of one's granddaughter is even better. We walked and walked and walked did. We and Lily, to places she may not have thought to visit on her own.

While her parents were dashing about trying to fill the gaps in yesterday's overview, we were ambling through parks and gardens, past docks and homeless people living in tents under bridges, well away from the beaten path of the tourist coaches.

Occasionally we'd pop into the Metro and pop out somewhere completely unexpected, for the better part staying clear of the throngs of summer tourists who seemed to be hanging from every monument, or if they weren't hanging from, hanging round making zany poses for the benefit of the camera. Two days in Paris is a lifetime too little we concluded, and steeled our resolve to bring the boat and spend more time here next year, a lot more time.

Crushed Paris

2011-08-01T18:36:00.003+10:00

A day spent as a tour guide skimming over the major attractions of one of the world's most beautiful cities in perfect summer weather offers many highlights, wandering along the Seine, a stroll up the Champs Elisses, a climb to the top of the Arch de Triumphe, a sit in the shade of the Eiffel Tower.

The second best I think is the look of intense fascination on the face of a one-and-a-bit year old, when one crushes a soft drink can underfoot. This of course was carried out with some flair by the grandfather, ensuring a satisfying "crunch" accompanied each deft move of his size elevens, in one swift move reducing the can to a mere fraction of its former volume before disposing of it thoughtfully.

The highlight of the day though, was Miss Lily's continuing efforts thereafter to reproduce that crunch on every leaf, cigarette butt, lolly wrapper or chewing gum dag she came across.

Excitement Saverne-Paris

2011-07-31T18:31:00.010+10:00

It seems impossible, but on a canal barely fifteen metres wide, we had passed Paul and Cara heading in the other direction, without noticing them, nor they us. So disappointed were we all, that they decided to break their journey back to Holland and take the train back from Nancy for a final catch up for the year and a spot of lunch.

Lunch with Lil is not normally as long nor as lingering as perhaps one may desire it to be, but after a week or so of being confined in a space which really was not much bigger than a settee, her tolerance for such things was at some sort of peak, and it was late afternoon before we had to excuse ourselves, as we all had trains to catch.

In our case it was Paris that beckoned, and on arrival at our hotel, the freedom that came from living in a room which was big enough to hold a double bed was almost too much for the youngest of our party.

As a grandparent one does not have to be too concerned about ensuring there is a balance between having a good time and the reaching of a state which can be described as "over excitement".

As a grandparent, one's room is disconnected from the noises in the night.

Happy Endings Saverne

2011-07-30T02:42:00.000+10:00

If we were to conduct a poll among ourselves as to what exactly was our most prized possession aboard, I suspect that even if we owned a full replica suit of medieval body armour in silver polyester weave, the answer would still be "the washing machine". There was more than a little consternation a week or two ago when the behaviour of said prized possession began to deteriorate to the level at which it became socially unacceptable.

It began to bang and jump and spin horribly out of balance, performing not at all as the brochure had implied, culminating one day last week with a hissy-fit that could well have ended in more tears than Miss Lily can produce during a sleepless night, or for that matter her parents the morning after.

After the bang, which sounded for all the world explosion-like, we found it inverted on the floor of what we like to call our "utility room". The only explanation as to how it arrived in it's apparently preferred position in such a confined space, is that it executed a perfect half pike with full twist after launching itself vertically, somehow disconnecting itself from the electricity on the way down.

Clearly this was something that had to be placed on the list of things "to do" and so it was for a week or two, until Lily's dad made lifting and dismantling and remantling and strapping it down look all so simple.

He did the same with the leaks too.

Perhaps I'll leave them on the list though, just to confuse me if ever I look at it again.

Haut-Barr Saverne

2011-07-29T02:20:00.016+10:00

We never miss a chance to visit the Chateau at Haut-Barr. It's a longish walk up a steepish hill and on a warmish day it can be a bit of a grind for a father wearing a pair of single pluggers or a grandfather with more suitable footwear, alternately pushing or carrying a stroller full of one-and-a-bit year old through barely made paths through the forest, but it's a great view and not a bad coffee at the top.

Regular readers may recall that this is the place that Julian's castle ranking places way up there with Ireland's Blarney. We antipodeans are bemused by the common criticism that it is "too touristy", after all, the city did build a restaurant, right there in the midst of the twelfth century ruins for our resting pleasure. The very fact that this "monstrosity" has been in place since 1910 would make it a national treasure in our homeland, but here it is the subject of vulgar derision.

All that aside, it will be recorded in history as the very place where Miss L discovered for the first time, both her shadows. The one which the sun cast became suddenly obvious to her and simply would not go away despite her best efforts to shoo it, run from it, and eventually to try to rub it out with a stick. The other was even more resilient and remained long after the sun had disappeared behind a cloud. It was to remain in place for days in fact, but since we aren't up to that part of the story we can't mention it.

