Canal Boating - Personal Diary

by JF Macaigne

Of course there is more to the region than just rugby”, Maïte would have said. "There's the Baïse as well". It's essential to spell the name of this treasure chest of a little river correctly, since otherwise one might tend to understand something different. So, if you come across a misprint in the following lines, please correct it yourself and for goodness sake, don’t bother the writer with it!

We left very early in the morning, on the Aquitaine TGV towards Agen, taking advantage of a special offer, “First class at second class price”. The new layout of the coaches surprised me a bit to start with – slightly reminiscent of compartments. I had the impression of travelling in a corridor, but it’s true to say that once I had mastered the operation of the reclining chair (the previous occupant must have spent the journey flat out, I promise you) it was very comfortable. It’s 6 a.m., the train leaves, gliding silently through the lights of the waking town. In a sort of half mist, the first glimmers of dawn tinge the sky with pink. We leave behind empty, sleeping stations, and lit lamps which melt into the past. In the brightening sky long salmon pink vapour trails remind me of the pyjamas my grandfather particularly favoured when I was a kid.

The sun rises over Poitiers and Futuroscope. Misty threads float above the meadows. I shut an eye….and open it in fog. We’re passing through the Garonne and the weather forecast, optimistic that it was, seems to have let us down. It’s really overcast – and we’re here!

At the Locaboat base at Agen, Sabine’s nutbrown eyes and lovely smile succeed in waking me from the semi-torpor which has engulfed me. We go through everything with her: boat, itinerary, unexpected events, advice…. After a look round the world capital of prunes, a “confit de canard” at lunchtime in the old town and some essential food shopping, we’re almost ready. The sun too, which did a vanishing act this morning, has recovered itself since midday. The sky is a lavender blue and the white Pénichettes sparkle with health in the little port alongside the Canal Latéral à la Garonne. All this happiness dazzles us and we cast off towards the famous aqueduct of Agen a few hundred metres further along. 580m long, it was built between 1839 and 1843 by Jean-Baptiste de Baudre, and finishes in four locks separated by large rectangular pools.
False start: at this time of year the aqueduct shuts at 5 p.m., not a minute later (6pm after end of April through summer months)! We turn round, and after a tour of the town (the old town and the cathedral are worth the detour!) we sensibly spend the night at the base so that we can get off early in the morning.

About 10 a.m. we are finally ready ….and well-rested. We cross the famous aqueduct amongst joggers, cyclists and numerous dogs who are taking their masters for a walk along the stone paths of the bridge. We work through the four locks, under the watchful eyes of a goshawk gliding above us. A good omen, apparently.

After the third basin there’s one last lock, a bridge (which one goes underneath) and here we are ready to tackle the job! The “Canal de Garonne”, as it is called nowadays, unfolds its straight, peaceful course over 195 km, from Toulouse to Castets en Dorthe. It follows (or precedes, whichever you like) the Canal du Midi, which we know well. The Garonne itself is not far away but it is too wild a river for navigation. One glimpses it from time to time as it passes close to us, but not for long: just before Sérignac it veers away and gives us the cold shoulder.
We have lunch at a wooden picnic table on the bank by the entrance to Sérignac.

Slowly the landscape unfolds along the banks. Fields of rapeseed plunge into green copses and in the plum orchards it seems as though millions of little white suns are trapped in nets of giant butterflies. It’s chic, Chic! There’s even a little aqueduct which crosses the Auvignon, just before the lock. A few kilometres further on, from another aqueduct we are able to cast an eye over the Baïse which appears below us.
Prosperous farms with huge square towers follow one after the other and we soon arrive at Buzet where the famous red wine is made, the partner of confit and cassoulet.

We come to a little village enveloped by the sun, asleep under the cooing of pigeons and a few children’s cries. We buy our provisions for the weekend there (the butcher’s meat is well worth stopping for…) before reboarding the boat and continuing on our way under the watchful eye of Sophie, the beautiful lock-keeper, who gives us the keys to the Baïse, or rather its locks, in the form of a magnetic card attached to a piece of cork. If it should fall into the water by accident…..

Jays in the trees follow us, curious at the intrusion. In the middle of all this greenery, Clairac (the name of our Pénichette) takes on the guise of the African Queen and at the helm I dream of Katharine Hepburn. Soon it’s 7.30 and we get out the mooring stakes. A few good strokes of the mallet, and we’re done. We’ll spend the night in the heart of the Baïse, at the foot of the chateau de Trenqueléon. What a pretty name.

Our firts night on the Baïse ends with a nasty surprise in the morning: it’s raining. Not hard, but enough to squash our morale flat. At Easter, as well! We finish our ablutions while the bells ring for Easter, and with them, the sun comes out. It’s a pascal miracle. Later a local explains that it never rains for long in this area.

