The Inland Route to the Mediterranean

"Sailing in the Mediterranean sounds wonderful" I said, "but how are we going to get there?" Even I knew that the Bay of Biscay has a nasty reputation. Although we had a couple of RYA courses under our belts neither of us were particularly experienced sailors. "No problem" said Nick, "I've got it all worked out. We'll take the boat through the French canals - it'll be a doddle." I tried to keep the surprise and scepticism out of my voice, "that must be close on a 1000-mile journey. What about all the locks?" "Don't worry about them " said Nick in his casual way, "OAPs go through them in river cruisers all the time. If they can do it, it'll be easy for us."

I had heard this kind of talk before and the "it'll be a doddle" had a nasty habit of coming back to haunt us. I remembered 1 or 2 scary moments in the Solent the previous summer, when we had just bought Panache. Still, I thought, it does sound a great idea and Panache is a very seaworthy boat. I began to imagine the lush french countryside. "Think of all the wonderful food and wine" murmured Nick.

Ever since Nick had persuaded me to buy Panache, a venerable Contessa 32, we had been planning a Mediterranean cruise. The idea was that we would both give up our jobs and take off for a year or two before settling down. So that was how Nick and I, with 2 friends as temporary crew, came to cast off from the Hamble's Mercury marina and depart the UK in May last year. We were chasing a break in the weather and a favourable forecast. The 100-mile trip to Le Havre proved surprisingly straight forward and the 4 of us quickly settled down to two 3-hourly watches. Even though we crossed the busy channel shipping lanes at night, spotting the well-lit freighters was not difficult as they came like London buses - not at all or 3 together.

We arrived at the Anse de Joinville marina the following afternoon and that evening celebrated with seafood platters and a carafe or 2 of wine. Waving off our crew the next morning the size of our undertaking began to dawn even on Nick. The next few days were spent at this excellent marina filling Panache with additional fuel and water in jerry cans to be self-sufficient for about 10 days and buying extra large fenders. Time was also spent obtaining the Voies Navigables Francaises (VNF) permit for traveling through the French waterways and buying the necessary guide books for our route. [See technical box - Permits, guides and essential equipment] Nick made finals checks on the engine as we would be relying solely on our elderly 12HP Faryman diesel engine for the immediate future.

It was bright and blustery as we requested permission to cross the commercial harbour from the Le Havre port authorities on channel 16. We made our way gingerly to the Chantier Naval in Bassin Vauban were our mast was to be unstepped and sent by road, keeping a wary eye out for freighters and ferries. "It all looks a bit ramshackle " I said, "do you think they know what they're doing?" "Of course they do" replied Nick, "this isn't the third world, it's France - they're highly professional people." The next thing we knew, the 'rigger' clutching a pair of rusty pliers, a Galois perched on his lip and a nice line in gallic shrugs, set about our bottle screws. Minutes later our mast was swinging precariously just above our heads and everyone shouting at once. A man I took for the yard owner tried to reassure me "this is the French way, do not worry your mast will be in Port St Louis-du-Rhone before you." I remembered those words from the helpful French 'yottie' at the end of our canal trip and the mast was nowhere to be seen; but that was 6 weeks and 180 locks later.

We entered the huge mouth of the Seine by motoring along the coastline south of Le Havre. Turning right off the Seine, before the impressive Pont du Normandie bridge, we entered the Vieux Bassin of Honfleur via a small lock and lifting bridge. Honfleur is a charming medieval town navigable by yachts with masts. The tiny harbour is completely surrounded on three sides by a higgledy-piggledy line of slate fronted town houses and reeks of history. Art galleries and restaurants abound and visitors can moor alongside the quay - definitely one to visit again from the UK.

Our first encounter with the large commercial locks, or SAS, set the tone for the numerous others we were to meet. We would just turn up and hang around until someone noticed us. It was pointless calling up the lock keepers on the VHF as they rarely bothered to reply. Frequently controlled by traffic lights, entering, tying up and leaving the SAS was surprisingly straight forward provided we were going slowly enough and kept out of the way of all the commercial traffic, including their backwash. (Some barges keep their engines running in the locks so we found it best to hang back especially when they were maneuvering in or out.) By the time we were half way through France we had pretty much encountered every fixed, floating and awkwardly-spaced bollard combination and had perfected our lock technique. [See technical box - Lock technique]

The majority of lock keepers, in particular those controlling the ecluses, were very friendly going out of their way to help, for example with obtaining fuel. They provided water, took rubbish, sometimes even sold wine, and could advise on suitable places to stop for the night. The latter was important as "plaisanciers" are prohibited from traveling between dusk and dawn. Often a single lock keeper would man 3 or more locks in a staircase, cycling or driving between them. We would sometimes tip these keepers an occasional beer or 10FF but this was entirely voluntary. The life of a lock keeper seemed idyllic - we were greeted by a kaleidoscope of colours in immaculately kept gardens as we emerged from the dank, gloomy depths of the lock. Their cottages were nearly always located in the most tranquil, rural surroundings - I wouldn't have minded a job share!