Her grandmother you see, somewhat disillusioned by the absence of compassion as first one, then the other knee lost microscopic segments of skin while variously in the care of parents and grandfather, steadfastly refused to cease hovering.

No amount of shooing, running away or rubbing it out with a stick could dissuade that one either.

What did we miss? Lutzelbourg-Saverne

2011-07-28T02:14:00.000+10:00

We like Lutzelbourg. We like "our" spot beside the house with the blue shutters even though the services costs average two Euros a night for us to stay in the port.

Perhaps had we not been cruising to a deadline, we might have waited for perfect weather for the run down to Saverne.

Perhaps we'd have stayed a day or two more, just because we can, but If we'd done that, we might have missed seeing the mist in the forests, and the deer ambling about, and we certainly would have missed finding the last available berth in the port.

I wonder what we missed in Lutzelbourg by moving on?

A little bitty tear let me down. Lutzelbourg

2011-07-27T02:00:00.000+10:00

The fog inside the boat began to lift today, that's the one that surrounds a one year old and her parents when one plucks them from their own surrounds, and unceremoniously tips them over on the other side of the world without regard for the time zone in which they had been living, while at the same time confining them for the better part of the time in a tiny space.

It was just as well that they'd pretty much grown into the space really, as the weather outside wasn't the sort to encourage lengthy exploration of our surrounds.

On the other hand, days like that are just perfect for eating fresh product from one of our favourite bakers, and just lying around with a beverage of choice nearby.

Nothing to shed a tear about, unless one's mother dashes out for a bit.

An apology or perhaps an explanation:
For those receiving these posts by email, we now have broadband in sufficient quantity and silence sufficient as well, to catch up on the past weeks posts, so I suspect your in boxes will be filled with a few more days of baby cuteness - it's ok, she's gone now and things will shortly return to normal!

Strange Days Hesse - Lutzelbourg

2011-07-26T15:48:00.004+10:00

Somedays are strange days indeed.

We travelled ever so gently through some of the most marvellous countryside, through tunnels, down boat the Arzviller ship lift while all the tourists lined up to take our photos, and into one of our favourite ports, all without incident. It did rain on and off but the mist in the forests gave the day some sort of etherial quality making it all even more beautiful than usual and looking greener than it really is I'm sure, and it wasn't cold enough to put a jumper on even.

The food was terrific, nothing went wrong, we were in bed early and yet, when I asked what we had done of note, no one could think of anything really.

Perhaps it's the magnets in the bridges.

Mmmm... CheesesLagrde to Hesse

2011-07-25T15:54:00.001+10:00

"First thing" as most by now will understand, is always a subjective measure of time when we are home in Lagarde, so when we told Maggie we were leaving "first thing" she quite rightly assumed we'd still be there after lunch and set about baking some bread to compliment all of Jacques' cheese stock which she had kindly passed to us, to his complete chagrin. I can assure all who may care to be assured, that just as the fury of a woman scorned is unmatched even in hell, then the grief of a Frenchman arriving home for lunch to find his boat entirely devoid of cheese has no equal on this earth, but it couldn't be helped, and all those goats and cows and sheep may rest assured that their work was not in vain.

While I was otherwise occupied moving "that" plumbing leak just one more time, the other of us, the one with a bottomless pit filled compassion, set about preparing a platter of Jacques cheeses to return as a parting gift.

With the leak finally eliminated and the slightest hint of colour returning to Jacques' face it seemed like a good time to declare the time to be "first thing", and so it is that tonight we sit in a forest outside of Hesse, with the bilge drying along with a load of washing, under clearing heading towards balmy skies, thinking we may just stay here till the cheese runs out.

Wet Weather Work Lagarde

2011-07-24T07:29:00.009+10:00

Still the rain continues, this time all morning and well into the afternoon, bringing weather which our visitors assured us was colder than at home, although we found that difficult to comprehend, this being summer after all, and they having just left the depths of winter.

None the less a lay day was called, and we just sort of curled up in our respective spots and spent a quiet, reading and playing games round the table sort of day, interspersed with walks of course, and an expedition to a fete in a nearby town, which was a perfect opportunity to give the new purple raincoat another workout.

Sight Seeing Lagarde

2011-07-23T07:12:00.033+10:00

We really had meant to go for a bit of a walk to the basilica before we left, but when we had a show of hands we couldn't count any voting "aye" and so we put it off for a later day, once again telling ourselves it's probably just another eighty five metre long, eighty five metre tall sixteenth century church interior, and we'll pop in when next we pass. Probably.

We had according to our plan, places to go, things to do, people to see and none of that would be possible if we tarried too long. Well it probably would be possible, but we'd not have time to tarry along the way, which of course is the most important part of going places.

Jet lag, or getting a tooth, or a cold, or a change of circumstances or just a one year old being one year old, had apparently kept those in the forward end of the boat awake for much of the night. This of course left them with a somewhat more diminished sense of well being long after day had dawned, than those sleeping in their customary aft quarters.

The cause of all the angst did not seem nearly as concerned, and seemed quite anxious to explore this new land at any opportunity. Her parents did manage to snatch some brief periods of respite as we motored along, just enough thankfully to get them through the round of cheery welcomes when we arrived in Lagarde.

I suspect the endless dinner party may not have done their cause much good either, but it was great to be "home", there will be time to sleep tomorrow after all, and the goat's cheese was devine.

2011-07-22T05:13:00.008+10:00

We could have spent the day digging further into the fascinating history of Nancy's architecture, or visiting one or more of the incredible museums, or perhaps just sitting in some six hundred year old building, quietly noting every detail.

Perhaps we could have wandered aimlessly through the ancient squares and gardens, breathing in the sculptural masterpieces and the manicured planting as we have done so often over the past few days and months.

The rain though, was continuing, and bringing with it a certain gloom and a chill that most don't associate with July in Europe, and the summer sales were on in full swing in places which were warm and brightly lit. It was therefore not much of a contest.

As a consequence, Miss Lily now owns a brand new overcoat with a hood, and the slightest hint of glitter in the purple weave which makes it look kind of magical even when it's not wet and is sure to make her the dahhling of the kindy set in a year or two if it still fits.

True to form, the purchase of said overcoat brought with it sufficient sunshine to allow us to embark on the next stage of our travels in the manner in which we are more accustomed, and so it was that by day's end we found ourselves on our way again, moored almost eight kilometres from our departure point, where the shadow of the Basilica of St.Nicolas-de-Port would be if the sun were shining from that direction.

They're Here!Paris-Nancy

2011-07-21T20:29:00.014+10:00

I suspect that if there is anything worse than the weariness of long distance air travel, it's the weariness that comes from waiting for long distance travellers to end their journey.

"Wake us any time after six" we had bravely offered in the wee small hours as we welcomed our progeny to this part of our lives. To be clear though, we didn't expect it to happen quite so soon after six. Actually if it had been any less after six it would have been before.

At least it gave us time for breakfast in a civilised fashion, and an equally leisurely stroll through a Paris that was rising from it's slumber while Miss Lily caught up on some of hers, tucked happily under cover in her stroller.

By mid afternoon when we actually arrived in Nancy we all seemed a little worse for wear, only Miss Lily seemed unfazed by it all, smiling on cue and talking on her telephone to any who would listen.

Sadly for those who hadn't slept for a couple of days, the rain of the day cleared enough for us to force them out at eleven to the square for a dose of coloured lights.

Welcome to the jet-set!

Being FrenchParis

2011-07-20T00:44:00.007+10:00

Yesterday, when I suggested we may be short on sleep, I certainly didn't expect to be awake at a time which could only be described as uncivilised. It came therefore as something of a surprise to find myself staring into the day at least seven and possibly eight hours before our train was due to depart for Paris.

One of us managed to fill in a bit of time by washing and cleaning and tidying and making sure everything would be just so on our return, while I busied myself getting to know the beautiful interior of one of our Dutch neighbours' boats and passing comment on the quality of their coffee.

Despite the distractions, time failed to pass at all, although eventually despite our anxiety we managed to find ourselves in the foyer of our hotel in Paris, with a delightful concierge asking us for passports in accent free English. Naturally being bone fide residents we had not considered passports to be a necessity for travelling internally, so had left them securely on the boat four hundred kilometres away.

Tentatively, I reached for my identity card and placed it on the counter.

"Oh," she said, "You're French!", again the words were spoken in a version of English so perfectly pronounced that the Queen herself would be glad to hear, "You don't need any identification."

We wondered as we waited beyond midnight if it works that way at the bank as well.

A Near Miss Nancy

2011-07-19T06:31:00.021+10:00

The light show in Place Stanislas had ended strangely if not badly for us last night, with an encore of blue flashing lights on the red van which carried Jayne to hospital for the night. She's well now thankfully, the rest of us a little disconcerted at her sudden lapse from consciousness and thankful for the presence of the young Doctor who was in the crowd.

The show itself, when one observes its more usual conclusion, is extraordinary, with simultaneous projections animating all the buildings in the square. I suppose one should expect no less from the town that Voltaire called home, and it gives us reason for staying up late, keeping our mind from what would otherwise be sleeplessness as the excitement builds while our next guests are travelling to us.

Jan and Ian left today, another week over in a flash, but for now we are distracted.

There is just one short sleep remaining until Miss Lily arrives in Paris with her parents and then I suspect, some sort of pandemonium may reign.