Towards 11 o’clock we are within sight of the mill at Vianne, a superb ruined building dominating the river. The view from the lock is spectacular; an old mill, ramparts and a little weir which transforms the mirror-like surface into foaming swirls. On foot, we approach the walls of this old twelfth century bastide laid out on the lines of an old Roman camp. Anyone familiar with Aigues-Morte would recongnise it. Vianne is fascinating, that’s the very least one can say. Above all don’t miss the charming little church whose pillars are decorated with medieval sculptures still with traces of the original multi-coloured paintings.

Right opposite, Monsieur Viger has opened his restaurant Huîtres et Délices which boasts of being the first to introduce caviar from Aquitaine sturgeon seventeen years ago. This caviar is second in quality in the world, after wild beluga caviar from Iran. As an Easter celebration we’re certainly very interested in these little eggs.

High walls run round the town guarded by square towers which remind one of Petibonum (ask someone in the family who reads Asterix, they’ll explain to you). In the centre pretty houses with painted shutters surround a very southern-feeling square, embellished with an old stone fountain. The whole thing is unexpected and charming.
Our stomachs remind us of happy memories and appetising smells escape from the oven on the boat. It’s a loin of lamb with herbs (obligatory at Easter). That’s the advantage of a Pénichette. You can cook more or less as you do at home. We begin our tasting of local produce with a Buzet. In turn there will be Cahors, Madiran, Gaillac, cotes du Marmandais, cotes de Saint-Mont, cotes de Duras, Teriquet (not in order)…..not the same, but all excellent. One of the obvious advantages of waterway tourism is acquiring knowledge of local terroirs, the particular growing conditions of an area, without risk to anyone else nor to one’s driving licence.

After Lavardac and the lock at Saint-Grabary, the Baïse seems to shrink a bit, the locks becoming narrower, and we have to lift up the fenders so that we can penetrate between the high walls of glistening stones. From the start I’ve been passionate about these stones, which are all magnificent abstract pictures.
On the right we come to a huge and magnificent ruin whose walls are steeped in adventure and history; it’s the chateau of Séguinot, immense mass of stonework,
solitary and majestic. It was built in the sixteenth century and given by Henri IV to Francois Lanoue, the famous “Iron arm”. After the siege of Fontenay-le-comte in 1570, when he lost his left arm, a mechanic from La Rochelle made him a metal arm so that he could still hold the reins of his horse.

On the river below a kingfisher taunts us. He flies off as we get near, little flash of electric blue and orangey-yellow, skimming the water from tree to tree, impossible to photograph.
At Sorbet lock the cottage is to rent. There’s no doubt there’ll be a taker for it this summer..

Beguiled by the old bridge and the houses round about it we spend the night at Nérac. First of all we decide we must look round the rown. Some old houses around the bridge help us to imagine what the town was like at the time when the young Henri of Navarre, not yet Henri IV, was sowing his wild oats: Sully’s house, where Calvin stayed while he was director of spiritual adviser to Jeanne d’Albret, Henri’s mother. Since 1527, under the leadership of Marguerite d’Angouleme, mother of Jeanne and sister of Francois 1, Nérac has been one of those place that inspires the spirit: as well as Calvin, one comes across Clément Marot, and Lefèvre d’Etaples. In 1572 Henri married Marguerite de Valois, which led to the Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacre. Henri waited four years before fleeing the capital to return to Nérac. A court of more than three hundred people was to evolve there. Montaigne was to be seen there, Agrippa d’Aubigné, Salluste du Bartas walk in the garden of the Royal Park of the Garenne, opposite the chateau: a Renaissance chateau of which only the North wing remains, a carved marvel . Nearby, and on the other side of the river, a walk through time awaits you between old walls and half-timbered buildings. Memories of Henri before he left for Paris in august 1579 are everywhere. As you leave towards Moncrabeau, bordering the royal park of the Garenne, spare a thought for Fleurette, the pretty gardener, who drowned herself here for love of the king. Legend has it that “conter fleurette” (or murmur sweet nothings), and later the verb “flirter”, adapted on its journey through England, originate with this pretty girl…

We cast off the ropes towards adventure and the loops of the Baïse. If you are curious by nature, and if it’s the right time of year, have a look through the grass of the little island as you wait at Nazareth lock: you’ve a good chance of finding some wild strawberries.
On the path alongside the river a mischievous little Tom Thumb has sown millions of pink and white daises; the result is magnificent.
Saubole lock groans atrociously as it shuts as if there was a spirit trapped right inside the heavy wooden lock gates. The impression is strange, not to say odd . Odd, you say, my dear cousin?