One time when we were still new to the ecluses we didn't quite grasp the significance of arriving to find one lock gate open and the other closed. By going bows-to the bank, Nick scrambled ashore and began manually opening the closed gate. We dimly became aware of someone shouting "arrete, arrete" and then "stop!" The keeper came running down from his cottage, jabbed a stubby finger at a sign taped to the gatehouse window. In French we were informed he was on his lunch break.

Poses-Amfreville, although still in the Seine, was a tranquil sanctuary after the fast-flowing early section of the river, where ocean-going ships (and yachts with masts) travel up as far as Rouen. It was the weekend and in glorious sunshine we negotiated the large Amfreville SAS, complete with public-viewing gallery on the overhead walkway, without a hitch and threaded our way among the tree-clad islets to join Guy and Angela on their Dolphin 35 Reflex moored alongside a grassy bank. Ambling around the picturesque cottages I wandered into an exhibition by a resident artist and wished that our budget stretched to one of her beautiful impressionist river scenes. After all, we weren’t far from Claude Monet’s house in XXX. The next morning we found the local bakery open, even on Sunday, for fresh croissants and baguettes.

A highlight of our journey was a stay in Paris in a marina right in its centre. Motoring against the fierce current of the Seine, keeping an anxious eye out for the abrupt maneuverings of the numerous bateaux mooches, while admiring the well-known Parisian landmarks made for an unforgettable entrance to this most beautiful of cities. We were glad to leave the fast-flowing river behind us and negotiate the tiny lock of the Canal-Saint-Martin to enter the relative peace of the Port de Paris Arsenal marina. The majority of residents are permanent but the helpful staff always manage to squeeze you in. For £10/night for a 10 metre boat with excellent showers and laundry facilities, it is cheaper than any hotel and right in the heart of the city at the Place de la Bastille. To celebrate we treated ourselves to a night at the opera and afterwards it was a 5 minute stroll back to Panache through the thronging Parisian nightlife.

"Mecanicien oui, acrobate non!" where the first words Monsieur Leleu said to us, shouted from the bank at Saint-Mammes, on the Canal du Loing. Gazing at his portly figure I could see he had a point, as we were asking him to clamber over a couple of the numerous peniches we had rafted up against. Our stern gland had come apart, was leaking badly and needed fixing now. St-Mammes, a small village situated where the Canal du Loing joins the Seine, still boasts a healthy population of peniches, with their attendant problems, which ply their dwindling trade throughout the European waterways.

We had limped our way from Melun to St-Mammes where our guide books had suggested a fuelling station and "services". At every lock Nick would disappear down the quarter berth to clear away as much of the grease as possible and jam the stern gland together again. All I could see from the cockpit at the helm were his feet. Having clambered on board, unfortunately Mr Leleu couldn't fit down the quarter berth so he stood wedged in the galley before the engine which was now exposed beneath the companionway steps. Sweating profusely and shouting instructions in French at Nick struggling in the quarter berth, he grew as frustrated as us at our lack of French phrases. Eventually with a combination of sign language, odd French words and many scribbled diagrams our problem was temporarily fixed by an ingenious clamp to hold the rubber coupling onto the brass flange of the stuffing box. The root of our problem, worn engine mounts, was not solved until we reached Corsica.

We were pleasantly surprised at the lack of traffic we encountered on the French waterways. The largest barges are restricted to the upper reaches of the Seine and the wider canals. These are then replaced by the "pushers" or "pullers" of 2-4 smaller barge units traveling either in series or in parallel. We encountered peniches mainly in the small canals, but we would often go for a couple of days without seeing another vessel. Not quite the "motorway" to the Mediterranean I was expecting. In a journey of 6 weeks we had only 2 close encounters with barges.

On one occasion we were encouraged to overtake a Belgian peniche, where the bargee's wife grew impatient at our timid maneuverings. "Your boat is not made of chocolate!" she yelled. (Not Belgian chocolate anyway!) Another time the lock keeper warned us of a large commercial vessel approaching. Of course we encountered it in the narrowest part of the canal. Restricted to near the middle of the canal by our draft, its bow wave pushed us out onto the mud at the sides where we stopped. Its stern wave then lifted us back off and we were on our way again.

At Chalon-sur-Saone we re-entered the river system which culminates in the fast-flowing Rhone. Here we started to meet plaisanciers from the NE European countries - Germans, Scandinavians, and Belgians. Journey's end was arriving in Port-St-Louis-du-Rhone. Needless to say the Chantier Naval at Port St-Louis had no record of our mast. We discovered that it had been delivered to Port Napoleon, fortunately, just around the corner. Here Panache was reunited with her mast and the whole of the Mediterranean lay before us. Now we were we were able to do what Contessas like best, go sailing.

To anyone contemplating the "inland" route to the Mediterranean, we would thoroughly recommend the trip through the french rivers and canals. For uninterrupted river cruising, peace and tranquility you are hard pressed to beat this route.

As a Contessa 32 has a keel-stepped mast we were glad we had sent the mast on ahead by lorry. Carrying a 13m mast on a boat of 9.75m LOA it would undoubtedly have come to grief in the locks. Although carriage was relatively expensive, we paid £500, if you shop around you can no doubt obtain a more competitive price especially if your French is good.