Narrow Dog to Carcassonne (31 page)

Sète is a real town with boats on the quay that looked a bit like Fritz’s cruiser but many times bigger and had winches on the back and smelt of fish. Tall buildings along the water, restaurants down to the harbour, an old town, leafy squares. A businesslike place—noisy, friendly, untidy,
en fête
.

Monica had some telephoning to do so we went back to the boat. The Canal du Midi is open, she said. There have been repairs which slowed things down but it is fine. I thought so, I said, to hell with Superdick. But, said Monica, there are force four to six gales on the Etang de Thau all week and the bloke I rang at the port said he had no information about when it would calm down. We are stuck and we can’t get on to the Canal du Midi and we have to be there in ten days because we promised our friends who are coming to meet us in Carcassonne.

We can’t sit here for weeks ringing some fool in the port who won’t commit himself about the weather, I said, the waiting would send me bonkers. We’ll set the alarm for six o’clock and if there is no wind we’ll chance it. If there is wind we’ll put the storm deck on and go the next morning. A large marc from the Spider Woman is indicated and an early night. Thank you doctor, said Monica, but it says in the book that the Etang de Thau cannot be crossed in a high wind.

Four o’clock in the morning is the time when people die and although I was not dead I was a long way away, dreaming about something very refreshing which made everything all right. It is painful to be untimely ripped from such a state just because a woman has started to scream.

Look, shrieked Monica, look, look, look, and out of the window I saw a boat, in full flower of flames, coming hard towards us. On the quay opposite another boat on fire. There was shouting and sirens and flashing lights and a fountain rose from the other side of the quay and fell on to the fire ship, driving it nearer to us and it had almost reached us when it went out. It’s Hoochie Coochie Prezzie Boots, I said, sending in the fire ships. Do you think you and Jim could finish this trip on your own? asked Monica.

AT SIX O’CLOCK THE WIND WAS ROCKING THE remains of the fire ship and its prey. At eight I rang the man at the port and he said it was entirely up to me if I wanted to cross the Etang—he could not advise, but there were gales four to six and he could not say when they would end or if they would ever end. He’s being sensible, said Monica—he would not want to commit himself and put you in danger. Very professional, I said, the prick.

A beautiful woman looked through the window and smiled and waved—I am the
capitaine
, that will be fifty euros. That is my
capitainerie—là-bas au fond
.

You’ll make it, said the
capitaine
, in smoke-broken English, taking our money and drinking her coffee and punching in the weather forecast on her computer and arranging a friend’s wedding on the phone, all at the same time. It’s better in the early morning, but you’ll make it if you go now. You crossed the Channel, you’ll be all right. No, you don’t need your storm deck. But remember it’s a sea. It’s too big to see the other side. Cross the Etang and follow the oyster beds to the west and then go for the lighthouse. The lighthouse is the entrance to the Canal du Midi. Don’t let the wind blow you into the oyster beds, the fishermen don’t like it. What horsepower is your engine? Forty-three? That’s enough to keep you off. If you get into trouble drop the anchor and give me a ring and I’ll come and get you. White, she’s insisting on it, cheeky devil, and a tiara, and she wants some of those cheese footballs for the buffet.

As we sailed out of Sète the Etang de Thau was pouring grey waves from the south-east. They raised the bridges again, and I realized it was ten o’clock and that it had been ten o’clock when we had come in the day before.

ON THE TILLER OF THE
PHYLLIS MAY
I WAS treading the line between exhilaration and panic. The wind was strong and the waves were coming from behind, the colour of lead, row on row, and some were white at the crests. There was a noisy breaker over my left shoulder, as if it were chasing us.

The boat drove on, holding steady, not pitching or rolling, and the propeller was staying under, not grinding air and water. The waves were fearful, but the Etang de Thau is shallow, and there was no swell, and unlike the Channel, there were no hidden tides to carry us away.

The first job was to get across to the north side of the sea. A couple of windsurfers came across our course, and one fell off and got back on just in time. I headed for the oyster beds. There were many miles of oyster beds. They were marked by metal stakes in rows, joined by wires—all very tidy, and between the stakes a farmer tended his crop in a pram dinghy, which sprang into the air each time a wave passed.