In fact, while you are in the area round all the bridges and all the locks which punctuate the waterway, take extra care as the clearances are extremely tight, with only a few centimetres on each side for the largest boats.
Naturally this produces eddies of water as the chamber fills up and you have to hold the ropes firmly so that you are not too knocked about.
On the banks beside the Pacheron lock, beside a big house with red and white shutters, lives a Dutch woman who keeps Leonbergs, powerful, hairy and magnificent dogs. They welcome boaters with a joyful concert, which must be a bit unnerving for their owner, nevertheless.
We pass not far from Fréchou, famous all over the world for its melon-pip-spitting championship (more than 12m!).

We slice through the waves with the regularity of a Swiss watch with a slow movement, playing with the ducks as we go. They skim past the Pénichette in order to position themselves in front in a skilful sideslip, wings extended, like a sloop in high seas. Then the game begins. The principle is simple: the duck is in front of the prow, apparently lazing about on the pale green water. Just as we arrive a bit too close to his liking he flies off at water level to place himself fifty metres further on. This happens four or five times and when Donald (or any other name) feels that he is sufficiently far from his point of departure, he flies off for good, round the boat, and goes back to where he was at the start, hoping that there won’t be another boat along immediately. OK it’s a bit of sport, but one mustn’t exaggerate. In short, the mocking duck mocks – that’s what he does.

We go through the lock at Moncrabeau without seeing the village. There’s a tradition here that comes straight out of the eighteenth century. At that time, when the media was not at all the same as nowadays, the inhabitants started to make up news to replace the news they didn’t have. A monk from Condom, impressed, created an “Academy of liars” with some of the citizens, bringing together “…all the braggarts, storytellers and fibbers who exercise the fine art of creating untruths without harm to anything or anybody except the literal truth, of which they are the sworn enemies.”
The brotherhood still exists and elects its king on the first Sunday of every August. People come from everywhere… It’s a charming little village where you will take delight in finding Jumping Cuckold street, the Royal Mint of Mr. Flea, or Harbour Square. Quite a programme…

The river, unfolding its meandering curves, narrows for a bit and as we pass other boats we all watch out for our port sides. Don’t imagine that the Baïse is monotonous in the long run. Just in front of a lock a fisherman has erected a blue parasol and got down to his favourite occupation. What a happy man!

The “African Queen” sensation that we had a couple of days ago returns more forcibly. We plunge further and further towards the source of the Baïse. The complete absence of ripples on the water testifies to the remoteness of the spot. Are we heading towards a new Eldorado, a new lost city? Nature is calm. No wild animal cries. There aren’t too many creepers here, but further on…? From time to time a heron flies from one river bank to the other as if he was bored with the scenery. Copses of hazels follow each other, as do narrow locks, and at last, in the late afternoon, we arrive at Condom. The port is peaceful, barely disturbed by some ducks swimming upstream in single file.

The flat-bottomed boats of the area, Gabarres, used to leave from here loaded with cloth and barrels of Armagnac bound for Bordeaux and the wider world. Now, in the balminess of this late afternoon, Condom rests from its past labour in the golden gleams of sunset. Old doors in the narrow street accompany our steps towards the cathedral of St. Pierre perched on its hill. Opposite, two young men kick and throw a ball about. A rugger ball, of course…..the action is splendid, assured, joyful….incongruously it makes me think of Easter eggs!

The church’s interior is like lace. Bossuet, who was bishop here for two years, never came here, being too busy at court. We discover a lovely cloister to one side, where some of the keystones and arches still have their original decoration.

A little further on we come to the Hotel de Polignac, built in 1780, still redolent of the majesty of this great century. It belonged to the Vicar-General of Metz, Grand
Prior of Layrac, who had it built for 300,000 golden guineas.
It’s supper time, the town is peaceful, just like the Baïse, which flows without ripple through the supports of the Barlet bridge. Tomorrow we’ll start going back in the other direction . We’ll go back via Buzet, not without stopping at the medieval mill of Barbaste. It’s located a few hundred metres from the Baïse on a tributary, the Gélise, which unfortunately is not navigable. We’ll have to moor somewhere, preferably near Bordes bridge, climb up to the road and do the remaining five metres on foot. One goes across the Roman bridge, and the mill can be visited from 15 June to 15 September from 3-7 p.m.

As a bonne bouche, if you have some spare time before going back, instead of turning left at Buzet to return to Agen, bear right and continue a few kilometres as far as Damasan. You won’t regret it. You’ll find a marvellous little bastide founded in 1259 on the order of the Comte de Poitiers, St. Louis’ brother. It’s spread out around the Hotel de Ville, which was built in 1818 above the covered market. The houses are brightly painted, like in the middle ages, and there is still some magnificent half-timbering.

You will spend the night in the quiet little port down below, then the next morning you will resume your journey to Agen because you have to get here before the aqueduct closes……and as you travel down this wide, straight line which leads between fields of rape in flower to the three locks before the aqueduct, on-board stereo playing in the background, you will think of all those who, like you, have never before known what it is like to spend an entire week on the Baïse.…

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