Before leaving Paris fuel fever sets in. Have we enough
Diesel? Can you get diesel after Paris? Will we run out in the middle of
nowhere? So, get diesel where you can and Paris Arsenal, with all these diesel
boats, is bound to have a pump. A quick tour of the marina gave up nothing. A
visit to the Capitainerie confirmed that
actually they don't have any diesel. And why should they?
Where can I get some then? It's okay there is a pump about a
mile away along Rue St Antoine. Great I know where that is. So with Jerry cans
strapped to my trusty trolley out I set. Having walked past it twice I notice
two petrol pumps just perched on the pavement next to an underground car park.
Inside there is a sign saying 'Garage' Diesel must be inside. I wander down and
am met by a guy who looks suspiciously like Monsiour Hollande, perhaps
moonlighting to help the economy. I say, with a sense of achievement, Gasoil S'il
vous plait. The reply is non. Ferme. Damn it's just gone four and its Friday. A
quick,, what time do you open tomorrow? Tells me that they don't but will be
open Monday. Brilliant.
I tow my empty cans back to the boat telling myself I have
enough fuel anyway and if Francoise can't be arsed to take my Euros I can't be
arsed to come back.
We are leaving on Monday and when Monday comes fuel fever
sets in and I load up my cans and set off to fill them up, in the searing heat.
On arrival I am met by my good friend Francoise and I smile sweetly and say
Gasoil S'il vous plait. Well his reply was stunning. Non, only Essence, no Gasoil.
At this point I realised what an asset to diplomacy not
knowing the language was but also what a disadvantage it was to getting
information. I stumbled back to the boat with my empty cans trying to work out
how to say - you complete and utter, four squared, copper bottomed, twat in
French.
So, deftly helmed out of Paris Arsenal lock by Caro, we head
off up river to our first lock beyond Paris oh and we have to share it.
Notice the, 'I'm not bovered' look.
We met up with Nigel
and Mellie at Draveil.in his identical but one metre shorter Southerly 115. A pleasant little marina within a country park but
bloody hot. We parked Granddad under a tree and headed off to the shops to buy
stuff for a Barbeque.
We made two mistakes, one we didn't see all the signs around
the park saying no barbeques and two we bought duck sausages. We cooked on
board.
The sausages were disgusting. In order to make them you take
one well run over duck and mix it with the contents of the nearest bin. You
then bind it together by folding in some old engine oil. Then you take a bike
inner tube that has been marinated in the Seine near Paris for a few months, knot
one end and stuff the former into the latter. Tie it off and package it up with
the label 'Saucisson Canard' and sell it to unsuspecting boaters.
The Seine slowly returned to the picturesque river of the
lower reaches outside Paris
Granddad settled in to his usual crew mode by honing in on
the most tense sailing situation and then embarking on an extended commentary
on the surrounding bird life. We developed coping strategies. -----We didn't really
tie him up in that large blue bag!
As you can see a tireless crew alert, hardworking,
constantly on the go, keeping a conscientious watch,hanging on the skippers every word!
We stopped at a lovely little town called Melun apparently
where all the widowed queens of France ended
up. A couple of free nights as the services didn't work. We made new
friends with the crew of Puddleduck.
Granddad and I visited the museum which
was small but quaint. The lady on reception had a wicked streak to her and
asked if we were over 65 to which Granddad, seeing a concession, quickly acceded
to. I protested that I wasn't 65 to which the lady asked if I was older or
younger?
It obviously comes with the isolation of working in Melun museum.
Pretty place. Spot Hermy behind the barges.
We lost Granddad at Melun railway station and continued our
voyage and battle with French Wifi.
Next stop Samois Sur Seine near Fontainebleu.
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