Paris may never be the same, and by hook or by crook we will be there to be its witness.

Friends Nancy

2011-07-18T06:25:00.006+10:00

Sometimes it is hard for us to come to terms with exactly where we are and exactly what it is that we are doing here. This situation is mostly exacerbated by what has of late been a constant stream of old friends who have graciously take it upon themselves to track us down, and pop in for a bit.

Sitting as we were tonight, with Jan and Ian and now joined by Jayne and Peter, we spoke of the good old days, of things like the coffee rolls with pink icing from the bakery in Annerley and riding our bikes to Frog Rock and the year Weller's Hill beat Junction Park in the swimming competition and trying to remember whether the threepenny bus tickets were pink or green and whether it was the 5A or 5B bus that went down Cracknell Road.

All the while we were at our table in l'Excelsior in Nancy resplendent as it was on opening day in 1911. Peering out into a street devoid of traffic and still so perfectly preserved in the Art Noveau style. We could perhaps be forgiven for thinking we had been transported back a century and a half.

But with each course the food would jolt us back to the present.

There was never any Foie Gras in Cracknell Road, at least as far as we could recall.

Restoration Nancy

2011-07-17T18:05:00.016+10:00

On Sundays, the harbour Capitaine in Nancy is a youngish looking man who is we are sure, considerably older than he feels, with his unfashionably longish hair, Metallica Tee Shirts, chunky jewellery, firmly espousing his love for Australian rock bands.

As we checked into the port today during a brief respite from the precipitation, we spoke of many things.

Conversations of import seem always to commence with a discussion on the weather, and how the rain last night had barely let up, which was fine for us I recall telling him as we have almost no leaks in the forward cabin any more and they don't matter too much because Jan and Ian are sleeping there not us. He sympathised and informed me that his wife and children are assisting him with the restoration of a house from the sixteenth century and there are many leaks in the roof at the moment and he's hoping he gets them sorted before winter.

He told me it began as a project of economic necessity, but has turned into a labour of love, and they are having a lot of fun resorting it to it's original state.

I wondered briefly how one lives restored in the sixteenth century, without heating, insulation, plumbing or electricity but we were interrupted before he could explain.

Cruising Again Toul

2011-07-16T03:28:00.019+10:00

This morning we were all up and bustling by seven. Today was the day. The water on the harbour was painted in distinctly farewell tones.

Al and Sunny found one last bar of chocolate somewhere that "wouldn't keep" until their return, and it was duly passed over. I assured them that it wouldn't keep till winter on our boat either, but they handed them over anyway.

Eventually the time arrived to finalise the farewells that we'd been bidding each other all week, and just after the "exiting Toul" rush hour, we went our separate ways trying ever so hard to make sure the lumps in our throats stayed exactly there.

I'm not sure what our normal travelling velocity is in any measure that would meet scientific scrutiny. It's somewhere between "tootling" and "chugging" I think. As we made our way away from Toul, down the Moselle, the morning sun and gentle breeze keeping us in one of those "glad to be alive" moods, I suspect it may have been even a little less than "tootling" speed.

We were getting used once again, to the concept travelling alone, at our own admittedly leisurely pace when a dark steel shadow loomed.

It was Paul and Bertha's barge. Having caught up the thirty minutes head start they had given us, they hunted us down from the far side of the river, concerned that we may well be having some sort of difficulty.

No, we assured them.

We are cruising again.

Home is..Toul

2011-07-15T03:23:00.001+10:00

Nothing I do seems to do anything but move the confounded leak in the water connection from one end of the joint to the other, and back again, so again I have resolved to do nothing at least for a few days and see if it goes away of it's own accord once it realises it's not getting any attention.

Sunny and Al are busy getting their boat ready for winter, a process which seems to mostly involve depositing somewhere in our boat, every manner of foodstuff and confection, not to mention enough potplants to start a small nursery. The surgeon arrives tomorrow to sever the invisible cord which has kept us attached through the last three weeks and almost one hundred locks, and I think we are all subconsciously practicing our best melancholy mood.

We too have been getting ready to move on, topping up water and fuel, fidgeting with things that don't need fidgeting with, looking at maps and ignoring leaking water pipes.

Thank goodness Jan and Ian are here to distract us all, and Paul and Bertha from the barge next door joined us as well for one final celebration. Deep down we didn't want it to end, but it will as these things have a habit of doing, and tomorrow we will say goodbye to the Canadian mob, and to Toul, where we have lived in the shadow of the cathedral for more than twice as long in the past twelve months as we have in our "new" house.

Joyeux Anniversaire Toul

2011-07-14T03:19:00.000+10:00

It was exactly one year ago today that Jacques popped the cork, spraying champagne all over our dear Joyeux and officially unveiling "his" new name.

