Most of the time I am content to sit in the windows, or on the terrace, and watch the river course past Les Terraces. But there’s water in my blood, under my skin, in my bones. It can’t be watched for long before its pull becomes too strong to resist and I capitulate. Thus far, I’ve managed to use the arrival of friends or family as the excuse for getting afloat on the river, but I doubt that I’ll be able to pull that off for too much longer, at which point I’ll have to pull my own weight, literally!
Last year my father and I enjoyed a gentle slide from Port Sainte-Foy to Eynesse. This year I really wanted to go further and, with 2 sets of friends, have enjoyed travelling further downriver to Pessac-sur-Dordogne.
Prior to this year I’d only paddled three times, so I’m no expert, not even close. So the time that it takes to leave the beach at the canoeing base to passing the house is mostly spent getting the balance of the boat so that it is generally pointing in the correct direction (most of the time). I am very glad that no-one yet has set a drone to film our departures, as they are far from professional with lots of zig-zagging and circles to be witnessed. Probably not even funny, just pathetic! Anyhow, we try.
There is something magical about being on the water, particularly once you escape the noise of traffic and the clamour of modern life. Almost as soon as you round the bend in the river at St. André-et-Appelles you slide into a scene that, save the incongruity of a couple of heavy-duty overhead electrical cables, has probably changed little in the past 500 years, or more. Rustic hand-built wooden paddle-steered boats nudge the banks, while great grey herons and brilliant kingfishers flash swiftly over the water’s surface, piqued that you have disturbed their quest for the next morsel.
The river is mostly rather serene, but don’t be fooled. There are some rather wicked currents and eddies, particularly close to the bridges that, tragically, have claimed rather too many unsuspecting lives over the years. They can make progress easier, if you can read them (and have the requisite skill to position yourself in them), and we’ve spent quite some time feet dangling over the sides of the canoe letting the river take us where it chooses.
Picnic spots abound, along with beaches from which one can swim (if you’re not too much of a wimp, as I am). We stopped one day at a little island that we’d originally hoped to paddle around but, being old farts, hadn’t the welly to fight the current, so we let the river push us gently onto it instead and had lunch and a nice cold beer (or two).
Not long after having passed St. Aulaye we heard a church bell ringing. It ought to have chimed just once, but it rang more than 30 times, twice (yes, we counted). I have yet to learn why. Just as the shoulders were getting weary and the hips stiffening we realised that we were getting close to our destination and were rewarded with the sight of a pair of swans with their cygnets.
And then, when we’d got our act together, we managed to beach nicely, without going for a Burton, and stretch our legs by walking up the hill to a nice little bar and a lovely cold beer….
Still…… at least we do better than this:
