Two commercial barges, low in the water, passed us on our mooring and headed into the lock. Lobelia listed alarmingly to port. Andy sprinted through the boat and checked water tightness, turning off interlocking tanks in an effort to prevent tanks draining to the portside where they would increase the problem. Like some witch’s potion the canal bubbled around us. But Lobelia was watertight. We waited. Puzzled. We reckoned that we had been pushed aground and that the passing barges had sucked the water from beneath us. It was time to go.
Pulled away from the mooring and hovered by the lock in light rain. Nothing happened. Called the lock on VHF (though we doubted our pronunciation of “Iwuy”). Nothing happened. Returned to the mooring and Shiv got off ready to do battle with the intercom at the lock office. Surprisingly it all went rather well and a very nice man in an office in a land that was far far away spoke understandable French and pressed a useful button which meant that the lock started working. Better still, he pressed another button which produced a zapper for us to keep. We could now operate lock openings on our own without aid of poor linguistic skills on the VHF!
Andy edged Lobelia into her first made to measure lock. The lock entrance bore the scars of years of abuse from 39m barges which had been a cm off course. The lock walls lined with deep diagonal channels from ropes valiantly clinging onto their barges as they surge dangerously forward in the rushing waters. All went well and we were in the lock when a lock keeper arrived in his white van.
The twelve tasks of Heracles were not yet complete. The final task : present your papers in the lock office. This was also successful. But then another commercial barge arrived in the adjacent lock and a toothless Titania pointed her gnarly finger at our rebuilt wheelhouse and let loose a torrent of French and hand gestures which needed no translation. We were too high. The next obstacle was perilously close.
We pulled over and the rain came down harder. We waited. The interior woodwork would suffer with the wheelhouse down and open to the elements. We prepped tarpaulins and umbrellas and reluctantly began to dismantle the wheelhouse. Luck was on our side and the storm passed.
Set off for Cambrai via two more locks and plenty of low bridges.
Fortunately there were no witnesses (or could that barge lurking in that disused canal cutting be called Desolation?) to the events that took place at Thun l’Eveque, though if you look closely at the upstream lock gates you will see two telltale imprints and some of our anchor paint. The remainder of the trip was uneventful and we are now moored in a peaceful spot in Cambrai, awaiting the arrival of the circus they call the Tour de France.
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