It's truly been a marvellous year, one that has been at once all too short yet seems to have been going on forever. We have of course made all manner of new friends, and have become part of a new family in a sense or perhaps a new tribe, I'm not sure.

In the absence of a monster display of fireworks provided by the city, as would properly befit such an anniversary it seemed rather fitting that the end of our first "proper" year on the water should be celebrated quietly with some of our oldest friends, and some of our newest.

Of course the rest of France was celebrating as well, although perhaps they weren't conscious of why, confusing our special anniversary with their national day.

Our Tony PhonedToul

2011-07-13T00:17:00.004+10:00

After the productivity of the yesterday one would be forgiven for expecting a certain momentum to carry through for the rest of the week at least, and indeed I had given passing thought to doing some more, but when we were woken at 4:30 by a ferociously vocal thunder storm, I took it as a warning that perhaps I should slow down for a bit.

We decided as the thunder roared and lightning flashed that the best course of action for the day, would be to stay in bed until the rain had gone away at the very least, and since the forecast suggested that may take a few days, it seemed as though working through the list had once again come to a quite agreeable end.

Suddenly, the telephone rang. I am not sure that there isn't something redundant in describing a telephone as ringing suddenly, as I am yet to meet a telephone which has worked out an alternative but that notwithstanding, when I answered it somewhat less suddenly it was "Our Tony" checking up on us.

When we told him we were in Toul and fixing plumbing, he seemed bemused if not concerned that we'd neither moved nor actually finished any of the things we'd started in the month since he'd left. Perhaps he had a point.

Maintenance Toul

2011-07-12T16:09:00.038+10:00

I must admit some people have the knack of keeping their boats neat as a pin, while others do not.

I think we fall somewhere between the two. I actually have a schedule for repair and maintenance work although there is a clear note which says "not today" against every item in the "date required" column.

Every now and then, out of the blue something like the main water supply valve, which may well have been close to the top of the list of things not to do quite yet, decides to upset my carefully considered schedule.

Fortunately before I had regained my senses this week and given up any thought of doing any actual work, I had conjured some vague notion that I may need to replace said valve one day, and we'd allowed the water tank to run to almost empty to make it easier.

Unfortunately nothing is ever easier on a boat. In order to replace the valve, the tank needed to be moved and lifted a little, and to do that 150 kg of cement ballast needed removal through a space which was just a lot too small for it to fit in one piece.

When we bought the boat my original list had removal of those cement bags at the very top of it, although clearly marked to be done "not today". Rather than describe the effort required to break up that much cement using an electrician's screwdriver and a tack hammer while inverted in a tiny enclosed space, I will simply confirm that it wasn't nearly as much fun as as not doing it would have been.

By mid afternoon all the new components of the plumbing were back in a neat row, interconnected with water flowing from tank to pump as it should, and in the process I'd managed to move the leak almost a metre.

I put a plastic bowl under it, picked up the list of things to make and do, wrote "leak near water pump" and marked in the "date required" column: "not today".

The Lazies Toul

2011-07-11T20:04:00.001+10:00

We like spending time in Toul, it's a nice harbour with some grass and some trees under which one can sit when like today the temperature hovers close to forty, and there always seems to be an interesting mix of people passing through.

We were scarcely here an hour before I'd borrowed a chartbook from Tuppence in the scruffy little yacht, lent it to Paul in the immaculate barge (who has a photocopier on board and kindly copied it for me too), given an electronic copy of our Perkins Workshop manual to Elsa in the little cruiser and had a discussion with the Danish guys in the yacht about our mutual interest (or lack thereof) in their future queen.

Of course the main reason for arriving a few days early was to get stuck in to a few jobs that needed doing, but the reality that not doing them was so much more interesting not to mention relaxing, soon sunk in and I started to put ticks against things that didn't need to be started at least until the day after tomorrow, which of course is the day that Jan and Ian arrive, and I am fairly sure will be too late to start anything.

Oh well, we'd better sit under the tree a bit longer and consider our options.

Wind Void

2011-07-10T20:03:00.013+10:00

We quite like Void.

It's name gives it away really, and there are plenty of spaces to explore in the town if one is patient enough and one has enough time, say thirty minutes or so. It's not as though it's not scenic or pretty or photogenic, it is all of those things, and has lots of little alleyways and vistas and downright charm, but it's the patisseries you see. There were two in town and we tried them both so as not to judge in haste. Both baked baguettes which were quite nice actually, but the other stuff looked terrific but under the sugar glazes had a bit of a supermarket ring to it, and that will never do as one is having coffee in a refuge tucked well out of the way of the westerlies.

It's an ill wind that blows no good they say, and judging by the amount of breeze there should have been plenty of good in the air today, more than enough to share.