We sailed along the beds for an hour, sideways so we were not swept into them. I felt in control, my weight forcing the tiller to the right and my arms and body taking the smashes on the rudder. Would we run out of diesel? Monica would never let that happen. Would the sea get up some more? The
capitaine
had looked at the weather forecast and would not have let us go. My God, what is that?—a block of oyster beds reaching half a kilometre out into the middle of the Etang. They are not on the map but here they jolly well are looking at me and I have to turn left to go round them, and the sea is getting worse.

As I turned left across the wind the back of the boat began to skid to the right and the waves were breaking under her
Crash crash
. There were more white horses now and the sea had gone dark as wine. I wish I hadn’t told the
capitaine
we had sailed the Channel. She must be some sort of transatlantic adventure hero and thought we were too. But all we are is a couple of pensioners and a canal boat and a wretched dog.

We are being pushed sideways—we are going into the oyster beds. I felt OK a moment ago, now everything has changed—I don’t like being frightened like this. We must get round that corner, we must, or it’s into the stakes and turned over and we’re done for. All my weight to get the tiller right across, the waves smashing against the left side of the boat and the wind cuffing my shoulder and my face and shouting and hissing and driving us into the beds and our wave following to swallow us up and the counter swinging away under my feet. Jam my arm into the side of the hatch and keep the tiller locked. Just hang on, just hang on.

We missed the corner of the beds by six feet and turned round them and the wind came behind us and the boat settled. My coffee had wandered away over the roof and got stuck under the grab-rail and it was cold.

I COULDN’T DO ANYTHING, SAID MONICA, IT was awful. It was worse than we had ever seen and we were on our own and there was no pilot or anything. It was too rough to go on top with you. When the waves hit us sideways they came up to the windows and I could see the rows and rows for miles all grey and white all coming at us and the wind was howling like a horror film. Jim was marvellous, I mean usually he’s a coward. I held on to him on the sofa and he licked my face. I think he knew we would get through—after all he can see into the future, although perhaps he was saying goodbye. Once or twice when it was quieter he would go to the engine-room to see if your legs were still there. I put on my life jacket and Jim’s life jacket and on the table I put the floppy disk of the book and the passports and the
Book of Common Prayer
.

The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.

I said the bit about the still waters a lot. Then I prayed. Then after an hour and a half I started looking through the telescope and I could see the lighthouse and we got nearer very slowly and I saw two people surfing with kites and a crowd of yachts and I cuddled Jim and had a cry and I came up on the gunwale and put Jim on the roof and we sailed past the lighthouse into the waters of comfort.

THE CANAL DU MIDI HAD PLANE TREES EVERY ten metres. It was dusty and there were boats rotting and hirers who went as fast as they could. No views, just a tunnel of green—we were still at sea level. The first lock was a famous historical round lock—one of those places that people visit, to see the German hire-boaters, and hear their savage cries.

Agde runs into Cap Agde, which is on the sea and is probably posh, because Agde isn’t. Roads you can’t cross and squares and little streets with shops selling bracelets and pottery and postcards. We went to the riverfront, which is a row of restaurants. A lady of a certain age stopped us and explained that the fishing boat right there belonged to her family so our only rational course was to buy our dinner from her as it was caught by that very boat. We sat down and put a fleece on the floor for Jim.

As interpreted by this family, bouillabaisse—the dish of the Mediterranean—was dozens of fish of all sorts in a pan, covered with oil and saffron and boiled. With it came thin fish soup, and pieces of stale bread. To add to the soup there were small pieces of even staler bread and a little dish of oily orange
rouille
. There was a dubious bottle of wine. The meal was cheap and the fish was very good.

Under our window multitudinous mullet, the grey scavengers of the estuaries, fought for scraps with the ducks, and as there were only three ducks and the mullet were bigger than the ducks, the mullet came off better. There was a lot of splashing and I feared that the grey ones might leap from the river and seize my dinner off my fork.

On the way back it was dark. I fell behind and heard a guitar ringing like a bell and when I caught up Monica was dancing with Jim in an empty square to ‘Johnny B. Goode’. Jim was beginning to get the rhythm, but rather like the albatross, his giant’s muscles wouldn’t let him dance. I tapped him on the shoulder and excused him and he lay down under a table. The French rock and roll band the Blue Shadows played ‘Willie and the Hand Jive’ well, though I am not sure they had seen anyone do the hand jive before. And now another number from fifty years ago, said the lead singer.

