We are here in Meilhan @ 26th June '09. Click to enlarge. One of the many delights of what we are doing is called “wild mooring” – that is, basically, tying up to the canal-side at a suitably remote spot and having a picnic. Our inverter gives us 240 volt power for the fridge and the imersion heater for perhaps 24 hours. We have our 2kw external generator to keep the batteries charged should we decide to stay a night or two. The solar panel helps too.
Morning view at Meilhan through the Houdini Hatch from the galley.
On our way to Meilhan we are delighted to meet up with our French friends André and Laurence for just such a peaceful “repas” on the river side and we spot their small cruiser “Oscar” already tied up in a sunny and remote spot. I move “Body and Soul” astern of them so that her “Houdini” hatch faces the bank. Lucie prepares some great food which she passes through it, to eager hands ashore.
Wild mooring at Fourques, an earlier occasion
It is worth extolling the virtues of the “Houdini” hatch – a particularly brilliant feature of narrow boats and the envy of many owners of other kinds of boat that we meet on the waterways who haven’t got one. There are several uses in addition to them being the emergency exit for which, I assume, they are designed. For instance, In winter we use it as a thermostat – flinging its doors open when the wood burner gets too hot. We use it for passing the shopping bags into the galley and logs through from the roof store to the "Jotul" wood burner. Then again, we use it for throwing out dirty dishwater - you know what I mean? - that saucepan with the remnants of porridge in it – instead of having to finger it down the plug-hole and blocking the sink? That's the one!
- sorry but it's the only one I've got, showing the "houdini" hatch!
On this occasion, for instance, we pass out all the picnic paraphernalia including tables and chairs as well as the food and drink through it and, today, in a careless moment, I even throw Teddy (the Norwich Terrier) and Spud (our Jack Russell) through it, much to their delight. Off they scuttle like hunters tracking spoor, their noses down every hole in the grassy bank. They’ll not come to any harm here, I muse, rather carelessly.
We raise our glasses and tuck in. It is a tranquil, pastoral scene. Our laughter and chat is the only noise apart from the breeze in the plane trees (les platane) towering above us. Nothing could spoil moments like this. Even the far off traffic noise seems to stop for “midi” in France. I’m now on my second glass of Latuc, AOC Cahors www.Latuc.com– a particular favourite of ours, when we hear a distant barking dog. Every dog owner knows the special sound of their own dog. That’s Spud alright!
He is clearly in the adjacent field which is inaccessible to us, being guarded by a wall of spikey gorse and brambles. Access must be through a gate somewhere on the other side. We can’t see where. I give in - he wants to show me what he's got - I must obey. The tone of his barking is getting frenetic. He is obviously “on” to something and letting the rest of the world know. So, I scoot off down the canal side looking for a gate to go through. There isn’t one. André is in hot pursuit. We are now in the field opposite the one in which Spud is. There is still a ploughed field to cross and some serious looking undergrowth. The barking has now reached a crescendo – like a torrent of doggy oaths.
Spud: He's my Buddy, now nine years old.
It is worth mentioning at this juncture that both André and I are in shorts, T-shirts and sandals and whilst I am prepared to do most things for my dog, without a thought, it takes me a while to negotiate the mass of brambles, stinging nettles and a snake pit in order to get near him. My legs and hands are already bleeding badly. André shrugs his shoulders at this point, as only the French can, indicating that this, after all, is my dog and that really it is down to me to go further into this jungle, but alone.
The brambles are now neck high and Spud is beside himself, making lunging sounds as if he had taken on more than he could chew. I am in dire need of a machete. At last I am within an arms length of the skirmish and there, within my grasp is both Spud and his quarry. It is a Coypu - the size of a badger, frightened and backed into a corner of dense undergowth. I can see blood around its mouth as it grins horribly up at me, showing it’s nasty yellow incisors. Both protagonists are bleeding and appear to be in it to the death. I grab Spud by the scruff of the neck and his collar and heave him to the relative safety of my bleeding arms. He is also covered in blood and dirt. He seems quite pleased to be out of it – he looks at me as if to say “what kept you?”. I reckon his distinctly unfriendly Coypu feels pretty much the same.
This is a picture of the Coypu that we saw in Briare with her "cubs".
Our return through the same brambles, stinging nettles and the snake pit, clutching my dog, is equally as frought. I am now sweating hard and bleeding like a stuck pig from the waist down but we manage to reach base camp in one piece. He is very dirty and we dunk him into the canal and wash his wounds carefully with disenfectant. He has teeth marks under his chin and down his neck, but otherwise seems unharmed.
I sit down, after a shower, to finish what is left of my picnic with the others whilst Spud (we often call him "Doctor Spud") insists on licking and licking my wounds clean for the rest of the afternoon – something he always does if I am injured. He's my “buddy” after all and we love him.