Had we needed to traverse any locks on our way the wind may have been very ill indeed, as there is a fine line between neatly fitting a boat that is approaching four metres wide into a five metre doorway, and nearly fitting, and any breeze at all can be exactly the wrong amount while that is going on. However, yesterday's tunnel marked the top of our climb and we had twenty odd kilometres of canal, a canal bridge or two to cross and not much else in the way of challenging navigation. All we had to do was avoid the hard edges until we needed to stop.

At that time the trick is to hit the hard bit in exactly the spot intended, tie up and hop off looking for all the world as though one has done it a thousand times, (which is probably actually how many times one has done it, so it's not usually a clever trick at all.).

Fortunately we managed to appear exactly as described, although no one needed to know we missed our intended mark by fifty metres or so. We could after all, always tell Sunny and Al that we saw they were having difficulty and wanted to leave them room to manoeuvre.

Guilt Void

2011-07-09T07:57:00.001+10:00

If there's anything as black as five kilometres of tunnel, it's got to be not having enough food to share at lunchtime after you've gone through it, apparently.

We'd had a beaut rabbit stew as a sort of pre-tunnel meal with Al and Sunny the night before, and managed to salvage enough left overs to feed either a small army or perhaps two people, depending on one's point of view. As the holder of the latter view, I was a little bemused when the other of us even considered sharing our lunch. After all, we travel together we eat together and we even play confounded card games at night, surely no one will starve if they don't have access to a few molecules of rabbit and couscous with a dash of Harissa for lunch.

After a rather short discussion, we were I thought of one accord and we sat down, each to an adequate, if not generous pile of morsels and accoutrement.

We had barely commenced when her face went white as she saw the other two leave their boat to sit at a picnic table near ours.

"Hide!" she cried in anguish, pushing my head down onto the table at the same time. "The boat's moved, duck lower!" she urged again.

They seemed oblivious, sharing an apple, but she looked at what we had left on our plates and wondered if we could somehow repackage it. I ate faster to make sure we couldn't.

The other of us so choked with guilt, made a full confession to the confused merriment of the others, who as it turned out had had a rather splendid lunch of their own thanks very much. We were forgiven. There was light at the end of the tunnel.

With all that out of the way, we moseyed on to the improbably named but completely guilt-free town of Void.

Horticulture

2011-07-08T06:45:00.010+10:00

"What do you think that is?" came the cry from the boat in front while a grey bearded figure pointed sternly at the yellow fields in the distance.

"Colza", I replied using the French name " We call it Rape, but you blokes call it Canola"

"It's the wrong colour" retorted the voice with the Canadian accent, although I'm fairly sure he pronounced it "color".

"We've seen heaps of this stuff," I shouted above Mr Perkins gruffness, "and I know a paddock of Rape when I see it."

Ten minutes later as we reached the yellow, the cruel, heartless and unforgiving northerner was laughing so hard he nearly ran his boat into the middle of the paddock.

Note to file: Canola is a Canadian invention - even a simple Veterinary Surgeon can tell the difference between Canola and Sunflowers.

At least tomorrow we will travel in the darkness of the five kilometre tunnel so we won't be able to see his shoulders move as he sniggers.

NasiumNaix-aux-Froges

2011-07-07T06:38:00.016+10:00

Through green forests and golden wheat fields we cycled, through the bright morning chill, hedgehog and deer scuttling out of our way as though on cue, while our path remained fringed by what must surely be the last of this year's poppies. It was a truly glorious morning, the sort that always makes us wonder why we don't do this more often.

It was Julian's fault we think. It was he after all who led us on a wild goose chase across thousands of kilometres of English countryside looking for what the map said was a Roman wall. When we got there it turned out to be a bunch of fair-sized stones piled on top of one another in a line. Just like all the other lines of stones separating one sheep from another across the country.

Then there was the Roman road we saw in Carcasson a few years ago, which could have been mistaken by a layman for a Roman wall which had fallen over.

Undeterred, or simply forgetful, we struck out this morning at a time when sensible people were still lying in bed, staring at the ceiling contemplating what they were going to have on their breakfast croissant, to find an entire town.

Nasium it was called, home to 15,000 people just a few thousand years ago, and the place where to this day Roman Legions march through the fields on the third Sunday of each month, apparently.

"The fields"; a penny dropped.

No one had actually said anything about "the streets", and while it had occurred that the entire town may not have made it through two millennia in one piece, perhaps deep down we were hoping to see more than the brand new roadside obelisk guarded by an aged and somewhat obese golden retriever.

Just how much more, we still don't know, but we took a photo of the word "NASIVM" engraved in the stone, and cycled off. Another Roman site explored.

Moving in Concert Naix-aux-Forges

2011-07-06T15:57:00.006+10:00

That little buzzer in our brains went off this morning, and suddenly and illogically it was time to push on another few kilometres.