A lady came down from an apartment and said that she once had a whippet and how it warmed her heart to see a lady dancing with her whippet to the tunes we used to know.

Jim went to sleep under the table, and Monica and I danced on, alone in the shadowy square.

IN THE ARMY, SAID OWEN ON THE PHONE, there are eleven officially recognized types of fucking idiot, and you are eight of them. You ran out of diesel—two hours after crossing the Etang de Thau? Men have died for less. The fuel pipe goes into the bottom of the diesel tank—one bubble of air in that pipe and you stop. And you were out at sea and it was rough and chucking the boat about and there was a wind driving you into the oyster beds. Society would probably not miss you or your thieving hound but it would be a shame about Monica.

Monica has gone along the bank to hang herself, I said. Monica was in charge of the diesel.

Your fuel system is full of air, said Owen, because you are a prat. Now on top of the engine, on your fuel filter, is a small hexagonal nut. Undo that and go down to the left to a little lever on the side of the fuel pump and pump it until air stops coming out where the nut was and diesel starts coming out instead. Then turn the engine over on the starter.

Two hours later Owen rang. I pumped a little lever, I said, for half an hour, but then I found out it is not connected to anything, and my thumb has stopped working and I can’t find the fuel pump. It’s a miracle you can get your socks on in the morning, said Owen. I will come and help if I have to, but I am two hours away.

Monica and I sat in the saloon and listened to the man from the Citroën garage turn the engine over. He’ll run down the battery, I thought, and we are half a mile from a road and on the wrong side of the cut. I have been rocking the lever, said the man from the Citroën garage, but it is not connected to anything and my thumb has stopped working and I can’t find the fuel pump. Now I must go and have my lunch. There is no charge.

The Englishman from the hire fleet said This is a lovely engine—we use nothing else. But there is a funny thing about this engine—the little hand lever for the fuel will pump in only one position of the camshaft—come and see. I watched him inch round the big wheel at the front of the engine and work a little lever that I had not seen before. After a dozen tries diesel came out from under the hexagonal nut and he tightened it and turned over the engine for a long time on the starter battery and it fired.

My name is Greg, said the Englishman from the hire fleet. That’s my real name. I usually give a false name because some of the English hirers try to get a free holiday and they will write reports about everything you say. The Germans don’t do that, or the Swiss. If things go wrong the Germans are quite reasonable and the Swiss say There is no fire on the lake. But in England the papers are full of articles telling people how to cheat the holiday company.

BÉZIERS HAS TWO FAMOUS SONS—ONE IS JEAN Moulin. He was the prefect of Reims, the man who attempted suicide to defy the Germans. He went on to unite and lead the Resistance, but he was betrayed, and murdered by Klaus Barbie. In a clearing in the park a memorial asks you to remember Jean Moulin and the heroes and heroines and the martyrs who fought with him.

The other son of Béziers is Pierre Paul de Riquet, an entrepreneur who decided late in life against informed advice to link the Atlantic with the Mediterranean. He died in 1681, just before the first vessel passed along the Canal du Midi, from Bordeaux to the wine-dark sea. He now stands, green and fifteen feet high, in the main avenue.

Pierre Paul de Riquet would not have been pleased with the port at Béziers. A sunken cruiser, no services, poor access to the city. Béziers looks as if it was important once—now it’s dust and muddle and shutters falling off in tall streets.

ONE WHO HAS DROPPED TWENTY-THREE METRES in the Bollène lock on the Rhône could be expected to arrive at Fonsérannes with a wry smile. Between all six of them the Fonsérannes locks don’t rise fourteen metres. But I was nervous. There would be a queue of hirers and I had no experience of a waterways queue in a foreign land. The French culture does not contain the queue, and Germans are not always at their best in situations involving precedence. Hire-boaters have had only ten minutes’ tuition and their plastic trays contain families even unto the fourth generation, united against the world, all with loud voices and boathooks. The locks on the Midi are a funny rounded shape and the lock-keepers fill them too quickly and won’t help with the ropes. And the six locks of the Fonsérannes flight were a staircase, and I don’t understand staircase locks.