We are due to meet Jan and Ian in Toul a week from tomorrow.

Coincidentally Al and Sunny have a similar deadline, and we have happily slotted into a pattern of crusing in company for the past week or so and consensus seems to be part of our habit now. While some would choose to travel that distance in a couple of days, visions of breaking wives flashed before the eyes of Al and I, and we thought that ten kilometres or so would be enough to round out our day nicely thanks very much, which would just enough to find us in Naix-aux-Forges in time to check out some cows, as is his want, and to photograph some buildings, as is mine.

It would have been nice to report that we moved silently out of the port in tandem as if moving to some invisible signal, perhaps a quiet nod from one to the other acknowledging that it was time to move, two boats moving in unison as if attached by a thread, but the only thing that was invisible was everything really, as Mr Perkins yawned and belched into life.

Al understood though, and at least one of us slipped quietly and unnoticed into the first lock followed by the other, disguised as a cloud of white smoke making a dull chugging noise.

To be fair, Mr P does settle quite quickly and seems to enjoy his outings these days, and the ports from which we depart must remain insect free for days after his fog lifts.

DistanceLigny-en-Barrois

2011-07-05T06:49:00.018+10:00

The Kiwi bloke from the campercar saw our flag and wandered over.

"How far have you come today?" he asked.

I replied that we had actually decided we needed a break from travelling and it was time to do some washing and other chores. Besides, we quite like it here so we'd not actually come from anywhere today, nor probably would we go anywhere tomorrow.

"So how far did you come yesterday then?" he persisted, offering that he and his wife had driven pretty much directly from Pompeii, and probably hadn't stopped for a week.

"Almost four kilometres." I explained.

He blinked and checked that he'd heard correctly. Well we didn't start till latish, and we didn't feel like going any further once we got here. I explained that our schedule was starting to close in on us though and within a fortnight we needed to be in Nancy.

I think that may have been the point at which he became incredulous.

"We were there this afternoon" he said, and that one line probably sums up why we choose to travel by boat!

ReminderLigny-en-Barrois

2011-07-04T06:43:00.020+10:00

We were only explaining for the two zillionth time the other day, that yes we do have things that bite in Australia, and no we do not need to be particularly brave to live where we live even though there are barely sufficient children who survive all the perils which present themselves to us in our vast untamed continent, to keep the place running while the likes of ourselves are occupied elsewhere, brave snake/spider/shark/crocodile evading soles that we are.

In the process of doing so I remarked quite truthfully that I had seen more snakes in France in the past three years than I have in the past half century at home.

It was barely surprising then, as I was peering into the stillness of the morning while sipping on my "wake up" coffee, to see a snake swimming among the lily pads.

In the early chill I recalled an acquaintance once telling me that he didn't enjoy a party he attended with a "gangster" theme, because it reminded him too much of work, and I must confess as I stared vacantly into the reflections that I may well have inadvertently made associations between the creature as it swam and a client or two from a former life, but that thought passed as the snake made its way up the opposite bank and the water and my thoughts returned to their perfect stillness once again.

Eventually the faintest zephyr of a breeze arose and erased all the reflections of the morning, and we bravely summoned the energy for the four kilometres that was to be our journey for the day.

On any SundayTronville-en-Barrois

2011-07-03T06:40:00.010+10:00

With Shelley on her way back to London, we resisted the seductive powers of the old town and the magnetic allure of the festival at the top of the hill, and we too quietly slipped away from Bar le Duc into a perfect Sunday afternoon.

We had agreed with those pesky Canadians, that we'd meet them at the first place there was space, which turned out to be a town called Tronville. Between there and our departure point was nothing but a few hours of clear sky and water lily lined canal, and rolling fields of wheat and corn. Occasionally the tranquility of it all was interrupted by a cyclists cheery wave, or a friendly "bonjour" or twelve from a family strolling along the tow path called in a volume great enough to be heard above Mr Perkins' dulcet throb.

It wasn't particularly hard to pretend that we were quite enjoying ourselves. We even made a brave show of it all when, were faced with quietly watching the sun subside over the lily pond in which we were forced to moor for the evening.

Renaissance Festival Bar-le-Duc

2011-07-02T07:26:00.000+10:00

The Renaissance Festival has begun, and it would have been remiss of us not to have spent at least one day wandering among the stalls, eating crepe chocolate crepe until we looked like one, while watching the amazing array of performers as we walk the streets.

The atmosphere in the daytime at least is gentle and relaxed, the streets busy enough but not crowded, the visual feast sublime.

We spent an hour watching the indescribable: Children riding a carousel of cows fabricated from parts scrounged from the set of Mad Max, and powered by fathers pumping on the udder of another quite separate bovine, while mothers took turns to grind the organ accompaniment, the organ itself clearly built as a project by inmates of an asylum.

All the while a farmer silently watched and blew feathers over the riders in his charge.

Pure magic.

So this is what the Renaissance was like.

2011-07-01T07:20:00.009+10:00

Having a daughter clogging up a tiny corner of our abode is all rather pleasant. She eats little, doesn't make much noise and thus far at least has barely complained. Perhaps she has repressed her memory of the last time aboard, when it was raining quite a lot, and it was easier to stay dry by donning a raincoat and standing outside than remaining aboard the good ship Joyeux, the extent of whose perforations had not yet been discovered.

Those times have long passed though, as for the time being has the rain, which gave us a perfect day for drying clothes just washed, walking in the sunshine and checking on progress on preparations for the Festival.

It's been a long time since we've seen a genuine thunderbox and here there are dozens scattered around the old town, newly erected complete with what presumably is a sufficient supply of sawdust to last the weekend.

Gentlemen may rest assured that there is no need to soil the millennia old walls of the church either should they be caught short, as behind the partition so clearly marked, have been placed at their disposal two half drums complete with sawdust lining to ensure that no nasty drumming or even splashing sounds will be audible.

I wonder if, to completely authenticate this journey down memory lane, the containers will be disposed of in a nearby waterway.

Washing Bar-le-Duc

2011-06-30T07:17:00.008+10:00

Changeover day they call it in the charter industry.

It's the day when last week's guests check-out, and there's a frantic rush to clean and re-provision before next week's lot arrive, but the water was turned off in the port so we couldn't wash and there really didn't seem to be any point at all in getting frantic or for that matter in rushing either.

Instead, we wandered round Bar for a while, idly taking photographs of the preparations for the coming weekend's Renaissance Festival, trying terribly hard not to be taunted by the streets filled with decorations which looked for all the world like washing strung on clothes lines.

Alas the more we walked, the more obvious the taunts appeared to be, until all one of us could think of was what needed doing in the time remaining until Shell's arrival, and we were both forced therefore, to turn around and get something done in the way of cleaning, polishing and generally moving things from where they were to somewhere else and back again.

Tomorrow there will be water and we will wash, perhaps then it will be our socks hanging above the streets.

Cool

2011-06-29T21:41:00.009+10:00

Long after the storm the rain remained.

The drops were just big enough to drown out the sound of the transformers, but not big enough to actually wet anything properly. Normally one would even consider staying in bed until it had gone away, but normally one wouldn't have a deadline.

It wasn't really proper rain in any case, just the useless sort of misty stuff that normally fills the boat with condensation, but after days like yesterday the twenty degree decrease in temperature filled the boat with big wide smiles instead.

We had places to go, things to do, people to see, a train to catch and people to put on it, and we had till tomorrow to do that, and it was really quite pleasant travelling in the damp, for yours truly at any rate. With Graham borrowing my rain jacket and the Captain in hers, there seemed little point in three of us getting wet.

Eventually the sun arrived in Bar-le-Duc a few minutes before we did and the smiles grew wider still.

Warm

2011-06-28T21:38:00.007+10:00

Note to file:

When one is terribly comfortable under a cool shady tree and the forecast for tomorrow is "too hot to do anything", one should listen to the forecast. In the event that one absolutely must move on for any reason whatsoever, one can be assured that there will be delays at locks, breakages, barges and the sun will beat down relentlessly, then when one has almost had enough, the temperature will soar further and more locks will break down stretching a three hour journey to six or even eight.

Then, once everyone cries "enough" and the only shade one can find is being cast by high tension power lines, (but one is quite slender and it's better than nothing), if there are Canadians around it is likely that the heat will have begun to melt their brains and they will introduce a brain teasing game that probably no one in the world has ever solved, which will combine with the buzz of the not too distant transformers to leave everyone sleepless until the storm arrives.

Shade Bignicourt-sur-Sauix

2011-06-27T23:05:00.000+10:00

As anyone who knows about this stuff will tell you what goes up, must come down. In the event of wanting to return to where one has come from on a canal system, the reverse is also true, and we have a good deal of going up to do over the next few weeks.

Fortunately this process means that there is a certain familiarity with the route so that if for instance the day dawns bright and clear and hot and humid, a lot like a summer's day at home, we have a fair idea of where to find the perfect spot to spend the afternoon. That is how we came to be sitting in the shade of a tree, all afternoon ,with Al and Sunny joining us in the shade, our snooze only interrupted by the sound of the water flowing over the lock and the birds above.

At one point I reminded myself that it's traditional to take a long walk late on a Sunday afternoon. Thankfully, it being Monday we could just sit and chat and read and wonder whether or not we would be leaving in the morning without having to feel guilty about not raising a sweat.